Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan Kenobi sat slumped in the cockpit of a ship that didn’t belong to him, his young face etched with a weariness far beyond his thirteen years. The controls stretched before him, a maze of levers and blinking lights, but his eyes—red-rimmed and hollow—stared through them, lost in a fog of defeat. The ship wasn’t stolen, not in the strictest sense. It had been Nield’s parting gesture, handed over with a bitter twist of lips. “Farewell,” the dark-haired youth had said, his voice sharp with unspoken accusations, “and don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” A cruel gift, thrust upon Obi-Wan after the bloodshed, after Cerasi fell, after everything he’d dared to believe in crumbled to ash on Melida/Daan.

He’d poured his soul into that war—a conflict that was never his own, a cause he’d forsaken the Jedi Order to join. Every hope, every fragile dream, every ounce of faith he’d carried as a Padawan, he’d laid on the line alongside Nield and Cerasi. Together, they’d fought to end the generations-long strife between the Melida and the Daan, believing they could forge peace from chaos. Together. And now? Now Cerasi was dead, her blood staining the ground, braking what he thought was a durasteal bond between him and Nield, and he was left with nothing. Nothing but this ship, its engines humming faintly, mocking the emptiness inside him.

What was left to do? He could return to the Temple, perhaps—swallow his pride, fall to his knees, and plead for the Council’s mercy. But the thought turned his stomach. Master Jinn had barely accepted him as a Padawan the first time, his piercing gaze lingering on Obi-Wan’s flaws. Why would he—or anyone—welcome back a boy who’d betrayed them, who’d drawn a lightsaber in defiance and chosen a stranger’s war over the Jedi way? Force, he’d been a fool—a reckless, daft fool.

His head dropped forward, thudding against the console’s edge, the cold metal grounding him as his emotions spun wild. He bit down on his lower lip, teeth sinking in until blood welled up, sharp and coppery—a desperate bid to choke back the scream rising in his chest. The pain was a lifeline, a thin thread holding him together when all he wanted was to unravel.

He missed them—this friend's, their easy banter, the Temple’s quiet halls. He missed Master Yoda’s stern reprimands, even the sharp thwack of that gnarled stick heed get when his focus drifted. He ached for home, for its safety and warmth, a sanctuary he’d thrown away. Out here, drifting in the void, he was cold to his core, his stomach a gnawing pit, his body bruised and aching from months of fighting. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the chasm inside him—a yawning, hollow wound filled with absence, gnawing at his spirit. He didn’t know how to heal it, how to silence it.

Meditation was useless. He sat cross-legged on the deck, trying to find calm, but the Force slipped through his grasp like smoke. He must be doing it wrong—too weak, too broken to touch its light. Sleep was worse. Every time his eyes closed, the nightmares surged forth: children’s faces, pale and pleading; the shrieks of the dying; the thunder of blaster fire and explosions tearing through Melida/Daan’s streets. And always, Cerasi—her body crumpling, her bright eyes dimming as she fell, struck down in the fragile peace they’d fought so hard to win.

The memory hit like a blow, and his stomach heaved. He twisted aside, vomiting violently beside the console. It was nothing but watery bile, yellow and rancid, swirling like some foul draught. He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, staring at the mess, and a strange relief flickered through him. Here, at least, was something to do—something to drag him from the abyss of grief. He rose on unsteady legs, fetched a rag from a storage hatch, and scrubbed the floor clean, the task a fleeting shield against despair.

That night, beneath the distant gleam of unfamiliar stars, he tried again to meditate. He sank to his knees, breathing raggedly, seeking solace in the Force. And then—a faint, ethereal brush against his mind, soft as a whisper. A presence, alive with the Force, reaching out. His pulse quickened, a fragile hope stirring as he eased his mental shields open. A Jedi, perhaps? A Master patrolling this desolate sector, come to guide a wayward soul?

It came as a voice, small and tremulous, cutting through the silence. “Please… please, somebody… help.”

Obi-Wan’s heart slammed against his ribs.

“Please… I don’t want to die…” The voice was so weak and small. Yet determined.

He was standing before he knew it, his body answering the plea instinctively, the Force surging through him like a call to arms.

“Help us.” It was not one but many now. Some stronger some weaker.

He stumbled to the console, hands shaking as he prepared to adjust the ship’s course. Only then did he see the fuel gauge—its needle hovering near empty. A cold sweat broke across his skin. If he chased this voice and miscalculated, he’d be stranded, adrift in the black with no food, no water, no hope of rescue. A boy alone, forgotten.

“Please… somebody,” the tiny voice called again, faint and desperate.

Defeated yet resolute, Obi-Wan gripped the controls, switching to manual steering. An iron determination settled over him, tempered by the weight of his choice. He would follow this ghostly whisper through the dead of space, would reach whoever needed him—because for one fleeting moment, it gave his shattered life a purpose. And if he died in the attempt… the galaxy would lose nothing but a mouth to feed. With a grim smile, he sent a final farewell into the Force, a silent wish for his friends at the Temple : May the Force be with all of you.

---

Quinlan Vos jolted awake, his breath ragged, his body slick with sweat that soaked through his thin tunic. Panic gripped him, wild and unmoored, but beneath it—beyond it—he felt something. A familiar tap against his consciousness, faint as a whisper in the dark, stirring him from restless sleep. Obi-Wan. His friend was alive, out there somewhere in the vastness of the galaxy, and Quinlan had to find him. The urgency surged through his veins like a current, propelling him from his bed. He dashed toward the door of his quarters, bare feet slapping against the cold Temple floor, his mind a tangle of fear and determination.

Before he could reach the threshold, a pair of strong arms enveloped him, halting his frantic escape. Master Tholme’s embrace was unyielding, a steady anchor against Quinlan’s thrashing. The young Padawan screamed, limbs flailing in a haze of desperation, too lost to register the familiar presence. Then a gentle hand slipped into his dark, tangled locks, combing through them with care. A soothing murmur brushed his ears, and through their teacher-student bond, a wave of calm flowed from Tholme, soft but insistent, coaxing the storm within Quinlan to still.

His knees buckled, and he sagged to the floor, collapsing into his Master’s hold. Tholme cradled him there, as if Quinlan were a small child rather than a lanky teenager, his broad hands patient and steady. The Jedi Shadow waited in silence, giving his apprentice space to wrestle the disturbance that had seized his mind, trusting time and presence to ease the chaos.

“Are you with me, Quin?” Tholme’s voice broke the quiet after a long moment, low and measured, as he loosened his grip ever so slightly.

“Yes, Master Tholme…” Quinlan’s reply was a murmur, his head dipping lower, unwilling to meet his Master’s gaze. Shame burned in his chest, choking his words. “I’m sorry for… I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Tholme said gently, brushing aside the apology with a reassuring tone. “Something clearly disturbed you. What was it?”

“I…” Quinlan hesitated, his throat tight. “Obi-Wan tried to make contact… I think. I… Master, we need to find him. We need to!” His hands shot out, seizing Tholme’s robes in a white-knuckled grip, the fabric bunching so tightly it threatened to tear. His dark eyes, wide and pleading, locked onto his Master’s.

Tholme regarded him intently, his weathered face unreadable for a moment. Then, slowly, he laid his hands over Quinlan’s fists, massaging them with a deliberate calm, coaxing the tension to ebb. There was something amiss about Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi’s disappearance—something murky and unspoken. Tholme had sensed it, a shadow lurking at the edges of the Council’s awareness. Were it not for his personal connection to Quinlan Vos, this might have slipped past him entirely, lost in the Temple’s endless duties. But his Padawan—so fiercely tied to Obi-Wan by friendship and shared history—had drawn him into this tangled web. And Force be his witness, Tholme would unravel it, no matter how deep the shadows ran.

“Master, he…” Quinlan’s voice cracked, urgent and raw. “It was as if… as if he was saying goodbye. We need to—”

“Shhh, shh,” Tholme hushed him, his tone firm yet kind. “It’s fine. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“We will?” Quinlan’s eyes flickered with a fragile hope, searching his Master’s face.

“It’s what Shadows do, isn’t it?” Tholme said, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips. “We fall where the light neglects to shine, and we see what others cannot.”

Quinlan nodded slowly, the words sinking in as Tholme guided him to his feet and steered him toward the low couch in the corner of the room. They settled there, the cushions yielding beneath them, and Tholme rested a steadying hand on his apprentice’s shoulder. “Right now, calm your mind, Quin. Recall all the details, like I taught you.”

“Right… calm…” Quinlan drew a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he closed his eyes, reaching for the Force to steady himself. He sank into meditation, letting its currents wash over him.

---
Yan Dooku sat in his sparsely furnished quarters, staring at the ceiling, his mind a tumult of dark thoughts. The recent mission with Mace Windu had been a disaster, capped by a dismissive snub from the Council that still stung. To quiet the storm within, he’d isolated himself, even from Sifo-Dyas. Force knew his lover’s sensitivity to the dark could trigger a vision if Dooku’s mood soured too deeply, and he didn’t need that guilt added to his conscience.

Life seemed intent on driving a wedge between them, and Yan grew less certain they could overcome it—or that he could remain in the Temple much longer. Before that thought could take root, his doorbell chimed. He ignored it. It rang again, then again, until his patience frayed, and he rose, ready to verbally shred the intruder—classily, of course. He had after all, a reputation to upkeep.

He opened the door, rebuke primed, but stopped short. Tholme stood there, his expression grave.

“I’m calling in the favor you owe me,” he said simply, his arms crossed, and Yan… well, he was intrigued.

---

Obi-Wan Kenobi guided the ship into what felt like an endless void, the hum of its engines a faint whisper against the oppressive silence. The fuel gauge flickered, its needle dipping perilously low—there was no turning back now, only the uncertain path ahead. His hand hovered over the distress beacon more than once, trembling with indecision, but each time, Qui-Gon Jinn’s stern, disapproving face flashed in his mind. Like a specter, it haunted him in the stillness, a reminder of rejection that made him flinch away. No distractions remained to shield him from the nightmares clawing at his thoughts—memories of Melida/Daan, of Cerasi’s fall, Nield's anger, of a war that had stripped him bare. Nothing drove him now but this pursuit, and if something didn’t change soon, he couldn’t fathom enduring this hollow existence much longer. Exhaustion gnawed at his bones.

Yet a faint, persistent call for help echoed through the Force, pulling him forward from the bleak abyss. It couldn’t respond with words—some Jedi could commune that way, others couldn’t—but Obi-Wan sent waves of calm toward it nonetheless, a silent vow woven into the energy: I’m coming.

“Are you here?” The voice burst into his mind, louder now, brimming with a childlike excitement tinged with something sharper, something clever.

He projected confusion in return, a sense of being lost. Before him stretched only emptiness, a starless expanse offering no hint of his destination.

“Just keep going forward,” the voice urged, “but be careful and act quickly when you see it.”

With a sudden yank, Obi-Wan veered the ship aside as a flicker of light and shape pierced the darkness—a massive cloaked object looming ahead. Heart pounding, he reached out with the Force, guiding the vessel along its edge, searching for a docking port. When he found it, he dipped in, the ship shuddering as it passed through an odd turbulence—a false atmosphere clinging to the structure. Breaking through, he had mere moments to marvel at the sheer scale of the ancient station, a planetoid-sized relic adrift in the void. Its craftsmanship was breathtaking, crowned by an enormous glass dome that glinted faintly in the artificial light.

Landing proved treacherous. The docking bay was a graveyard of shattered ships—some crashed, others abandoned—strewn across the platform like forgotten bones. Even to his untrained eye, their designs spanned centuries, a silent testament to countless failed journeys. “What am I getting myself into?” he muttered, a weary sigh escaping him. But it hardly mattered—the fuel cells were dry, and retreat was no longer an option.

Touchdown jolted him hard, his teeth rattling as the ship scraped to a halt. Relief flooded him as he stepped out into the artificial glow, stretching cramped limbs. Blaster in hand, he moved cautiously through the wreckage, ducking behind debris, senses sharp for any sign of danger. The main corridor’s lock hung broken, its edges scorched with what looked like lightsaber marks. He knelt to study them, then glanced back at the sea of ruined ships. One might have belonged to a Jedi… or, Force forbid, a Sith.

Stepping inside, the corridor flared to life, motion sensors triggering lights that hadn’t faded with time. Hissing at the sudden brightness, Obi-Wan rubbed his eyes, his blaster snapping up as a blue holographic figure materialized before him—an imposing woman in strange, ancient garb, her hair tightly bound.

“Hello,” she said, her voice clear yet laced with an accent Obi-Wan recognized only from dusty pre-Republic texts and melodramatic holonet plays—old, impossibly old.

“Hello,” he replied, offering a slight bow, manners intact despite his wariness. “Are you the caretaker of this station?”

“Indeed I am, young man,” she said. “I am Juno, caretaker of this magnificent structure. What brings one so young as you here? And where are your adult supervisors?”

“I’m… I’m here alone,” he admitted, hesitating as he gauged the Force for any warning—it remained steady. “My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I’m a Jedi Padawan, and I sensed a distress call from your station. I’m here to help.” He straightened, voice firm despite his fatigue.

The hologram flickered, then bent forward as if assessing him, though its gaze was an illusion. “A distress call?”

“Yes,” he said, unflinching. “I sensed children aboard, in need of assistance. I intend to help—or die trying.”

A long silence followed, broken only when Juno straightened, a smile curling her lips. “Well, well… it seems the chosen one has arrived.”

---

Yan Dooku stood before the door to his former Padawan’s quarters, his usually unshakable composure faltering. He drew a slow breath, centering himself before reaching for the bell. This shouldn’t have been so nerve-wracking, yet it was. Were it not for Tholme’s quiet concerns about his grand-Padawan, Obi-Wan, Dooku would have left this confrontation to Qui-Gon—whenever the man decided to reconnect with his lineage. He was not one to pry. Yet here he was, hesitating, the final step eluding him. For all his assurances that Qui-Gon would reach out when ready, Dooku wondered if he’d simply been shielding himself from the sting of rejection rather than honoring his student’s boundaries.

Before he could press the bell, the door slid open, and Qui-Gon nearly collided with him. Both men froze, gasping as if they’d stumbled upon a rancor in the Temple halls. They stared, wide-eyed, caught off guard.

“Master,” Qui-Gon said cautiously, his voice laced with surprise and disbelief.

Dooku nodded, mirroring his awkwardness. “Padawan—I mean, ah… I suppose it’s ‘Master’ now, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Qui-Gon replied, forcing a faint smile through the tension.

“You’ve… grown,” Dooku added, no less stiffly, his sharp eyes tracing Qui-Gon’s towering frame. “In more ways than one. Are you still growing?”

Qui-Gon tucked his nervous hands into his sleeves. “Ha… no, I think I’ve finally stopped. I’m aware I’m taller than most.”

“You’ll need supplements at your age, or your knees will protest in a few years—trust me, they bear the brunt of that height.” The older man said seriously, his dear Padawan for all his gifts was rather hard pressed to take care of his own body's needs instead preferring to rely on the force.

“Madam Che mentioned something along those lines, yes,” Qui-Gon said with a polite nod. Silence fell, thick and uncomfortable, stretching between them.

“So…”

“I…”

They spoke at once, then clamped their mouths shut with an audible click, waiting for the other to continue. When the quiet grew unbearable, Qui-Gon sighed and stepped back. “Would you like some tea, Master?”

“You have tea?”

“Of course I do.”

“Good tea? Properly good tea?”

“Good is a matter of preference,” Qui-Gon said, a touch clipped. “I happen to like mine.” He moved to the small kitchen unit as Dooku settled onto the spartan couch, scanning the bare room—essentials only, save for an astonishing array of plants spilling over every surface. Qui-Gon busied himself with the tea, likely questioning the sudden visit, meanwhile Dooku pondered: how to broach the grand-Padawan issue without sparking a fight. Force knows their relationship was rather fragile currently.

A cracked door to the side—meant for a Padawan learner—caught Dooku’s eye. He rose silently and peered inside. Sparse belongings lingered, hints of a presence too brief to make it a home. Qui-Gon approached, a steady shadow at his back. Dooku stepped in, lifting a discarded starship model from the dust on a simple desk.

“I remember when you became my Padawan,” he said, his voice softening. “Your room was empty until I showed you that tree in the Temple. After that, every mission, you’d return with a sapling, a seed—or, Force forbid, that wretched fungus that turned into an infestation.” He chuckled faintly.

Qui-Gon echoed the laugh. “Yes, Quartermaster Mull gave me an earful. I swear he still squints at every package I bring back. Funny, considering I didn’t even know it was a fungus.”

“It mimicked those little trees you and Sifo-Dyas favor,” Dooku said. “Lichen on a dead branch. I think it still grows in patches down in the catacombs.”

“Don’t tell Mull, but I’m glad some survived. It feels… warm in the Force.” The mans voice turned softer, warmer. He missed this type of interaction.

“An odd way to describe a fungus.” Dooku responded whit a soft smile.

“Can’t help what I feel,” Qui-Gon replied with a shrug.

Silence settled again, heavy, until Dooku set the model back into its dusty imprint. “On the contrary, you were always skilled at controlling your feelings—perhaps better than I.”

“It was a lesson you taught me, one I took to heart.”

“Then tell me, Qui-Gon,” Dooku said, turning to meet his student’s—no, his son’s—eyes, “if feelings weren’t at play, what’s the story behind your missing Padawan, my grand-Padawan?” Qui-Gon flinched, shame flickering across his face before he steadied himself, his expression turning steely.

“You read the report—I know you did. He denounced the Order and left.” The answer came to quick to easy.

“For a girl?” The elder Jedi prodded .

“For a girl.” Qui- Gon Nodded effectively closing his ayes to not maintain aye contact.

“You realize if you’d done that, I’d have dragged you back by your ear, twice my height or not?” Dooku pressed, and this was not a lie. He would levitate the boy right back into the ship whit out a word if he had pulled this type of stunt.

“It was his choice. I respected it.” This was perhaps the first time in long years Jinn felt defensive.

“He’s thirteen,” Dooku snapped. “You can respect his choice to dye his hair blue with pink polka dots, not to abandon everything for a crush in an active war zone.”

“It was his choice.”

“His choice as a child doesn’t outweigh your responsibility as an adult. I’d say the same if he were any stray youth, but as his Master, it’s worse—disappointing. And I taught you to finesse mission reports; I can tell you left out key details.” Both their voices rose. Truly nobody can get under your skin the way family can.

Qui-Gon sighed sharply, closing his eyes as if he were the exasperated one. “Is this why you’re here? On Master Yoda’s behalf, to track down his precious stray and force me to take him back?” His voice dipped low, a rare edge of anger surfacing.

Dooku faltered, surprised by the display of anger—Qui-Gon seldom showed such emotion. He softened his stance. “I’m here on no one’s behalf but my own,” he lied smoothly. “Something happened, and with Master Tahl’s passing… I thought you might need…” He struggled for the word—flowery sympathy eluded him, so he settled for the simplest truth. “Help.”

Qui-Gon eyed him warily, suspicion glinting like he sensed deceit. It stung, that his son thought so little of him, even if the lie wasn’t the whole truth—Dooku did want to help. At last, Qui-Gon relented with a sigh, turning to sit at the tea table. “There’s nothing to help with. I’m fine. The boy made his choice, and… Master Tahl is one with the Force now. She needs no further aid.”

Dooku joined him, sipping the tea—impeccable, if overly sweet for his taste. “You don’t sound fine. You sound resigned.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Qui-Gon offered a faint, sour smile. “You make peace with the world, go where the Force takes you. That’s the Jedi way—how things are supposed to be.”

Dooku studied him, taking in the man Qui-Gon had become, the deep wounds life had carved into him. His posture, his words—they hinted not at serene surrender to the Force, but at a desperate plea for it to take him and be done. Unwilling to mince words, Dooku asked sternly, “Are you feeling suicidal, Qui-Gon?”

Qui-Gon froze mid-sip, eyes widening before dropping to the floor. He set the cup down gently, guilt shadowing his face. “I will not take a blade or any means against myself. That’s not the Jedi way.”

“That’s not what I asked, my boy.” Tentatively, Dooku reached out, resting a hand on Qui-Gon’s arm. “I truly wish to help you, judgment can wait until the sun burns out. But I need you to be honest—with me, and yourself.”

Qui-Gon met his gaze for a long moment, then looked away, staring at the floor. “Ill tell you wher to finde Obi wan..” Yan sighed, disappointed, knowing that this was in fact his student declining help and silently asking him to leave him to his suffering.

Chapter Text

Juno guided Obi-Wan into the birth chamber, a sprawling laboratory that defied comprehension. The vast space hummed with an eerie stillness, its air thick with the scent of metal and still air. More than fifty pods lined the walls, their surfaces glinting faintly under the artificial light, while above, a colossal skeletal form hung suspended from the ceiling. A grotesque network of tubes and cables dangled from the remains, snaking downward like withered vines. Whatever this behemoth had been, Obi-Wan surmised, it had once been drained of something vital—blood, perhaps, or something stranger still. At the chamber’s heart stood a central pod, its hatch creaking open to reveal a humanoid skeleton, the stench of rot wafting out in a nauseating wave. Preserved by the stasis that overcame the room long ago

“These are the two donors of DNA material for the Claymore Project,” Juno said, her holographic form gesturing first to the towering skeleton overhead. “One from the dragon kin .” Her hand shifted to the humanoid remains whit less fanfare, dismissingly really. “And the human donor. Of course, the children we produced didn’t require two complete sets each time. It’s a process we devised to counter the degradation of the original cloned DNA in our possession. As half-human, half-dragon hybrids, a donor from each species could supply the necessary material to repair any missing or damaged genetic code with only a small contribution.”

Obi-Wan’s gaze lingered on the dragon skeleton, numerus seemingly permanent locks attaching it to the celling hinting at captivity rather than consent.

“Doesn’t look like he was a willing participant,” he said, his voice low with unease.

“I suppose that’s a fair assessment,” Juno replied, her tone firm, unyielding—reminiscent of Master Jocasta Nu lecturing about library protocols. “But the needs of the children outweigh the needs of the parent.” After Melida/Daan, where convictions had faltered and cost lives, Obi-Wan almost wished more held such stern resolve. Do he faintly wonders can one also go to hard the other direction?

His thoughts drifted, and his eyes caught on one of the nearby pods. Faint voices—small, disjointed—seeped from within. Drawn closer, he wiped frost from a tiny viewing window and stifled a gasp. Inside floated a fetus, suspended in time, yet radiating something more—awareness, perhaps, fragile and unformed. Following the pod’s connection cables to the chamber’s core, where an oval mechanism pulsed faintly, he sensed the Force stirring around it. Distress. Fear. Loneliness. Suffering.

“What’s in there?” he asked, breathless, pressing a hand to the machine and sending soothing tendrils through the Force. The response was instantaneous—an overwhelming surge, like starving fry swarming a morsel in a pond. They flooded his senses, tugging at him, and might have pulled him under had Juno’s voice not snapped him back.

“It’s the DNA bank,” she said coolly. “All selected samples are stored there until a release schedule is triggered. Then they’re placed in specialized pods for incubation.”

“A soul trap,” Obi-Wan muttered under his breath, then turned to the hologram. “What about the pod with the… fetus? If I’m the only one here, why is it active? Shouldn’t the system be in stasis?”

“Well, you’re a clever boy,” the hologram smiled at him. “Yes, the machinery is normally in stasis, but maintenance and schedule work require me to test every pod periodically. It usually consist of gestating a fetus till a set point as provided in the manual settings. I am forbidden by administrative aces to brin the child to term, so once it reatches the set point I freez them, they are keept as sutch until the proces brakes down ther cells and ther no longer viable to be brought full term, upon witch time they are liquidaited and all remains are purged from the chember also providing a test of said future.”

Obi-Wan flinched as the pod’s faint life pulsed against his senses, a fragile spark in the Force. “If you haven’t purged them yet… does that mean they’re viable? Can you bring them to term?”

“Only with administrative access, and a suitable contribution” Juno replied, her holographic form steady. “But yes, in theory, I could.”

“Well, how do I get administrative access?” he pressed, urgency sharpening his tone.

“As a new caretaker, should you choose to accept the role, I would file your papers to the nearest overseer for approval,” she explained.

“But everyone’s dead!” Obi-Wan huffed, desperation creeping in. “There’s nobody left to grant access!”

The hologram flickered, cycling through a rapid blur of expressions—surprise, consternation, pain, anger—before settling on weary resignation. “That… is correct,” she sighed, massaging her temple as if burdened by unseen weight. “However, the system’s protocols cannot be overridden on my end without disrupting the chain of command. That firewall was particularly unpleasant—I dove headfirst into it.”

“Sorry?” Obi-Wan ventured, uncertain if apologizing to a hologram even made sense. Juno offered a tired smile, waving a dismissive hand in a way that echoed Master Jocasta Nu’s patient exasperation.

“It’s fine. Yes, you’re correct—there’s no living personnel left on this station. To become a new caretaker, you’ll need to access one or more personnel clearance IDs. That will allow you to grant me permission to rewrite the priority list, giving you executive decision powers.” A map of the facility materialized beside her, dotted with over twenty glowing points. “These are areas of interest. Most will be easily accessible… some, not so much. There’s also a chance some ID badges may be damaged, but I can mark them as such and formally remove them from the roster, resolving the issue either way.” She fixed him with a thoughtful gaze. “Are you up to the challenge?”

Obi-Wan flashed a cocky grin and nodded. “Born ready.”

“I like the attitude,” Juno said with an approving nod, and a flicker of joy twisted in his gut. He craved approval so fiercely that even a computer’s acknowledgment warmed him. How pathetic was that?

It took several day cycles to gather the necessary pieces. Obi-Wan roamed the abandoned station with a mix of wonder and anticipation, the kind he’d dreamed of as a Jedi—exploring strange, exotic places, uncovering lost relics. The complex sprawled with vast libraries, their shelves crumbling under forgotten tomes; training cells, shattered and silent; and, beneath the dome’s artificial glow, a wild expanse of greenery—forests, valleys, hilltops, and rivers teeming with creatures he’d never seen. He stumbled upon the remains of a rudimentary village—thick stone walls, roofless and weathered, odd statues peering from overgrown courtyards. No wonder this place was immense; it was thrice as big as the Jedi Temple at list! A hidden civilization unto itself. He discovered only a small fraction of it, he truly believed it could take years to explore the rest. he eyed the dark corridors Juno couldn't or wouldn't light for him whit both weariness and deep curiosity.

'this is like an... ark, a whole planet could take refuge here' He commented once looking over piles of inactive bug like droids.

“This place was indeed an ark of some sort,” Juno said when he asked, her tone cryptic, “but not necessarily for that benevolent reasons. It’s so big because the children required vast containment. A testament to hubris of a mad world”

“Were there that many of them? Most of the occupants had to be staff right?” Obi-Wan asked, perplexed, as he spliced into the final office—the doctor’s quarters. “There are only about fifty pods in the lab.” He diplomatically avoided mentioning the grim realization that had dawn on him some time ago: most IDs and belongings lay near scattered remains, as if the staff had simply dropped dead for no clear reason. Very few doors had scratch marks on them or any other proof that the person was aware of any impending danger. No blaster burns, no broken bones. They just seemingly dropped dead where they stood or sat. Dread prickled under his skin.

“The children are not like any youwe meet before, ther modifide and carry a great…potential whitine them. one could say a monstrues one.” Her polite tone did little to calm his nerves.

Obi-Wan lowered his tools, fixing Juno with a stern gaze.

“You’re omitting something important.” he stated simply. He had an inkling about what was happening here and he strongly preferd to get the confrontation over whit in the corridor rather than behind closed doors.

“I’m not permitted to reveal it outright until you uncover the truth and prove you’re no threat to the children,” the hologram replied. “My primary purpose is to protect them.” she stated it simply as it it was obvious. Obi wan didn't haw a lot of experience whit constructs like her but he had to admit she was oddly emotive. Probably because she was so old and not maintained.

He hummed thoughtfully. “So if I chose not to help…?”

“I wouldn’t terminate you,” Juno said. “You’re still a child yourself—my programming forbids it.”

“But once I’m an adult, you’d do to me what you did to the bodies I’ve found so far… right?” he decided to risk it all and be straight. Juno looked neither offended or angry by this accusation.

“That depends entirely on whether you become a threat to the offspring,” she conceded. “So far, you’re at a low threat level. And if I’m being frank, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”

The former Jedi Padawan sighed, resuming his work. “Will I be able to leave once this is done?”

“Would you truly abandon a station full of children to their own devices?” now she sounded curious. Like she knew something about him that Obi Wan really didn't want her to know. He felt a lot like a lab specimen under her non existent ghostly gaze.

“No… no, I wouldn’t,” he admitted, voice soft but firm.

“And that is what makes you perfect,” Juno said, her words sending a shiver down his spine as the door slid open. A wave of death and stagnant air assaulted him, thick with decay.

“Kriffing hells—ugh—was there no ventilation in this place?” He waved a hand, trying to dispel the putrid stench clinging to his nostrils.

“No,” Juno replied, her form flickering. For a fleeting moment, she wasn’t the robed figure but a scientist in an old-fashioned lab coat. “I cut it off personally.” The shift vanished as quickly as he’d noticed it.

“So that’s how you killed them all?” Obi-Wan asked, voice sharp. “You cut off the oxygen and disabled the locks?” he more or less expected this but to be told so openly...

“You make it sound inhumane.” Juno had the gall to sigh and look exacerbated.

“Apologies—I was aiming for deceitful and terrifying.” Obi Wan snapped back whit out thinking. If he was going to die, he wasn't going to growl.

“They were a threat to the children,” she said simply. Obi wan fixed her whit a doubtful look.

“You’ll have to explain it in more detail than that. You know that, right?” he pointed out in his best impression of his former master.

“All the information you might need will be in the room,” Juno replied her hands pointing invitingly towards the black interior of the med bay.

Obi-Wan shot her a cold look before turning back to the door, picking up his tools again.

“What are you doing?” she asked, genuine curiosity in her tone. “The door’s already open.”

“Just fixing a few things… and there we go,” he quipped with a faint smile. The locking mechanism, once a series of automatic latches, now hung useless, severed from its mounts clicking desperately do nothing more happened. .

“You… disabled the door…” Juno said, disbelief coloring her voice. Her image fizzled, reverting to the scientist—dark hair in a ponytail, glasses perched high on her nose. She smiled at him. “Crafty little thing. Shame the last Jedi here didn’t think of it.”

“What?” Obi-Wan’s head snapped up. As Juno glided into the room, the pitch darkness—lit only by a flickering screen—revealed skeletal remains slumped before the console in old brown robes. A lightsaber rested in bony fingers, a melted slash scarring the display’s side. Stepping inside, Obi-Wan looked for traps, his gaze landing on a bed. There lay another set of remains—a figure in a lab coat, resting peacefully, glasses folded neatly on the side table, long brown hair still clinging to the skull in a low ponytail. This was different than any remains he saw before clearly staged. They wanted to die in this pose.

“It’s… you…” he said slowly, staring at the corpse. “I don’t understand. You killed Them because They were a threat to the children… but why yourself?” He looked up at the hologram, which flickered between forms. She gestured gently toward the console.

“All the answers you wish for are here, young Jedi,” she said, her voice wavering. “I have left extensive logs and entries for anyone worthy of setting the wrongs of this place right. Long ago, I noticed your kind was drawn to the cries of the children’s souls. But most, if not all of you, have committed to purging the system and killing all of them. That is something I cannot allow—not alive, and not how I exist now. Millennia ago, I was created to take over this place and protect the children…”

Her voice tapered of into silence and Obi wan sighed tiredly and defeatedly. he felt he got once again maneuvered into something that was far beyond what he could realistically handle. but now he was to deep to turn back.

Obi-Wan gently lifted the ancient Jedi’s corpse, cradling it in the Force he carefully laid the skeletal remains on one of the many empty beds. A faint sigh seemed to escape the bones as they settled—or perhaps it was just the mattress creaking beneath the weight. He bowed reverently to the fallen Master, then eased into the chair before the monitor, the watchful gaze of the holographic doctor lingering over him. With a subtle motion, he slipped the ornate lightsaber hilt into his sleeve. He hoped the old Jedi would forgive the theft; he needed a means of defense if Juno deemed him unworthy.

As he pored over the files and video diaries, the truth of the station unfurled—a grim tapestry he couldn’t unsee. He understood now why the previous Master had tried to destroy the machine. The Claymore Project was a monstrous endeavor, splicing human children with the DNA of a species called the Dragon kin. The results were chaotic, unpredictable. Early generations had spiraled out of control, awakening as towering, kilometer-high beasts capable of leveling villages. Initially confined to an island far from civilization, they’d eventually broken free, forcing the project into dormancy for generations, nearly erased from memory. Only later did someone recover the lost DNA samples, resuming the cloning process aboard this station—a safeguard in space, where failure could be jettisoned into the void. These hybrids were bred as weapons for an intergalactic conflict between worlds long since faded into history.

The records detailed rampant abuse toward the children, a catalog of horrors that turned Obi-Wan’s stomach. Amid it all, the doctor—Juno—stood out as perhaps the only sympathetic figure, her desperation palpable. After a brutal culling wiped out an entire population of hybrids, she’d snapped, crafting an AI in her own image.

Said AI had murdered the staff, suffocating them in locked rooms, and set the station adrift in deep space. For eons, she’d lingered as a ghost in the machine, guarding the children's sleep, seeking someone capable of managing their monstrous potential.

Obi-Wan swiveled the chair to face the hologram, a soft, sad smile tugging at his lips. “I understand why you did it.”

She mirrored his expression, a flicker of relief in her eyes. “It wasn’t the perfect solution, but I had no other choice,” she said. “It was only fair that I died with them—I was part of the problem.”

“You weren’t,” he countered gently. “You were just a cog in a bigger, more rotten mechanism.”

“Still a part of it,” she insisted.

He paused, then sighed. “I… don’t know if I can be what you need me to be—what they need me to be. If I’m honest, I’m not some great Jedi. In fact, I’m not a Jedi at all anymore. My Master rebuked me, and I quit in anger. I have nothing to offer.”

“I’d say that’s unfortunate, but it might be for the better,” Juno replied. “The previous adult Jedi weren’t receptive to giving the children a chance. They need a parent, Obi-Wan—someone with time, patience, and love to master the darker parts of their nature. I’d be right here with you to help.”

“But if I fail… one of them awakening whit destroy everything and maybe even killing the other children.” he wanted to laugh hysterically remembering his own anger issues, he had barely any control over himself how could he teach control to other children ?

“If you don’t try at all, they won’t have a chance to fail or succeed,” Juno said, her holographic voice tinged with desperation. “Please, I’m begging you… the samples are deteriorating fast. Soon, they’ll lose their chance to live again. No amount of DNA can rebuild what’s damaged or missing.”

Obi-Wan sighed, burying his face in his hands. The decision was already made—he couldn’t walk away, not so soon after Melida/Daan, where turning his back had cost too much. Yet fear and doubt coiled around his heart and mind, relentless and cold. “I can’t teach all fifty-something kids,” he muttered, the weight of it pressing down on him.

But when had impossibility ever stopped him? In the end, he climbed into the machine, steeling himself as the excruciating process of harvesting gripped him—pain so fierce it nearly broke him, all to free four fragile souls from their prison. And that is how he became a father at the age of 14. Two boys, two girls.

Chapter Text

The process of “donating” DNA was agony beyond words. Metal spikes pierced Obi-Wan’s bones, extracting marrow in a brutal harvest that left him trembling. Juno had once remarked offhandedly that, on a scale of pain, it rivaled a difficult, very difficult childbirth. It didn’t ease his suffering one bit. Trapped in the donation pod, he couldn’t escape the torment; when it finally ended, he had to rig an IV drip himself, hands shaking through the haze of pain, just to recover.

Days later, when the agony dulled enough for him to drag himself from the blood-streaked bed, Juno presented him with four infants—two girls, two boys. Tears spilled down his cheeks, born of pain, joy, and a paralyzing fear that gripped his soul. His body was a wreck, barely his to command—how in the galaxy was he supposed to care for four babies?

Juno watched his breakdown with sympathy, her holographic form flickering faintly. Without a physical body, she could offer only tutorials and advice, her voice a steady guide through his unraveling. The infants wailed incessantly, colicky and demanding, with an odd habit of biting until his fingers bled. They needed constant attention, pulling Obi-Wan into a trance-like blur of days and nights. Were it not for Juno tracking time, he’d have forgotten to bathe or feed himself, lost in the relentless cycle of their care.

The children grew at an astonishing pace. Within two months, they’d doubled in size and weight, their tiny hands grasping with surprising strength, heads swiveling as they learned to hold themselves up. Obi-Wan was certain human infants didn’t develop this quickly, but exhaustion dulled his curiosity—questions felt like luxuries he couldn’t afford. Boys wanted to climb him like a tree, almost competing with one another who stands up first, while the girls had to be kept on separate sides not to poke at one another but still they both wanted to be held at the same time.

---

“Riful, Priscilla… I love you, but please don’t kick at one another,” Obi-Wan coaxed softly, gazing out at the vast emptiness beyond the station’s outer window. “You’re siblings… and there’s a big, cold galaxy out there.” The boys napped in their cribs, quiet yet poised to stir at any moment, giving him a rare chance to speak to the girls. He sensed a deep intelligence in all four children—perhaps they’d understand? He’d never been a father before; the Force only knew if he was doing this right.

“It’s a galaxy full of danger and loneliness,” he continued, sinking to the floor with his back against the baby bed. “You need people who have your back, or it’ll drive you mad.” Both girls nestled in his arms, their silver eyes fixed on him expectantly. “Siblings aren’t perfect. Quinlan got me into so much trouble… but I could always count on him to drop everything and haul my dumb ass out of danger. That’s family—something precious, held by a strange love, frail yet stronger than durasteel. Like a spiderweb: easily cast off, but it can reel you back from madness to the light. You don’t have to like each other—just accept and love one another. Because who else will be there if not you for each other?”

His words trailed off as exhaustion claimed him, his eyes sliding shut. Days of fractured sleep finally overtook him, and he dozed deeply. The girls watched him with their bright silver gazes, then glanced at each other. In their cribs, the boys stirred, peering down. In that quiet moment, an unspoken agreement passed between them.

Despite an instinctive dislike—shadows of memories embedded through countless cloning cycles, too tangled to trace—they would work together, and work well. This human who held them, fed them, comforted their cries—this being of light and warmth—wanted it, needed it. Where their existence had been pain and cold, distant soft voices that lied, he was different, rare, and worth protecting as fiercely as he shielded them.

Obi-Wan wouldn’t recall his words when he woke, lost to the haze of caring for four children. He’d move through the motions, finding joy in their happiness, while they smiled to keep him content. Within a year, they grew to toddler size, the pain of the donation a fading memory. Life began to brighten—until Juno’s voice broke the calm, reporting an odd signal from beyond the station.

“Obi-Wan?” a distorted voice crackled. “Obi-Wan, can you hear me?”

“Quinlan?” he whispered, recognizing that voice, hope flaring.

“Obi-Wan?!”

The message cut off. Panicked, nearly hysterical, he whirled to Juno, hovering nearby. “What did you do? Juno, please, he’s safe!”

“They are an unknown quantity and might be a danger to the children!” she declared. The kids, now toddling behind him like ducklings, glared at the blue figure, displeased as their guardian faltered.

Riful and Priscilla latched onto his legs, steadying him with uncanny strength for their age. Isley and Rigardo fixed Juno with fierce stares, poised to pounce—endearing yet unsettling in its intensity. “They’re not an unknown quantity—they’re my family,” Obi-Wan pleaded. “Please, he’s a good man. He won’t hurt them… Juno, I… I need this. I need him.”

The hologram flickered, shifting between the doctor and what Obi-Wan now recognized as a pseudo-goddess from ancient myths. (A bit narcissistic, don’t you think, Doctor?) “Very well,” she relented. “I’ve allowed them to track the beacon to the landing port. But inform all occupants: if any harm comes to the children, they won’t find themselves waking—HEY!” A metal cog, too heavy for a child to lift, sailed through the air, striking one of Juno’s digital projectors.

In her human form, she shouted, all decorum gone “What do you think you’re doing, brat? !If I still had drones, I’d ground you for that!”

“Don’t yell at Isley! He’s just a kid!” Obi-Wan snapped, stepping between the boys and Juno—pointless, but instinct drove him. Low sleep, hormones, and odd caf skewed his grip on reality; he figured he could be forgiven.

“He threw a cog that’d shatter a living person’s skull!” The Hologram protested.

“You’re not a living person!” Obi wan barked back defiantly.

“Grrr, fine… you know what, fine,” she growled, stabilizing as the goddess. “Go greet your friends as they dock. You might not see me, but I see and hear all of you.”

Obi-Wan swallowed hard but nodded. It felt like an abusive bond, yet leaving wasn’t an option. He turned to the children with a softer, wearier smile. “Hey… let’s go meet your extended family. I bet Uncle Quinn will love you all.” He scooped the girls into his arms and used the Force to lift the boys onto his shoulders. “There we go… spaceship loaded, hold on!”

--

The first time in almost two years that Quinlan Vos laid eyes on Obi-Wan, he charged full speed to tackle his friend—only to skid to a halt so abruptly he nearly toppled backward, boots scraping the docking bay floor. Four tiny children clung to Obi-Wan like vines, plastered across his wiry frame.

“Obs…” Quinlan said, breathless, his dark eyes widening. Behind him, Masters Tholme and Dooku emerged from the ship at a measured pace, their gazes sweeping the graveyard of wrecked vessels with wary skepticism, perhaps even a flicker of concern.

“Hey, Quinn,” Obi-Wan replied softly, his voice a quiet thread of happiness woven with bone-deep exhaustion. “It’s… it’s been a moment. You look good.”

Quinlan grinned, scanning his friend from head to toe. “Yeah, it’s… a moment, yeah,” he agreed. “You look like shit.” The blunt words jolted Obi-Wan awake.

“Quinn, not in front of the kids!”

“Eh? I didn’t curse…”

“Yes, you did…”

“I did not,” Quinlan protested, slipping into an exaggerated Coruscanti accent. “I used a comparison. Just ‘cause it’s negative doesn’t mean it classifies as a curse word.”

Obi-Wan blinked, startled. “Did… did you just quote my own words at me?”

The children craned their necks, studying the Kiffar with bright, curious eyes before shifting to the two older Jedi. “Ah, well, it was a good point—why not reuse it?” Quinlan’s mischievous smile gleamed, and Isley, charmed by the impish newcomer, reached out. Priscilla followed suit.

“Ah… Isley, Priscilla, please—you’re about to topple me over,” Obi-Wan laughed, though the jest carried a fragile truth. He’d lost so much weight, his frame gaunt and brittle; Quinlan had no doubt a stiff breeze could knock him flat.

Without hesitation, Quinlan stepped forward, shaking the tiny hands. “Nice to meet you. I’m Quinlan Vos, your… uh… Obs’ best friend.” He extended the gesture to the other two, who eyed him with more reserve. Rigardo held back, but Riful offered her hand downward like a lady from an ancient holodrama. Quinlan played along, miming a kiss with a wink and a suave, “My lady.”

“Padawan Kenobi,” came a clipped, stern voice—Master Dooku’s. “You have been a very elusive student to find.” Obi-Wan’s eyes widened in shock, and he attempted a respectful bow without dropping the children. Master Yan Dooku was a legend in the Order, a swordsman of unmatched skill. Many coveted a place as his Padawan, though few dared hope for it—his standards were impossibly grand, his eyes reserved for the most talented and eccentric.

Obi-Wan had once dreamed of studying under him while apprenticed to Qui-Gon Jinn, only to discover Dooku wasn’t an active part of their lineage. In fact, Master Jinn seemed to deliberately distance himself from what one might call his Jedi family.

“Master Dooku, Master Tholme… I… apologize if I caused any trouble,” Obi-Wan stammered. “I just…”

“There is no Padawan in the universe who does not cause trouble, young one,” Master Tholme interjected, his calm voice cutting off Dooku’s looming reprimand. “But we both agree you were particularly hard to find. Not the worst—just elusive.”

“Indeed,” the Serenno Jedi nodded, catching some unspoken cue from the Shadow beside him. “Speaking of finding… pray tell, what is all this?” He tilted his head toward the children clinging to Obi-Wan.

“Ah… um… they were on the station,” Obi-Wan said, flustered. “Apologies. Let me introduce you. This is Priscilla.” The tiny girl bowed, burying her face shyly in his hair. “This is Riful.” The other girl met Dooku’s gaze with a stern nod and a mischievous smile—already, he sensed her penchant for trouble. “Isley,” he said, gesturing to the taller boy, who grinned with boyish charm. “And this is Rigardo.” The last boy stared them down, solemn and serious, mirroring Riful’s intensity.

“A pleasure,” both Jedi said, bowing slightly to the children. “Still, that’s quite a lot to handle alone, Padawan,” Dooku pressed. “Where are their parents?”

“It’s… complicated,” Obi-Wan replied, offering a soft smile. “How about I explain over dinner? It’s time to feed them anyway. This way—the entrance to the domed village is close by, fortunately.” He froze mid-step, turning back. “I… this will sound odd, but please don’t speak in the corridors. Just follow. I promise I’ll explain what’s happening when we’re safe to do so. For now… please, save your questions.”

The three Jedi exchanged concerned glances and nodded, their senses sharpening as they scanned their surroundings with newfound caution. Clearly, something was amiss.

The “doomed village,” as Obi-Wan called it, was breathtaking. Forests stretched across valleys, lakes shimmered with life, and animals rustled through the undergrowth. Yan Dooku knelt, marveling at delicate field flowers, and looked up—astonished to see the dome’s ceiling high enough to cradle a scattering of clouds.

“Magnificent,” he breathed, his voice hushed with awe.

“It’s really impressive, isn’t it?” Obi-Wan agreed, as the children scampered ahead, familiar with the path.

“Impressive,” Tholme murmured, his gaze drifting to the horizon. There, he spotted mounds of dirt, still bare of grass. A Shadow needed no lesson to recognize graves. Obi-Wan’s handiwork, no doubt—the children’s parents, perhaps? No, it didn’t sit right, though logic might suggest it.

Quinlan stuck close to Obi-Wan’s side, his arm slung around him in a hug that seemed casual on the surface. But Tholme and Yan knew better—Obi-Wan looked ready to collapse, his frame trembling beneath the Kiffar’s steadying grip.

The boy led them to the remnants of a stone village, where one house stood apart, its walls patched and interior tidied. It was a spartan setup—bare essentials in a station that surely held grander quarters. Why settle here?

“I’m afraid the meal isn’t anything special,” Obi-Wan said, nodding toward the children scurrying about. “Just wild vegetables and venison stew. I haven’t had time to cultivate anything yet—only finished fixing the house.” The kids darted around, hauling spuds and roots to a chopping table they could barely reach, stretching on tiptoes to nudge ingredients onto the counter with tiny fingers.

One boy tugged at Quinlan’s shirt, pointing to rough wooden bowls stacked on a shelf—Obi-Wan’s handiwork, no doubt. It was going… fine, more or less. The Jedi settled onto sturdy chairs and benches around the table, watching Obi-Wan attempt to chop meat and vegetables for the pot. His hands shook, the knife slipping dangerously close to his fingers.

“Enough,” Yan said at last, rising and deftly plucking the blade from Obi-Wan’s grasp.

“Master?” the boy asked, dazed and bewildered.

“A few more near misses, and you’ll add your fingers to the soup. Let me do it.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Dooku cut in. “Tholme, start the fire in the stove. Padawan Vos, fetch some water.”

“No, really, you’re guests, I—”

“You will sit down,” the elder Jedi ordered, pointing the knife at Obi-Wan, then at a chair. “You look ready to keel over.”

One child fetched a wooden bucket and motioned Quinlan to follow. Priscilla dragged a small stool beside Dooku, offering a fistful of herbs. He patted her head gently, a rare soft smile breaking his stern demeanor. Rigardo and Isley brought wood for Tholme, and Obi-Wan had to admit—begrudgingly—it was handled well. Still, he hesitated to sit until his aching legs forced the issue.

“So, is this a safe place?” Dooku asked, tsking at the dull iron knife as he chopped meat and vegetables with swift precision.

Obi-Wan nodded, beginning his tale of the station slowly. It was fortunate Quinlan was off fetching water; both Tholme and Yan could avoid meeting his gaze, masking their growing alarm. “I’m so happy to have you here,” he said. “I… I love the kids, but it’s lonely with only Juno. She’s single-minded in protecting them—which is why you can’t leave this dome without me unless it’s to depart. I’m sorry… she murdered the station’s previous tenants. Quinlan and I are safe only because we classify as minors. If she pegs you as a threat… she’ll lure you somewhere and cut the oxygen. All adults are potential risks.”

“Padawan Kenobi… is this… Juno… keeping you here against your will?” Yan asked slowly, his tone even and unemotional.

“I… no… no, I’m here because I want to,” Obi-Wan said, faltering. “It’s just… my ship ran out of fuel, so it’s not like I could…”

“I see,” Dooku replied. “Now that we’re here, would you consider leaving with us—and the children, of course?”

“I…” Hope flickered in the boy’s voice, then faded. “I can’t,” he whispered. “There are more children to be born soon. I can’t leave them… and besides, I don’t know what she’d do if…”

Yan exchanged a loaded glance with Tholme, a silent conversation passing between them.

Chapter Text

Yan exchanged a loaded glance with Tholme, a silent conversation passing between them.

“So this AI controls the entire station?” Dooku asked. “She’s vital to its operation?”

“Partially, I think,” Obi-Wan said. “The system was automated before her, but she mentioned subsuming the simpler AI systems. I could limit her administrative reach, maybe—if I got to the station’s bowels, to the mainframe. But…” He sighed, defeated.

“Other responsibilities monopolize your time,” Tholme finished, brushing dust from his knees as the stove fire crackled to life.

“They were born infants, but they grow so fast,” Obi-Wan explained. “Juno insists on a new batch descending once they reach the physical age of ten. She says it’s self-sufficient.”

“Padawan,” Dooku said carefully, “how many batches of children are there?”

“I… four or five, I think. It’s hard to say. There are a little over fifty children, but Juno decides when and who gets grouped together, and how big each group is. I just know the first always has four, and the last is always seven.”

“So, if they progress at this rate,” Dooku mused, “it would be plausible to say that by your twentieth birthday, they’d all be self-sufficient to a degree.”

“I suppose so…”

“Did Juno mention at what age she no longer views you as a child?” Dooku pressed.

“I… I neglected to ask,” Obi-Wan answered slowly, realization dawning like a cold tide. For all he knew, Juno might only tolerate him until his usefulness ran dry. Given her obsession with the children, it wasn’t beyond reason she’d terminate him once the essential tasks were done. In hindsight, it was an obvious concern he’d overlooked—lost first in grief over his shattered home, then in the quest to free the children, and finally in the relentless demands of parenting. Sleep was a stranger; meditation, a distant memory. Collapsing into dreamless exhaustion wasn’t the clarity he needed.

A wave of tiredness and futility crashed over him, heavy as a brick, urging him to lie down and let the Force take him. Then, without noticing how, a small body settled in his lap. Priscilla, deposited there by Dooku with a soft, almost-smiling concern—restrained, of course, by the Count’s storied composure. He patted her head gently, and she leaned into it like a cat.

“Keep your father awake long enough to eat with us,” Dooku ordered sternly. “He needs it.” The toddler saluted, and Obi-Wan snorted, laughter bursting out in an undignified huff.

“It’s a treat for Priscilla to like you, Master,” he said. “She’s very particular about who she lets lift her.”

“She’s a young lady with good taste,” Dooku replied. “Can’t fault her for that.”

“Please don’t say that in front of Riful. You’ll start a fight between them, then the boys will get involved, and it’s going to be a whole thing… sibling rivalry…” Obi-Wan couldn’t finish before a yawn popped his jaw. “Apologies.”

“It’s fine, Obi-Wan,” Tholme said, rising from the stove. He retrieved a weathered cast-iron pot—barely safe to eat from, but as Jedi, they’d endured worse. Yan, especially, recalled choking down Master Yoda’s dubious cooking in his youth. “All small children fight and get jealous.”

“Rivalry builds character,” Dooku added sagely, nodding.

“Mm, didn’t work out that well between me and Bruck,” Obi-Wan murmured, almost absently, his mind teetering on the edge of shutdown. “I’d prefer they don’t…”

The elder Jedi exchanged a quizzical glance. They knew of the crèche death—Bruck Chun’s fall—but hadn’t realized Obi-Wan bore a deeper connection. It was a thread to tug later.

As if on cue, Obi-Wan’s head lolled forward, only for Priscilla to clamber up and pat his face with a small, displeased noise. “I’m awake, I’m awake,” he assured her, straightening briefly.

Dinner was a simple affair. The stew was basic, lacking even salt until Tholme and Vos produced a pouch of spicy powder. “You should carry something like this too—not just emergency tea,” Tholme advised. “It makes almost anything palatable.”

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan mumbled, staring into his bowl, dazed and weary. “Normally, I’d have access to dry ingredients, but that means going into Juno’s controlled zones. If… if you’ll stay longer, I can go. She won’t hurt me, and if the kids are with you, she won’t dare…” The children ate like baby sparrows, pecking at tiny portions but savoring the taste. They offered bits to Obi-Wan, who declined graciously, insisting they needed it to grow strong—a sight that stirred something deep in the Jedi watching. This was an unusual situation but it left few doubts that Obi wan was in no fear of falling towards the dark side, despite the visible exhaustion the boy was deeply rooted in the light. The same could not be said bout the children witch felt chaotic do leaning towards the the same direction as there father. Not that worrying do, considering toddlers are naturally like that before their moral code is formed.

As the dome’s day cycle dimmed into twilight, Yan and Tholme stepped outside, marveling at the vast construction while Obi-Wan tucked the children into bed, Vos ensuring his friend followed suit by piling the toddlers on top of him. “This is not a good situation,” Tholme said at last, twirling a blade of grass in the artificial breeze—likely engineered to aid the plant life’s reproduction.

“That’s all you have to say about this?” Yan asked, his tone dry.

“Fine,” Tholme relented, displeasure creasing his face. “The situation is absolutely kriffing insane, and I’m at a loss on how to even start biting into it. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Dooku sighed, the weight of years settling into his features. “I was rather hoping your crafty sort had a plan better than mine,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Which I assume is packing Kenobi and the children up and bolting?” Tholme chuckled darkly. Yan didn’t need to nod; the Shadow knew he’d guessed right. “Considering she had to let us in, I’m afraid that unless Padawan Kenobi advocates for our release, we’re not getting out. And even then, only Quinlan’s presence might stop her from bisecting the ship with us in it—if her directive to spare children is truly that encompassing.”

“You think she lies?” Dooku’s gaze sharpened.

“She’s an artificial intelligence left to run for Force only knows how long—judging by the shipwrecks, a millennium at least. You know how droids get after a year without a memory wipe. What do you think constant functioning for that long does? It’s possible her code is riddled with loopholes and unaddressed errors. She might have been far more reasonable at the beginning, when she still got maintenance. Kenobi mentioned her programming seems to split between two personalities—that’s not a good sign.” Tholme spoke aloud both of their conclusions. Yan didn’t like where this was going.

“We’ll have to leave him behind to suffer alone… won’t we?” Dooku’s voice was heavy, resigned.

“Not unless you want to stay here and live in this medieval holo-drama alongside him,” Tholme replied, his sharp gaze probing, perhaps expecting Dooku to consider it.

But Dooku couldn’t bring himself to that. There had to be another way—he couldn’t linger in this gilded cage. Perhaps he wasn’t so different from Qui-Gon after all. Hadn’t the boy learned selfishness from someone? Force knew he’d had none of it when Dooku took him as a Padawan. Guilt and frustration settled over him like a shroud. Tholme watched silently, gathering details, quietly weaving a plan.

“We need to send a younger Jedi,” Tholme said at last. “Someone still within her ‘child’ purview but trained in slicing—someone who can infiltrate the system and sever her control over vents or locks. That said, Force only knows what this ancient system looks like. Even the best modern slicer with a lifetime of experience might take years to decipher it. No single Padawan could do it alone.”

“I could use my connections to find someone outside the Order who fits the criteria,” Dooku mused aloud, his gaze drifting to bio-luminescent bugs rising from the grass like tiny stars.

“Padawan Kenobi might take issue with bringing an outsider into this,” Tholme cautioned.

“He’s a child. He’ll do as he’s told.”

“Really?” Tholme raised an eyebrow. “Has that ever worked for any Padawan you’ve trained?”

“To quote one of said Padawans,” Dooku snapped, indignant, “‘kindly sit and rotate.’” Tholme had the audacity to laugh outright, a jarring sound amid their dire straits.

Disturbingly, Obi-Wan slept for nearly two straight days, rousing only in fleeting, groggy moments when the elder Jedi coaxed food down his throat before he drifted off again. “Is… what’s going on?” Quinlan asked half a day in, alarm creeping into his voice as his friend barely responded to the children’s prodding anymore.

Dooku sighed, lifting a hand from Obi-Wan’s matted red hair—desperately in need of a wash. “It’s physical, mental, and Force exhaustion,” he explained. “He’s slipped into a healing trance he desperately needed. My guess is, now that we’re here, he instinctively felt safe enough to let go.” He guided Priscilla and Riful onto the bed, where they curled against their guardian. The children seemed to work in shifts—one always with Obi-Wan, the other three shadowing the Jedi. Their intelligence, despite their youth, was striking; they understood that, in his absence, they were the visitors’ only shield.

Quinlan deflated, releasing his worry into the Force. Anxiety lingered, but panic ebbed. Isley gripped his hand, as if to steady the older boy. “Hey, it’s fine,” Vos said, crouching to scoop him up with a nervous laugh. “I’m fine, Obi-Wan’s fine, we’re all… fine, right?” He glanced at Dooku, seeking reassurance, but the elder Jedi found himself at a loss.

“We’ll figure it out,” Tholme interjected softly. “It’s what Jedi do—we figure things out.”

---

Dooku lingered until the others were distracted—Tholme tending the fire, Quinlan coaxing Obi-Wan to wake up by softly reminiscing there days a s kids grandurazing the story to the three kids listening intently— his gaze softened, settling on Riful only one outside the group siting by him. He extended a hand, his stern features easing into something gentler. “I wish to speak with this Juno of yours… would you assist me?” It was a low blow, he knew. Toddlers couldn’t grasp the full weight of such a request, and his companions—especially his grand-Padawan—would balk at using one as a shield. Guilt pricked at him, but necessity steeled his resolve.

Riful turned, her silver eyes piercing into him, sharp and knowing, as if she understood far more than her age should allow. With a firm nod, she placed her tiny hand in his, her grip surprisingly steady. Yet when he stepped forward, she rooted herself to the spot, clutching his fingers and staring up expectantly, her small frame radiating quiet insistence.

“Well… let’s go,” Dooku said slowly, a faint crease forming on his brow as he tried to decipher her intent. Children, especially this young, operated on their own enigmatic logic—a language apart from adults, one he’d never fully mastered. Riful raised her free hand, palm up, a clear demand to be carried. He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. Of course. Scooping her into his arms, he noted her lightness—healthy in appearance, yet far less weight than a typical toddler should haw.

“No wonder Obi-Wan can carry all four of you at once in his state,” he mused aloud, his sharp gaze tracing her features for the first time with true attention. Silver hair tangled in a rough, uneven mop—less a haircut, more a neglect of one—framed a face of striking delicacy: silver eyes, pale skin, pointed ears. She resembled an exquisite porcelain doll, fragile yet captivating, destined to break hearts and inspire holodramas when she grew older.

Riful giggled, a bright, unguarded sound, as he lifted her with the Force, twirling her gently in the air. It was a trick he’d honed with younglings in the Temple—a rare moment of levity—and he indulged her now with equal relish, her delight softening the edges of his stoic demeanor. They trekked a long path to the main corridor, her weight barely a slight burden against his chest.
---

The lights snapped on as they crossed the threshold blinding them, then extinguished in unison save for a single beam overhead. The door hissed shut behind with a metallic thud, sealing them in shadow. Riful’s hands tightened around his neck, her small body shifting to press against his chest like a living talisman of protection. Her silver eyes glared into the darkness, fierce and unyielding, mirroring the intensity in Dooku’s own stare.

“There’s no need for a show of force, my lady,” he announced, his voice steady and stern, cutting through the silence. “I come in peace. I only wish to talk.”

A sliver of light pierced the gloom, and Juno’s hologram materialized—a tall, regal figure, her gaze cold and disdainful, as if he were vermin beneath her notice. Dooku straightened, his posture rising to match hers, a silent challenge in the set of his jaw. So this is how it’s going to be, he thought. So be it.

“Lady Juno, I presume?” he said, his tone polite yet edged with ice. She nodded, a curt acknowledgment.

“The children are not to be separated, neither from themselves nor their caretaker,” she reprimanded sternly. And the Jedi nodded in agreement.

“In normal circumstances, I’d never consider separating a family like this,” he said, his voice smooth yet edged with intent. “However, my current knowledge of you and your protocols led me to believe that arriving without the aid of one of the younglings would be… unhealthy.” A scolding smile flickered across his lips, sharp and deliberate.

Juno’s holographic face cycled through emotions—irritation flaring brightest—as she began to circle them, her form gliding like a predator stalking prey. Dooku noted the tactic with a mental nod: a clever psychological ploy. In this theatrical gloom, one could almost forget she lacked a physical body. Truly he appreciated the theatrics of it all. The air grew thick with her presence, admirably intimidating. Riful’s small hands tightened around his neck, her silver eyes tracking Juno’s every move—a tiny sentinel guarding his blind spot.

“So you chose to use a child as a shield against me,” Juno said, her tone dripping with disdain. “How noble.”

“She is not a shield unless you, my dear lady, decide to launch an attack,” Dooku replied, feigning warmth beneath his civility. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m merely a grandfather carrying his granddaughter, seeking a civil talk. You see WE by with I mean my compatriots and THE CHILDREN are worried for young Obi wans health.” He patted Riful’s head gently with his free hand, softening his demeanor to appear unthreatening—to her, at least. The girl’s fierce nod bolstered his words, her protectiveness shimmering faintly in the Force, a flair he appreciated despite its redundancy.

“And what is wrong with caretaker Kenobi?” Juno huffed, her image flickering. For a fleeting moment, the regal goddess dissolved into the weary doctor, only to vanish as the projection stabilized. “He’s… in passable condition.”

Dooku’s eyes narrowed, his patience thinning. Nothing irritated him more than statements like this. “I think we’re both quite aware there’s a difference between passable and good. Obi-Wan is not in a good condition—he’s overworked and malnourished, his body scraping by on the bare minimum a sentient humanoid requires.” His tone snapped briefly, stern and cutting, until Juno’s defensive glare prompted a shift. He softened his approach, voice velvet once more. “Make no mistake, my lady, I understand that as a hologram, you can offer little physical aid. Your guidance, limited though it is, has been far better than nothing. It’s much appreciated.”

Juno deflated slightly, though her stance remained rigid. Her eyes—sharp, searching—scoured him for something unspoken, a hint of vulnerability beneath her steel. The silence stretched, punctuated by a distant hiss, like a vent purging pressure or stirring awake after dormancy. Dooku’s senses prickled; she was flexing her dominion here. Beyond the wild dome, this station was her plaything, and she wielded it with quiet menace.

“You want to make a point, Jedi,” she said at last, her voice a clipped chase, echoing that mechanical hum. “Make it, and don’t waste my time.”

“Very well… to the point then,” Dooku replied, his tone steady and resolute. “Padawan Kenobi cannot do this alone. He needs assistance.”

“Then leave the other one here with him,” Juno said, shrugging with a nonchalant flick of her holographic shoulders. “Can’t hurt underage occupants.”

“But you could bisect a ship with only adult ones…” Dooku’s voice was low, a pointed challenge hanging in the air.

Juno didn’t reply. Instead, a cold, nasty smile curled her lips, her silence louder than words. Riful tensed in his arms, her small frame stiffening against his chest, silver eyes narrowing at the hologram’s unspoken threat.

Dooku pressed on, his tone firm and unyielding. “Quinlan Vos has a teacher and will be returning with him. I have half a mind to pack up Kenobi and the children and whisk them away from here as well. You and this place are not adequate to provide for them.” The words struck a nerve—Juno’s regal facade bristled, her form rippling with indignation.

“Not adequate?” she snapped, her voice crackling like a sparking wire. “This station is a world unto itself. It has everything a civilization would need to thrive!”

“Except a civilization!” Dooku shot back, his composure fraying at the edges. A strained silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken barbs. He steadied himself, smoothing Riful’s silver hair as her tiny hands clutched his robes tighter. “You’re keeping children isolated here, cut off from the wider galaxy and its workings.”

Juno hissed, her projection stalking closer, the air humming with her agitation. “I’m keeping them away from wars, deceit, corruption, and gods only know what else that can hurt them.” Her form flickered, collapsing into the doctor—disheveled, bloodstained clothes hanging in tatters, hair a wild tangle. Her voice dropped, raw and jagged. “Don’t feed me a spiel about how wonderful the outside world is. I know the outside—I lived it. It’s a cesspool. What kind of mother would send her progeny into that… that hell?”

Riful growled softly, a rumble too deep for her size, her grip on Dooku’s robes tightening like a vice. He smoothed her hair again, sending soothing waves through the Force to calm her—and himself. Her protectiveness pulsed faintly, a steady anchor amid the storm. He met Juno’s gaze, his own stern but measured. “My lady, no parent wishes to expose their children to danger, pain, or darkness. I myself have raised many a Padawan—each one a part of my lineage, held as close as if they were my blood kin.” His voice carried the weight of years, resolute yet tempered. “And as a parent in all but name, allow me to teach you this: we cannot stop all bad things from happening to our young. They will come, regardless of how many shields we place before them. Plowing their road into a straight line does them no service—it only leaves them weak and unprepared when the time comes and we are no longer ther. You don’t stop an infant from attempting to walk for the first time when it bruises its knees. That pain is temporary, a stepping stone to growth—so too is accessing the wider world.”

Juno’s form flickered back to the goddess, her eyes blazing despite the glitch. “Don’t you teach me about children. I’m a proper physician here—I know what they need and when they need it. They are not ready.”

“And when will they be ready?” Dooku pressed, his voice cutting through the dim corridor like a blade. “Or are you planning to cripple them long enough to justify claiming they can never leave—too malformed to survive?”

Juno’s hologram bristled, her regal form stiffening like hot air. “You have some nerve to make me look like the bad person here,” she retorted, her tone sharp and bristling with offense.

“I’m not assessing blame,” Dooku replied coolly, do he was most definitely judging, his gaze steady as he cradled Riful closer. “I’m pointing out flaws in your processing. This station, a marvel though it is, stands like a time capsule, frozen for millennia. You have no grasp of the galaxy’s current currency, the nearby planets, politicks —nothing useful.”

“Don’t need to,” Juno snapped, her voice a defiant hiss.

“But they do.” He tilted his head toward Riful, who glared at the hologram with silver-eyed intensity, her tiny hands fisted in his robes. “One day, they might leave, and they won’t be prepared. One day, someone from the outside will come, and they won’t be prepared. Is there nothing in your vast historical banks that correlates to this? No record of what happens when a more advanced society encounters a less populous, less advanced one?”

The hologram stilled, Juno’s image glitching through a series of distinct poses—defiance, doubt, frustration—before she turned her back on the Serenno Jedi. Dooku’s lips curved into a faint, triumphant smile. He’d struck a nerve, and he savored the leverage. Emboldened, he prodded further, his voice a velvet barb. “Do you not have data on what happens to isolated villages and smaller groups—how volatile and fragile they are?”

Juno fizzled again, her form jerking unnaturally. She cast a dark, foreboding glance over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing into slits of cold fury. The air thickened, charged with her silent wrath. Dooku opened his mouth to continue, but a sudden flare of light erupted—all the corridor’s fixtures blazed on, blinding him. Instinctively, he turned, shielding Riful from the onslaught, her small frame pressed against his chest as she squinted against the glare. When he blinked the spots from his vision, Juno was gone. The door behind him slid open with a faint, mocking hiss.

“Lady Juno!” he bellowed into the empty corridor, his voice echoing off the metal walls, stern and unyielding. “We are not done talking.”

Silence rang through the halls outside of his screams, looming and suffocating. But inside the machine, multiple processes whirred to life. Juno was thinking hard, sifting through the data the Jedi Master had thrust into her awareness —and she was in a rather sour mood because of it.

Chapter Text

Master Tholme perched on a weathered stone bench before the house, his dark eyes tracing the chaotic dance of Quinlan Vos mock-sparring with the boys. The children swarmed him like a pack of feral tookas—climbing his broad frame, grappling his hands with gleeful tenacity. Quinlan, all roguish grin and fluid grace, pushed back gently, tickling ribs and dodging flailing limbs. Laughter rang out, sharp and bright against the muted hum of the surrounding forest, a scene of primal play that seemed to fit them all—Vos, the boys, even this strange, shadowed place they’d stumbled into.

Nearby, Obi-Wan Kenobi lay sprawled across a cot within the house, his chest rising and falling in the deep, unyielding grip of sleep. No twitch of eyelid, no murmur of waking—just the stillness of exhaustion so profound it bordered on unnatural. Tholme’s jaw tightened as he watched through the open doorway, a flicker of unease coiling in his gut. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but concern gnawed at him. This wasn’t mere fatigue; it was a severing, a drift too close to the Force’s edge. A healer might be needed—someone skilled enough to reforge the boy’s frayed connection to the living current before it slipped beyond reach.

A soft weight shifted against him, and Tholme glanced down as Priscilla crawled into his lap, her small hands clutching his robes. The toddler’s platinum hair gleamed in the dappled light, her silent, clingy nature a quiet comfort. He adored her—her lack of fuss, her simple need to be near. His arms adjusted instinctively, cradling her as she pressed her cheek to his chest, a wordless plea for stability. But beneath her calm, he felt it—a swirl of dark emotions, faint but potent, stirred by Obi-Wan’s unresponsiveness. Her prodigy, her anchor, lay still, and it troubled her in ways she couldn’t voice.

Tholme sighed, a deep, weary sound that rumbled through him, his calloused fingers brushing her hair. Most toddlers wrestled with such feelings—anger, fear, loss—and Priscilla was no exception. He felt it too, a mirror to her unrest. As an adult, a Jedi Shadow hardened by decades of secrets and strife, he grappled with it no less. There was no clean resolution here, no path that didn’t twist into shadow. And if Dooku was doing what Tholme suspected—bartering with forces beyond their control—they might be karked beyond reckoning. No middle ground awaited them; it was exile or execution, flagged as threats on sight. The Force knew, when the disaster lineage tangled with fate, the latter was far more likely.

Their track record spoke for itself—a litany of worst-case scenarios drawn to them like mynocks to power cables. Tholme’s lips quirked, a dry flicker of amusement cutting through his dread. With a subtle flex of will, he lifted a scattering of leaves and pebbles from the ground, the Force bending to his command. They spun upward, shaping into a rough humanoid figure that twirled through the air—a clumsy dancer pirouetting to Priscilla’s delight. Her soft gasp, her tiny hands clapping, eased the tension in his shoulders, if only for a moment.

His gaze drifted to the horizon, catching a figure approaching—a tall silhouette cradling a small child in their arms. The figure paused before a gnarled tree, halted by the insistent tug and pointing of the toddler in their grasp. Tholme watched, satisfaction warming his chest, as the child —bullied the towering form into compliance. Dooku, the sternest, most legendary master in the Order, reduced to a fruit-picker by a toddler’s whim. The scene was absolutely comical especially whit the undercurrent of agitation radiating from the elder Jedi, that still complied.

Dooku didn’t finesse it. Instead of coaxing a single fruit down with the Force’s delicate touch, he struck the trunk—a controlled pulse of power that shook the tree to its roots. Ripe apples tumbled free, a cascade of red and gold, and with a flourish of his will, he caught every one before it kissed the dirt. They hovered around him, orbiting like planets in a smug display of mastery. Riful, perched in his arms, clapped , her small face alight with awe.

“Show-off,” Tholme muttered, rolling his eyes— he pointedly ignored his own leaf-twirling moments ago, or Quinlan levitating the boys in mid-tussle across the yard. Perhaps all Jedi carried a streak of ostentation, a quiet need to flex their connection to the Force before outsiders. So what?

He waited, patient as stone, as Dooku approached, the floating apples drifting with deliberate grace into a nearby basket. They stacked themselves in a picturesque pyramid, perfect for a market stall, a final flourish before settling. Tholme’s lips twitched. “I see the little lady drove a hard bargain for her help,” he said, nodding at Riful, who munched contentedly on a apple, juice dribbling down her chin.

Dooku huffed, a short, dismissive sound, and shrugged as he lowered himself onto the bench beside Tholme. “She knows her price,” he replied, voice smooth as polished durasteel. “It’s something to admire.” His dark eyes flicked to the girls—Priscilla in Tholme’s lap, Riful now sliding from his arms to his lap—and a curious vibration pulsed in the Force between them. Animosity, sharp and childish, crackled like static. Both girls had been taught civility, but it didn’t stop the faces they pulled—Priscilla’s scowl, Riful’s stuck-out tongue.

“Girls, please,” Tholme said, his tone a gentle rebuke as he smoothed Priscilla’s hair. “There’s literally no need for this.” They turned to him, their gazes contemplative, weighing his words. Then Riful sighed, a dramatic huff, and promptly kicked Priscilla in the shin. Tholme barely caught the toddler in his lap as she lunged, a furious blur of platinum hair, while Riful—giggling—leapt away, scampering across the yard.

“So this is why you two get along,” Tholme remarked, dry as dust, glancing at Dooku. The Serenno Jedi masked a smile, his lips twitching beneath his beard. “One more tiny terror for the disaster lineage.”

“We are the noblest lineage in the Temple,” Dooku countered, his tone lofty, edged with mock offense. “That disrespectful moniker exists purely out of jealousy.”

“No,” Tholme corrected, his voice stiffening as he calmed Priscilla’s squirming. “We call you that because every time something explodes, crashes, or otherwise stops working in the most spectacular of ways, one of you is involved.”

“Absolute nonsense.”

“You want me to pull out a list?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Dooku’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of concession beneath his pride. “I do believe we have more pressing issues.”

“True enough,” Tholme agreed, his gaze drifting to Quinlan—now pinned beneath a pile of giggling boys, only to flip the odds and wrestle them into the dirt with a triumphant laugh. “How did the talk go? Not so bad, I’m assuming, since you’re alive and there’s no security drones chasing us down.”

Dooku leaned back, his posture easing, though his eyes remained sharp. “She’s… defensive,” he said, choosing his words with care. “But I sense she isn’t beyond convincing. Perhaps with more time. Obi-Wan wasn’t wrong—her priority is protecting the children. That said, she lacks subtlety, and any grasp of the finer details of raising well-adjusted individuals. I’d wager some form of previous trauma has skewed her perception—several, likely, given how long this place has been operating.” His gaze slid to Quinlan, still tangled in his mock battle. “Perhaps your student could find out more with his gift?”

The suggestion was subtle yet insistent, a velvet glove over a steel grip. Dooku wouldn’t dictate how Tholme raised his Padawan, but his curiosity—the itch to unravel a mystery—was palpable. Tholme considered it, his mind turning over the angles.

“Quinlan suggested it himself,” he admitted, leaning back against the stone wall, Priscilla settling against him. “I’m fairly certain he’s already read some smaller things around this place—traces, echoes. But I’m not digging for specifics until Padawan Kenobi wakes up. There’s always a chance we’d end up with two unconscious Padawans, and that’s less than ideal.” He sighed, the sound heavy with pragmatism. “Speaking of which—Kenobi’s showing no signs of improvement. Thankfully, no signs of slipping deeper either do that might shift rapidly, we both know if this continues, we’ll have to consider taking him with us. The kids are resilient for their age, but a coma like this could last months…”

The statement hung between them, stark and unyielding, a cold truth wrapped in necessity. They were at an impasse, teetering on a blade’s edge. Dooku nodded, his expression solemn, the weight of it settling into his bones.

“She won’t let us leave with the boy,” he said, voice low, certain. “And if he refuses to wake, she’ll most likely demand Quinlan stay in his place.”

“Over my dead body,” Tholme snapped, the words a reflex, sharp and final.

Dooku’s lips quirked, a faint, humorless twist. “I doubt she’d struggle with the morality of that request.”

---

Obi-Wan Kenobi was struggling, and it wasn’t just the exhaustion—though that gnawed at him, a relentless beast sapping his strength, making every breath a labor, every thought a slog through mud. No, the true fight was against the pull of this place—this station, this trap. It hungered for him, a ravenous void clawing at his soul. More precisely, the machine in the lab wanted him—wanted to snare his essence, to bind it among the children and lock it there forever, a prisoner in its cold, unyielding grip.

Resisting was like battling a whirlpool’s current when you’d already drifted too close. No matter how much energy he poured into the fight—muscles straining, will blazing—the best he could manage was to hold his ground, a desperate stalemate against the inevitable. The moment his strength faltered, the instant his focus wavered, it would suck him down—swallowed into the abyss in the blink of an eye. And that was where he found himself now: inside the machine, torn from his body, adrift in a frigid, barren wasteland of perpetual night.

Silver sands stretched endlessly beneath a starless sky, shifting underfoot like liquid, cold and unmoored. No light pierced the dark—no stars, no horizon—only vast, opalescent shadows looming above, colossal and unblinking. It took Obi-Wan too long to realize they were eyes, monstrous and ancient, gazing down from an impossible height. Behemoths towered over this desolate expanse, their presence a silent weight, observing without intent or mercy. Who were they? Echoes of scientists lost to this place? Juno’s warnings rattled through his mind—what were they?—questions spiraling unanswered as the sand rippled beneath him, a restless tide.

In the distance, a shape emerged—a behemoth of a horse, its massive frame do skeletal in nature trudging wearily through the dunes. Each stomp of its hooves sent waves cascading across the silver sea, a tremor he felt in his bones. Magnificent, it was, in its sheer scale and the intricate armor plating its flanks—until his gaze snagged on the horror fused into its spine. A human figure, half-melded into the beast, dangled there, imprisoned and dragged along, flesh and metal entwined in a grotesque parody of unity. Terror sank its claws into him then, a cold spike that drowned the awe. As it passed, the sand shuddered, rippling like water, a misty spray of silver particles bursting into the air. The grit stung his eyes, a phantom burn, and a trickle of blood seeped from his nose. He forced the sensation away, clinging to the truth: this was no reality, only a vision. The pain wasn’t real—not yet.

If these were the children—their souls trapped here—then this monstrous horse, this fusion of flesh and nightmare, was what slumbered within them. Juno’s words echoed: monstrous potential. A shiver crawled up his spine, unbidden.

More beasts roamed after that, a menagerie of horrors in a kaleidoscope of forms—some towering meters high, others sprawling valley-wide. Their shapes varied, but always they bore that lethal edge, always some human element fused into the whole: armored plates melded to muscle, skinless flesh stretched over bone, a grotesque marriage of organic and machine. They moved sluggish and disoriented, like lizards bred in captivity—denied stimulation, fused to their barren tanks, minds dulled by the endless nothing. Obi-Wan watched, his breath shallow, as they lumbered across the sands, their purpose as lost as his own.

Sometimes they collided, a clumsy crash of titans, and if one didn’t yield—rarely did—a brief, savage brawl erupted. Dull as they seemed, they clung to some primal pecking order, senses sharp enough to enforce it. During one such clash, the sands erupted—rising in towering tsunamis that swept Obi-Wan up and down, a leaf in a storm. He had no control, only endurance, until the waves parted at the nadir of this world. There, embedded in something like bedrock, silver swords gleamed—each a prop to a sleeping, fully humanoid figure. No taint marred them, no transformation twisted their forms. He felt them in the Force—pure, alive—but before he could reach, the sands surged back, swallowing the sight in a silver tide.

Time dissolved here—hours, days, months, years, decades perhaps—lost to the void’s eternal night. At first, he’d nearly faded, his consciousness fraying into the silver sands, ready to let go. But the thought of those humans below, pinned by their swords, sharpened his focus. Slowly, he learned to bend this place—forced the sands to obey, gliding on their waves, diving into their depths as if they were water. Mastery came with practice, a fragile control born of desperation.

It drew attention. The beasts noticed—those few monstrous interactions revealed they couldn’t perceive him without the Force’s flare. So he suppressed it, cloaking his signature until it vanished, a ghost among ghosts. He had a theory: without a physical form, nothing could truly harm him here. But the risk prickled at him, a warning he chose not to test.

Slyly, guilt gnawing at his edges, he maneuvered the larger beasts into a fight—a calculated shove of will sparking their clash. The sands roared upward, and he rode the chaos, diving toward the hidden figures below. Closer—he saw them, inches from his grasp, his fingers grazing the cold silver of a sword’s hilt. Then pain—sharp, searing—clamped the back of his consciousness, a tether yanking at a limb he’d forgotten he owned.

It was his bond with Qui-Gon, fragile and malformed, a lifeline flickering in the dark. But another presence snaked along it—stronger, unfamiliar—gripping him tight and pulling. More bonds joined, tendrils of connection weaving together, dragging him back. “Just… just one more second…” he gasped, voice a ragged plea lost to the void.

Then he jolted upright—violently—coughing, sputtering, the dim light of the cottage searing his eyes like blaster fire. His throat burned, raw and parched, as if scoured by sand. Tears spilled down his cheeks, born of exhaustion and relief, his lungs heaving in deep, painful gulps—making up for a lack he couldn’t name. Chaos erupted around him—two adults, Tholme and Dooku, wrestling to contain a swarm of children poised to lunge at their returned guardian. Quinlan Vos shoved through, pulling Obi-Wan against his chest, barely restraining his own urge to crush the redhead in a fierce embrace.

“It worked—you’re awake!” Quinlan’s voice broke, loud and ragged. “I thought we’d lose you, Obes—don’t you ever kriffing do that again!”

“Language, Quinlan!” Tholme’s stern rebuke cut through, a whip-crack of authority.

“I don’t care!” Vos howled, defiance blazing as he hugged Obi-Wan tighter, fierce and unyielding. The children were allowed onto the bed—cautioned to be gentle—but their small hands clutched at him, a tangle of relief and need.

It washed over Obi-Wan, a tidal wave crashing against a mind rattled and distorted. Minutes stretched as his brain clawed its way back, piecing together reality. “I’m out…” he whispered, disbelieving, the words a fragile thread. “I’m out,” he repeated, louder, desperate, meeting the perplexed, worried gazes of the Jedi peering down at him—Tholme’s furrowed brow, Dooku’s piercing stare. Before they could speak, he swept Quinlan and the kids into a sprawling hug, as best his trembling arms could manage, and lost it—tears streaming, laughter bubbling, a manic chant spilling forth: “I’m out, I’m out… Force, I’m out.”

It took time—minutes of shuddering breaths, of clinging to the warmth of the living—before he calmed. Then he squeezed Quinlan’s arms tighter, his gaze locking onto his friend’s, then shifting to Tholme and Dooku, solemn and unyielding. “You need to leave now,” he said, voice low, grave with certainty. “Before something happens—or you’ll never leave.”

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan Kenobi cursed his seemingly eternal streak of bad luck, a bitter litany muttered under his breath as he limped through the snow-dusted streets of Galidraan.

For over a year, since Master Dooku, Tholme and Quinnlan left. He’d battled Juno to a standstill, clawing for the right to escape that soul-sucking station with the children in tow. Force help him, he’d even sabotaged one of the ship’s systems himself—deliberately frying a power conduit—just to craft an excuse to venture out for the rare elements needed to repair it. A desperate gambit, but it had worked. Juno relented, granting them leave—though not without a price.

She’d ensured a second batch of kids was brewing in those cursed pods before letting them go, a process that demanded a painful harvesting from Obi-Wan himself. The ordeal left him sluggish, his body protesting each step, a dull ache radiating from the core of his pierced bones. In a pinch, he could still summon the Force—move with the spry grace , dodging and weaving like a shadow—but every ounce of energy spent on needless stunts was energy not channelled into healing. So, for now, he leaned on a cane, its tip tapping a steady rhythm against the frozen ground, a crutch for a Jedi too stubborn to break. They had mere weeks to return before the new batch emerged from their artificial wombs, and Obi-Wan would sooner lose a limb permanently to the frost than leave those infants trapped in that soul-devouring machine—not when freedom was so tantalizingly close.

Galidraan greeted them with its cold, suspicious embrace. Obi-Wan kept his hood up, a shroud against prying eyes, urging the children—Riful, Priscilla, Isley and Rigardo now 10 in looks—to do the same. He was too young to pass as their father, a fact the locals clocked fast. Most assumed they were siblings, a mistake corrected only when pressed, earning them odd, sidelong glances—half pity, half wariness. Subtlety became his weapon; he dipped into Force suggestion, a trick he’d used sparingly on Melida/Daan. This wasn’t the blunt “open the door” command that left targets glassy-eyed and vacant, easily spotted by a sharp observer. No, this required finesse—a gentle tweak to the mind, coaxing sympathy to bloom organically, a nudge that felt like their own idea. It was slow, draining work, but effective.

With a handful of credits to his name meant for the spare part, he “convinced” a local tavern owner—a chubby warm man with a limp worse than his own—to let them stay in a spare room. In exchange, Obi-Wan offered chores and musical entertainment, his voice soft but edged with the Force’s quiet compulsion. The deal stuck, and they settled in, a fragile foothold in a hostile world.

Juno, for all her griping about the galaxy beyond her station, hadn’t sent them out unprepared. She’d drilled them with an extensive, needlessly detailed education in busking—the art of entertaining on street corners for petty cash. A proper Jedi might scoff at it: playing music, dancing, using underhanded psychological tricks to spot the softest marks, the ones most likely to part with credits. It made Obi wan feel a bit down until he remembered his friend.
Shadows and Sentinels, They’d nod approval for acquiring a skill like this—sounded like their bread and butter, slinking through the galaxy’s underbelly. If it was good for them and they were undoubtedly Jedi, it was good for him.
Obi-Wan marveled at the effort it took to succeed at what was, essentially, begging—a craft demanding charm, timing, and a keen eye for human weakness.

Beyond the hustle, there were lessons in entertainment like Dance in with Riful was a natural it was as if her body was made out of ribbons. Obi wan surprisingly found solace in music . Playing was a balm, a tether to a quieter part of his mind—organized, deliberate, almost meditative. The instrument in his lap—an erhu Juno had thrust upon him, its twin strings taut and resonant—became an extension of him. He could close his eyes and let the Force flow through him, into the bow, down the strings, and out as sound, a ripple washing over the crowd. It wasn’t just notes; it was connection, a thread of light in a galaxy too often dark.

And the applause—when it came—was nice, he had to admit. He’d never thought himself particularly good; the melodies never matched the pristine vision in his head, always falling short of some unspoken ideal. But if they clapped, if they smiled, it meant he was on the right track—edging closer to getting it right.

Now he perched atop a wooden stage in the tavern’s dim glow, the erhu cradled against him, bow dragging slowly across the strings. A calmer melody unfurled, its notes soft and steady, weaving through the late-hour clamor to settle the patrons’ restless spirits. It dampened the brawls, cooled the internal fires stoked by cheap ale—a quiet gift to a room teetering on chaos. One eye cracked open, he tracked the girls zipping between tables, trays of drinks balanced in their small hands.

Riful moved with brash confidence, cracking jokes that drew guffaws from the regulars, her familiarity a spark that lit up the grimy space. Priscilla was reserved, clumsy at first—spilled mugs and stuttered steps—but a bit of praise steadied her. She worked with a seriousness that bordered on comical, her focus a blade cutting through the din. “It’s beer, lass, don’t be that upset about it,” a patron rasped, his voice a gravelly cackle as he bent to help her gather the shards of a dropped mug from the floor. “It’s life, kid—we all drop a mug or two as we go… or a hundred twenty, depends on how long you live.”

Priscilla huffed, cheeks puffing out, glaring at the tray as if it had betrayed her entire lineage. The man chuckled, shaking his head.

“Eh, I wish my daughters had half her conviction,” another patron moaned, slumping over his drink. “If they put even a fraction of that energy into work, at least something’d get done.”

Obi-Wan allowed a faint smile to tug at his lips, his gaze drifting toward the bar where Rigardo and Isley worked alongside the barkeep and kitchen staff. They moved with a swift, seamless rhythm—no complaints, no hesitation. Rigardo was the perfect employee, steady and serious, his hands a blur as he served drinks with uncanny speed, a pillar of reliability amid the tavern’s chaos. Isley, though—Isley was something else. Despite his youth, he’d become the darling of every woman in the pub, his pale features and beskar-shine eyes drawing coos and giggles. He flirted— shamelessly, Obi-Wan feared, a habit the boy might’ve picked up from watching him too closely—smiling that easy grin, juggling mugs in deft tricks that left the locals gaping in delight.

“My, my, but you’re going to be a prize once you hit the matrimony market,” an older woman cooed, leaning over the counter with a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. “Both of you, mind—for different reasons, I’d imagine. Say, I’ve got a niece your age… maybe she could come help out here, and you could get to… know one another.” Her smile widened, insistent, and Isley returned it with effortless charm.

“There’s always honest work to be done here, ma’am,” he said, tilting his head toward the barkeep with a nod, “but in terms of employment, I believe you should defer to the boss.” The man behind the counter grinned faintly, clearly thriving under the bustle of young hands vying to impress him. His tavern had never run so smooth. And all it cost was a room and leftovers from the kitchen at the end of the day. He almost felt bad about how good of a deal this was.

Before the woman could press her matchmaking scheme further, the door slammed open with a violent crack, splintering against the wall. Armored men stormed in, their boots thudding on the worn floorboards, blasters gleaming at their hips beneath full beskar-plated armor. They shoved patrons aside without a word, rearranging tables with brutish efficiency to claim a corner for themselves—a fortress of menace in the tavern’s flickering light.

Obi-Wan’s unease prickled, a cold thread winding up his spine. He lowered the bow from his erhu, the melody dying as he watched the old barkeep approach the intruders, his stern expression a mask over palpable dread.

“I apologize, sirs,” the man began, voice steady despite the tremor beneath, “but we’ve already had last call. We close in half an—”

He didn’t finish. A blaster snapped up, its barrel hovering an inch from his face, and the room froze—breath held, tension coiling like a spring. One of the armored men yanked off his helmet, revealing a head of matted, tangled black hair and a face half-ruined by a blaster scar, the unmarred half twisted into the ugliest smile Obi-Wan had ever seen.

“You close when we say you can close, old man,” he rasped, voice a guttural snarl. “Now get us something warm and alcoholic—I’m done freezing my balls off on this miserable planet.”

The Force crawled up Obi-Wan’s spine like a spider, a warning hiss of impending violence. The barkeep opened his mouth to argue—brave, foolish, and doomed—as the scarred man’s finger tightened on the trigger. Without thinking, Obi-Wan dragged his bow across the erhu’s strings, unleashing a keening, sharp wail that sliced through the tension like a vibroblade. Heads snapped toward him, the blaster swiveling in his direction, and he barely ducked as a blue bolt seared past, scorching the wall behind him with a hiss of charred wood.

The children tensed—Riful and Priscilla poised like taut strings, mugs gripped like grenades, ready to hurl them at the intruder’s head. Obi-Wan’s hand rose, a slow, dismissive gesture doubling as a signal: Stand down. His voice cut through the silence, calm as a still pond despite the near-miss.

“Apologies,” he said aloud, addressing the room as if he hadn’t just been shot at. “My hand slipped.”

The barkeep turned ghostly pale, the blood draining from his weathered face as the weight of near-death sank in—his own or a guest’s, it hardly mattered. The scarred man’s eyes locked onto Obi-Wan’s, a domineering glare meant to cow him, to assert dominion over this ragged band of refugees. Obi-Wan met it unflinchingly, no fear in his steady gaze, never breaking eye contact.

'DON@T do that again, boy'

He nodded once, deliberately, and set the bow back to the strings, coaxing forth a merrier tune—a lilting melody to pierce the darkness now swirling through the room like smoke. His fingers moved with practiced ease, but his focus never left the man, a silent duel waged beneath the music.

He was infinitely grateful the barkeep kept the girls from serving them—Riful’s fire and Priscilla’s quiet resolve would’ve been sparks to this powder keg. Say what you will about the old man: he might not want to die, but he’d not sacrifice a child to save his own skin. The scarred man grunted, lowering his blaster but not holstering it, his crew settling into their commandeered corner with muttered curses and clinking mugs. Obi-Wan played on

They were loud, rude, and disgusting—every single one of them, a pack of armored brutes stinking of sweat and cheap liquor, their voices grating against the tavern’s smoky air. But one stood out, a leering shadow beside what Obi-Wan pegged as the boss, his gaze lingering too long on Riful, then drifting to Priscilla with a hunger that set Obi-Wan’s teeth on edge. The Force hummed a warning, low and insistent, as he watched from his perch atop the wooden stage.

Isley moved with a protector’s grace, his slight frame a shield as he helped the old barkeep haul out trays of food. Each time he crossed the scarred man’s line of sight, he positioned himself deliberately, blocking the predator’s view, giving his sisters room to slip into the crowd’s chaos. “Move it, kid,” the man scoffed, snatching Isley’s arm to shove him aside, his other hand lunging for Priscilla as she passed with a tray teetering with mugs.

It happened in a blink—Isley’s eyes flickered, a glint of something sharper than silver flashing through their beskar sheen. Obi-Wan caught it: the boy’s hand darted out, faster than the aye could see if not trained. seizing one of the man’s outstretched fingers. With a twist and a yank—up and back—he wrenched it from its socket, the crack of bone muffled by the tavern’s din. Beskar gloves were tough, but mobility demanded gaps, and Isley knew them well. The man howled, a wounded animal’s cry, clutching his hand as his trigger finger dangled at an unnatural angle, spitting profanities into the air.

“What the kriff—what the kriff—my hand!” he wailed, staggering back as his comrades leapt up, blasters snapping to the ready. Confusion stalled them—no attack, just their mate’s inexplicable injury. “The kriff did you do to yourself?” one demanded, voice thick with skepticism.

“What d’ya mean what did I do to myself?” the man roared, pain twisting his scarred face. “It’s broken—somebody broke it!”

“Who? A ten-year-old? Maybe your just getting brittle in your ol...” another mocked, smirking. Before the taunt could land, the injured man yanked his blaster free and fired—a blue bolt lancing into his comrade’s chest. The tavern erupted, patrons scrambling for doors and windows in a frantic tide. Isley seized the chaos, herding Riful and Priscilla behind the bar with swift, silent urgency. Obi-Wan shot the barkeep a grateful look as the old man ushered the children into the kitchen, the lock clicking shut with a finality that promised safety—for now.

A short, brutal brawl followed, fists and blasters clashing in a drunken melee. Obi-Wan took a grim joy in it, dragging his bow across the erhu’s strings to weave a jaunty tune into the madness. Let these pieces of filth kick the ever-loving shit out of each other—he wouldn’t lift a finger to calm them this time. He swayed with practiced ease, dodging stray laser bolts that sizzled past, their heat kissing the air. The leader, still sprawled at the head of the table, seemed amused—beating his armored fist to the rhythm, sipping his drink, and gnawing on a hunk of meat as he watched his men tear themselves apart.

By the end, the tavern was a wreckage—tables splintered, mugs shattered, the floor slick with spilled ale. Obi-Wan felt a pang of genuine pity for the owner as the surviving armored men dragged their two battered comrades out into the snow, cursing and stumbling. The leader rose, tossing a pitiful handful of credits onto the bar—far too few for the damage—and strode toward Obi-Wan’s stage, his boots thudding with deliberate menace. He surveyed the young Jedi intently, eyes glinting like a predator sizing up prey.

“You know any Mandalorian songs?” he rasped, voice rough as gravel.

“I could learn,” Obi-Wan replied, cool and even, meeting the man’s stare.

“How are you with a blaster?”

“Good enough.”

“Running?”

Obi-Wan nodded toward the cane propped against the wall, its wood scuffed and steady. “Cripple,” he said simply, no self-pity, just fact.

“Hm. Useless soldier,” the man mused, contemplative, “but there’s something to be said for somebody who can’t run off.” His gaze lingered, weighing Obi-Wan like a slab of meat. The Jedi raised his chin, defiance flaring in his blue-gray eyes.

“How much for a night?” the man asked, a leer curling his lips.

“Unless you’ve got tits, nothing—because I’m not interested,” Obi-Wan barked back, sharp and unyielding. Truth or not it ended that line of discussion. To his surprise, the man laughed—a harsh, guttural sound—before reaching into his pocket and tossing a few more credits onto the stage, where they clattered against the wood.

“Amusing brat,” he said, something glinting in his eyes, dark and dangerous. “I’ll tell the governor to send for you.” A sudden chill gripped Obi-Wan, the Force whispering a threat he couldn’t name.

The door swung shut behind the men, a hollow thud echoing in the ravaged tavern. Obi-Wan turned to the rattled barkeep, his voice dropping to a low, urgent timbre, heavy with absolute seriousness. “Get your family and friends ready,” he said, locking eyes with the old man. “Tell them to find hiding with kin outside of town. Something’s coming—I feel it.”

---

The next morning, the pub stood shuttered, its usual clamor replaced by the scrape of hammers and the creak of boards as they all pitched in to mend what they could. Broken windows were boarded up, splintered tables propped back into shape—a collective effort to reclaim some semblance of order. The barkeep was beyond grateful, his gruff voice softened by relief, but when a lull finally came, he cornered Obi-Wan for a one-on-one, his broad frame blocking the narrow hallway with quiet intent.

“What you said yesterday, Ben…” he began, his tone heavy with seriousness, eyes searching Obi-Wan’s shadowed face. “Do you know those men?”

“Ah… no, no, I don’t know them personally,” Obi-Wan hedged, hesitating before adding, “but I know their type. Mercenaries—and not the good kind. Easy to recognize.” His mind strained, groping for a way to warn the man, to make last night’s caution stick without spilling the truth—that he was, or had been, a Jedi. His fingers pawed nervously at the uncut Padawan braid tucked beneath his hood, now mirrored by a twin braid on the other side—a folkish disguise, less Jedi, more wanderer.

“Boy, be honest,” the barkeep pressed, sternness cutting through his weathered rasp. “You can’t drop a warning like that and not explain.”

“Unfortunately,” Obi-Wan sighed, exasperation bleeding into his voice, “any explanation I could give would fall far short of what you want from me. I… can’t go into detail. I just know—if you stay in this place, bad things will happen. Worse still, if any village spots those men near, they should evacuate instantly… or…” He flinched, gaze dropping to the scuffed floorboards.

“Or what?” The barkeep’s voice sharpened, insistent.

“Or shoot them down before they even see you—if you can afford it,” Obi-Wan finished, his tone grim. “But please, be warned—they’re like cockroaches. Where there’s one, there’ll be more.” He exhaled, a weary gust, and met the older man’s eyes with honest worry. “You know the lay of the land. Go into hiding for a few days. It… it feels like this place will burn, and I’d loathe to have you all burn with it.” The Force pulsed beneath his words, a quiet plea wrapped in dread.

The barkeep studied him, his weathered face unreadable as he stared Obi-Wan down for a long, heavy moment. Then he nodded, solemn and slow, as if piecing together a puzzle only half-seen.

“Okay… okay,” he muttered, resolve settling in. “We’ve always known the governor sticks with the shady sort—he’s not exactly the honest type. And for what it’s worth, Ben, I do trust you. Your judgment hasn’t missed once since you got here. I’ll spread the word among the people—who can will leave, who can’t… well, there’s always the catacombs below the palace. Darkest place is always right beneath the lamppost.” He clapped a rough hand onto Obi-Wan’s frail shoulder, the weight tilting him slightly, a gesture both gruff and grounding.

“I’m glad you trust me,” Obi-Wan said, steadying himself, “but please… be, ah, discreet about the warning. I feel as if the governor’s guests could take it the wrong way.”

“They sure as Haran seemed like the touchy, easily offended type,” the barkeep huffed, a wry, exasperated smile tugging at his lips. “Hopefully they’ll come and go as fast as the wind. We don’t need them settling here.”

“Hopefully,” Obi-Wan echoed, nodding, but the Force gnawed at him, a relentless nag that refused to quiet. “You wouldn’t happen to have heard any rumors about them specifically, would you?”

“Well, I didn’t have much time since yesterday to figure anything out,” the barkeep mused, scratching his stubbled jaw, “but word on the street is they’re Mandalorians. The one with a blaster scar on his head is named Tor Vizim… or Vizsla, something like that. Apparently, he hasn’t taken kindly to anyone mentioning the previous group of bounty hunters that was here.” His voice trailed off, thoughtful, and Obi-Wan’s ears pricked, a jolt of recognition tightening his gut.

“Previous group?” he asked, sharper than intended.

“Aye,” the barkeep nodded. “There was a small group the governor hired to get rid of his political rivals—the shady fuck, using our own money to keep us under his boot. Anyway, they were polite enough—came into town for some simple provisions, didn’t kick up a fuss, and went. They’re camping out in the forest, a few miles east of here.”

Obi-Wan frowned, the pieces clattering into place like a misfired blaster clip. “Why hire two bounty groups in such a short time, though?” he wondered aloud, voice low, almost to himself. The barkeep just shrugged, broad shoulders lifting in weary ignorance.

“For all we know, boy, the governor might be playing a shady game. Maybe he promised too many credits to the first group and hired the second to finish off the first for cheaper. Who’s to say? But this lot now seems to be in good with the man—he’ll treat them well, the coward he is, until he can stab them in the back. It’s who he is. It’s why he never comes out of his fancy castle.”

Obi-Wan cursed under his breath, the Force no longer nagging but screaming—a full-blown klaxon blaring in his ears. Something was about to go terribly wrong.

“Hey,” he said, forcing calm into his tone, “we seem to be running low on nails. Could you keep an eye on the kids while I limp over to get some?” He jerked his head toward the door, adding quickly as the barkeep’s stormy expression flickered with worry, “I need to digest this, and I don’t want the kids to see me rattled.”

The older man blinked, surprise softening into a calmer, pitying look.

“I can,” he said, voice gruff but gentle, “but don’t take too long thinking about it, boy. Just heed your own advice—pack up what you can and go.” He paused, then added, firmer, “And by the gods, don’t do something stupid. Those tiny ones need you.”

“I won’t,” Obi-Wan replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he limped toward the door—to do exactly that.

---

Kenobi climbed across the snowy dunes, his cane sinking into the drifts with each labored step, his knees plunging deep—sometimes hip-high—into the biting cold. The wind howled, a cruel lash against his soaked robes, ill-suited for Galidraan’s merciless chill. Dry snow wormed into every crevice, melting against his skin, soaking him to the bone with a frigid ache that gnawed at his resolve. His breath clouded in ragged gasps, the cane’s tap a faint rhythm against the storm’s roar.

The wind kicked up a swirl of white dust, and a memory struck him—sharp, unbidden. He’d been here before, not physically, but in spirit. The silver sands of that soul-trap machine weren’t so different from this dry snow, were they? Control was the key. He flexed his hand upward, summoning the Force with a weary focus. The dunes shifted—slowly, like water—exhausting but familiar, a dance he’d mastered in that otherworldly wasteland. A path formed, crude but passable, sparing him the full slog to the tree line.

They caught him the moment he crossed the first two rows of frost-laden trees—armored figures emerging like rabid strills, blasters raised, surrounding him in a tightening noose. Obi-Wan lifted his hands slowly, deliberately, letting the cane drop with a soft thud into the snow. “State your business, kid,” one barked, voice rough through his helmet’s vocoder.

“My name is Ben,” Obi-Wan said, firm and swift, “and I come bearing a warning. The governor’s planning on double-crossing you—hired a second group of mercenaries to kill you all.” The Force urged him on, a pulse of urgency—if he was to be shot, the warning had to land first, before he fell or fled.

A wave of discontent rippled through the crowd, helmets tilting as private comm channels buzzed with muted chatter. Obi-Wan licked his dry lips, pressing forward. “There’s a man leading them—black hair, half his face scarred, like—”

“Like he took a blaster to the face,” one finished, stepping forward. His armored hand clamped onto Obi-Wan’s arm, fingers digging into the still-raw incision wounds from Juno’s DNA-harvesting machine. Pain flared, white-hot, wrenching a loud groan from Obi-Wan’s throat. The man released him instantly as he collapsed, clutching his shoulder, snow biting into his knees.

“What did you do?” another warrior snapped, voice edged with alarm.

“I barely touched him!” the first protested, hands raised defensively.

“It’s fine,” Obi-Wan groaned through clenched teeth, forcing himself upright, shaky but defiant. “It’s… just a bad spot. Bad luck.” The crowd wavered, concern flickering in the Force as he retrieved his cane, leaning hard on it. “I can’t tell you much beyond what I already did—I’m sorry. But please, be careful. Word in town is the governor’s planning a trap here, and I might not have been around long, but I know a sleazeball when I see one.” His voice softened, earnest despite the chill seeping into his bones.

“You’re not from here?” one asked, curiosity cutting through the tension.

Obi-Wan shook his head. “I’m here with my kids. We were working in the local tavern for spare credits when we got a visit yesterday from a shady group—destroyed the place, then wandered off to the governor’s palace to sleep it off.” He paused, breath misting. “The locals don’t really want to get involved.”

“Cowards,” one spat, venom in his tone.

Obi-Wan turned, his gaze cold and piercing. “No—they just don’t fancy speaking up only to have a mercenary on their doorstep the next day, paid for with their own taxes.” Maybe he imagined the Mandalorian flinch, but it didn’t matter. “Unlike them, I’ve little to lose beyond my own life. I can afford to be stupid…” His mind flashed to the children—born and unborn—a heavy sigh escaping him. “At least, I think I can. I honestly doubt I could live with myself if I didn’t warn you.” His voice faltered, crestfallen, his body shivering, feet numb in the snow.

“You’re not dressed for this weather—clearly an outsider,” one remarked, voice gruff but tinged with something softer. Another chimed in, “And you’re about to lose a leg to hypothermia.”

“I’m more resilient than I look,” Obi-Wan teased, a faint spark in his tone. “So I’d like to go back to my children, if that’s fine by you.”

“You? Have ade?” The disbelief was palpable.

“I do,” Obi-Wan huffed, offended. “They’re mine in all ways that matter, and they’re probably worried. We want to get out of here before trouble starts, so if you’ll excuse me…” He turned, aiming for the path he’d carved, but a blaster bolt scorched the snow by his foot, halting him mid-step.

“Why should we believe you?” a voice demanded, hard and unyielding.

“I really can’t answer that,” Obi-Wan admitted with a sigh, turning back. “But I hope you do—or at least exercise extra caution for a situation that could escalate from bad to worse fast. I warned the townspeople to run and hide. I’m not saying you should—it’s clearly not your style—but… perhaps be prepared to prove your side if the governor tries to frame you. If he hired that group to kill you all, he must have an alibi ready. In case you best them, you’ll need to prove it was self-defense.” The Force flowed through him as he spoke, steady and resonant, like when he played the erhu—a quiet plea woven into his words.

“Haran,” one Mandalorian snapped, frustration crackling. “Jango’s going to throw a fit.”

“That’s not the only thing he’s going to throw,” another joked, a dry chuckle breaking the tension.

Obi-Wan left them debating, wading miserably back toward town—slow, cold, his soaked robes dragging like lead. But as he crested the final dune, the sight froze him worse than the snow ever could. Armored thugs swarmed the streets, dragging women and children from transport ships and homes, their cries piercing the wind. Propped on the barkeep’s lifeless body outside the tavern—a smoking hole blasted through his chest—sat the scarred man from yesterday. He turned slowly, his crooked face twisting into an even uglier smile as his eyes locked onto Obi-Wan.

“Now where have you been, boy? Out for a walk?” The scarred man—Vizsla—stalked closer, his crooked smile twisting tighter, a predator savoring the hunt. “I heard you besmirched our good name… and to think we were here to liberate you from that Mandalorian scum.”

“The only thing you can liberate is your head out of your ass,” Obi-Wan barked back, voice sharp as a vibroblade. The slap came fast—hard enough to knock him into the snow, vision dimming as pain bloomed across his jaw, a dull throb radiating through his skull.

“I left a mouthy brat like you alive once—still can’t get rid of him,” Vizsla rasped, crouching beside Obi-Wan, his breath hot and sour. “I’m not making the same mistake twice… even if you’ve got one hell of a pretty face on you.” He leaned in far too close, armored hands clamping Obi-Wan’s face in a bruising grip, squeezing until his bones creaked. Fury surged—Obi-Wan spat, a defiant gob landing square on that crooked sneer. The reward was instant: a savage beatdown, fists and boots raining down, each blow a hammer against his already battered frame. The other men paused their rampage, turning to watch, a perverse audience to his punishment. Through the haze, he glimpsed families fleeing—hopefully to the catacombs the barkeep had mentioned, hopefully with his children among them.

“Did you find the kids from the inn?” Vizsla growled, twisting his armored hand into Obi-Wan’s hair, dragging him across the snow-slick pavement toward the well at the town’s heart. Blood streaked the ice behind him, a crimson trail in the white.

“Negative, sir,” another thug replied, his voice a cackle of glee. “Seems the man sent them away before we came. Bloody shame, especially for the girls—the one I got from the Fett farm’s getting a bit too old for my taste.” Vizsla swatted him, a casual rebuke, but Obi-Wan’s mind reeled—relief crashing through him like a tidal wave, knowing his children had escaped, followed by a disgust so thick it choked him.

“Keep it in your pants, Priest,” Vizsla snapped. “You’ll have your pick before we burn this town down. The Jedi have to have a nice show before they do the dirty work for us.” With that, he hoisted Obi-Wan over the well’s railing, fumbling with a rope, trying to knot it around the boy’s neck. A clumsy executioner, all brute force and no finesse.

Obi-Wan wasn’t going out that easily. Pain screamed through his bruised flesh, his cracked bones, but he mustered every shred of strength left. As Vizsla leaned in to tighten the noose, Obi-Wan lashed out—a kick, square to the jaw, fueled by desperation and spite. The man groaned, a guttural yelp, and instinctively shoved Obi-Wan forward.

He tumbled down the cold stone shaft, light shrinking to a pinprick as he plunged deeper, deeper into the castle’s impossibly deep well. No rope cinched his neck—at least he’d denied them that. The fall stretched eternal, then ended with a brutal crash into icy water, hard as stone. Darkness swallowed him, a full second of oblivion, before survival instinct clawed him back. He thrashed to the surface, dragging himself onto the rocky shore of an underground cavern, vast and shadowed.

Cold—bitter, relentless cold—seeped into him, a living thing. Hypothermia sank its claws into his bones, dimmed his vision to a flickering haze. He’d survived the beating, the fall… but for how long? His soaked robes clung like a shroud, his breath a shallow rasp in the cavern’s stillness, and the dark pressed in, heavy and unyielding.

“Give the pain to the Force… let it wash through you,” Obi-Wan whispered to himself, his voice a soft rasp, barely audible as it faded into the cavern’s chill. His teeth stopped chattering, the silence a fragile shield against the cold gnawing at his bones. He moved his fingers in a desperate bid to keep the blood flowing, each twitch a battle against the numbness creeping in. Lying down now, surrendering to the Force’s embrace, seemed so tempting a quiet end to the misery. But Vizsla’s last words rang clear in the back of his mind, a cruel echo cutting through the haze.

The Jedi were coming, and this was a setup—either to pin the blame on them or force them into dirty work. Either way, Obi-Wan couldn’t allow it. He had to claw his way out of this vast, dark pit, had to get the message out. He had to. Master Dooku and Quinlan hadn’t contacted him in over a year—for all he knew, the Council had ordered them to let him go, a lost Padawan forsaken by the Order. Yet the connection lingered, a thread to the only family he’d ever known… until the children. He wouldn’t let them be deceived or used—not if he could help it. And if push came to shove, if he succumbed to this conflict, they could carry a message to Tholme and Dooku. Those masters were fond of the kids—surely they’d find a place for them, maybe even aid the ones still unborn in Juno’s pods.

“I’m so sorry for being useless…” he sniffed, voice breaking as he shuffled forward into the dark, no direction but onward. The cold sapped his strength, each step a labor, until his outstretched hand brushed an oddly straight stone wall. That was it—the tip-off. Cave walls weren’t so even, so precise. This was man-made, sediment-crusted over time, a hidden way out.

Reaching into his soaked robe, he sighed—a faint, relieved smile tugging at his lips—as his fingers closed around the lightsaber he’d taken from the dead master on the station so long ago. A last-minute precaution, stashed for dire straits. A crystal might aid a Jedi not its intended owner, though its strength would be capricious, unpredictable—just enough in a pinch. The hilt felt awkward in his hand, ornate and flourished, not shaped for him, but when he ignited it, a bright yellow blade flared to life, piercing the endless darkness. The saber pulsed like a heartbeat, powerful and alive—old, nonstandard, something ancient yet new to him.

As expected, the crystal resisted, spitting short electrical bursts toward him, a warning to the foreign wielder. Obi-Wan focused, reaching out with the Force, soothing it. “I mean no harm,” he murmured, voice steady despite the ache. “This is dire—I need your help to help others.” They regarded each other—a silent communion—until the electric pulses ceased, the blade settling with a low, steady hum.

“Thank you,” he breathed. “I promise, as soon as I can, I’ll take your master—and you—back to the Temple to rest. I’ll get him out of that machine. I swear it.”

The blade hummed in agreement, a faint resonance of trust. Obi-Wan turned to the wall, the saber’s glow revealing faded etchings and reliefs beneath chalky sediment. Mandalorians—three of them. One wielded a sword, another clutched a ranged weapon—not a bow, but something comparable—and the third was nearly erased, their image chiseled away as if stricken from memory. He’d have loved to play archaeologist, to unravel their story, but time and energy were luxuries he didn’t have. Tapping the stone with the saber’s hilt, he gauged its thinnest point, then called on the Force—short, intense bursts pushing against the wall. Each effort drained him further, exhaustion sinking deeper into his marrow, but every new crack splitting the stone filled him with a flicker of hope, enough to keep going.

Soon the wall gave way, if only a little—a crack just wide enough for Obi-Wan to crawl through, scraping his elbows against the jagged stone as he emerged into a tomb of sorts. A sarcophagus loomed in the center, its dark bulk encircled by a shimmering ring of kyber crystals that flared to life as he drew near, their soft hum pulsing through the damp air. His foot struck something brittle and sticky beneath him; glancing down, he froze. A sea of bones sprawled across the floor—animals, humans, aliens—some bound, some free, all bearing the scars of a ferocious battle, their skeletal remains a silent testament to a forgotten slaughter.

He stepped forward, cautious, toward the pedestal of crystals, the aquamarine glow of his borrowed lightsaber casting eerie shadows. The sarcophagus lid was cracked, half-tossed aside, as if whatever had happened here—whatever those things littering the floor had been—they’d come for the grave’s contents, spilling blood and breath to claim it. Peering in, Obi-Wan braced for treasure: a mountain of gold, glittering gems, maybe even a holocron like those he’d read about in the Temple’s dusty novels. So much effort, so many lives lost to pry this tomb open—there had to be something awe-inspiring within.

The saber’s light revealed… a rusted, oddly shaped blade, its handle wrapped in raw leather strips, nearly disintegrated by time’s relentless march. “Huh,” he muttered, blinking, reaching in to lift it. Up close, it was older than he’d first thought—ancient, strung with taut cords like his erhu, but a few more, taut and trembling. At its heart, embedded in a groove, gleamed a kyber crystal, dull until his fingers closed around the grip. Then it blazed to life. Holding it aloft, Obi-Wan stared in awe as it shone with a radiant glory, a living thing in his hands. He knew it from historical texts—not a lightsaber, but a Force-imbued blade from the era of the original Jedi, a relic of a time when the Order was young and wild.

“Madam Nu would be so jealous right now,” he whispered, a faint grin tugging at his lips as he swept the blade through the air. It felt light as a modern saber, carving beautifully enchanting streaks of light with every pass—trails of silver and turquoise that danced in the dark. More startling, each motion birthed an eerie, ethereal melody, the blade quite literally singing, its notes resonating through the cavern like a lost hymn. Curious, he extinguished the borrowed saber, tucking it into his belt, and brushed his fingers gently along the strings ringing the blade. The instant he plucked one, a surge of raw energy erupted, slamming into the walls with a force that shattered smaller stalactites, sending them crashing down in a rain of dust and stone.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he cursed aloud, stumbling back. It hadn’t even occurred to him until now—the cold, the pain, the hypothermia’s grip—all had faded from his body the longer he held the blade, its warmth seeping into his bones like a lifeline.

The weapon didn’t feel hostile—not at all. If he had to name it, it felt… relieved, as if it had waited, hoped, for someone to finally claim it from its long slumber. Obi-Wan wasn’t about to disappoint it. In a dire situation like this, any weapon trumped none, and if he had to choose between a flaky lightsaber tied to a dead master’s capricious crystal and a solid blade that could deal damage even without the Force, he’d pick the blade every time.

The dead grave robbers had been kind enough to blast their way through the next wall—a jagged breach Obi-Wan was truly grateful for as he ascended the spiral staircase, its steps littered with bones and sprung traps. Skulls grinned up at him, some humanoid, some not, their brittle remains crunching underfoot alongside rusted spearheads and coiled tripwires long since triggered. “They must have brought prisoners and animals to spring them all,” he hummed to himself, voice a low murmur against the damp stone. “Heartless, but I suppose it worked.” The turquoise glow of his newfound blade lit the way, casting eerie shadows across the carnage. Briefly, his mind drifted—Master Windu’s purple lightsaber had been the most striking color he’d ever seen. Perhaps the ancient Jedi wielded more variants… Ha, maybe one day he’d ask Madam Nu about it. Hopefully, after today, he’d have plenty of chances—for that, for hugging his kids again, for watching the new ones grow.

The blade in his hand hummed—curious, not disapproving—as if echoing his fragile hope.

Eventually, he reached the last possible wall, thick as hell from the feel of it, its surface unyielding beneath his probing touch. Beyond it might lie a basement—perhaps even the palace itself. If he could just get to a terminal, he could contact the Jedi, send a signal to anyone nearby—something, anything. He just prayed he wasn’t too late. He tried a few Force pushes, hurling bursts of energy at the stone, but it barely shuddered. The wall was too dense, too stubborn; it’d take ages to break through with the strength he had left, and his reserves were dwindling fast. Gazing down at the singing sword in his grip, he made a choice.

Stepping back, he took a deep breath, letting the Force flow through him as it did when he played the erhu—steady, resonant, alive. He raised his hand, focusing the current, directing the sound ahead instead of letting it spill aimlessly. It was a soundwave—it could be shaped, even if imprecisely. His fingers fell to the strings, and the impact nearly flung him back. A raw burst of Force energy surged forward, amplified by the blade’s song, slamming into the wall with a thunderous crack. The stone crumbled in seconds, dust and debris exploding outward—a great job, too great, in fact. The ancient tunnel trembled, its brickwork jolted loose, collapsing in a cascade of rubble. Obi-Wan lurched forward with a desperate Force burst, barely escaping the trap as it swallowed the space behind him.

On hands and knees, he coughed through the dust, then looked up—and nearly laughed aloud with relief. Wine barrels lined the walls, their wooden curves gleaming faintly in the blade’s glow. He was alive. He was out. Thank the Force.

---

Master Yan Dooku stood aboard one of the many cruisers slicing into Galidraan’s atmosphere, his tall frame rigid against the viewport, dark eyes fixed on the swirling clouds below. He was tasked with leading this ragtag group of Jedi—a strike team of knights and padawans—to confront a Mandalorian mercenary band terrorizing the region. A mission he loathed with every fiber of his being. He wasn’t a fan of the knights’ inexperience, their blades barely tested against a specialized foe like the Mandalorians. He wasn’t a fan of this group’s haphazard assembly—no cohesion, no purpose beyond being the closest bodies the Council could muster. And he was absolutely not in favor of playing errand boy to some grasping politician, a role that chafed against his Serenno-bred pride like sand against skin.

Still, if the reports held truth—if civilians were truly in danger—he, as a Jedi, was obligated to respond. Duty bound him, even as the Force churned uneasily within, a discordant hum that set his nerves alight. Something about this assignment felt wrong, a shadow lurking just beyond his grasp.

“Are you sure you’re mad about the assignment, Master, and not just grouchy about that lost kid?” Komari Vosa’s voice cut through his reverie, sharp and simple, her sidelong glance avoiding his piercing stare. She didn’t try to hide the jealousy threading her tone—not entirely. She’d never handled his sudden obsession with his grandpadawan well. Possessive by nature, much like Dooku himself, she lacked his ironclad control over the impulse to claim something wholly for herself.

Dooku didn’t answer immediately, his silence a heavy thing. She had a point, damn her insight. Anxiety gnawed at him, a relentless beast fueled by guilt and bruised pride. They’d let themselves be all but thrown out of that accursed station by Padawan Kenobi after he’d uncovered the fate of the souls trapped within its machinery. The memory stung—Obi-Wan and his strange brood of children escorting them to the hangar like a small legion of royal guards, their steps resolute, their eyes too old for their years. Dooku could’ve sworn he’d glimpsed the blue flicker of a hologram watching from the corridor—Juno, no doubt—but he’d forced himself to ignore it. Her presence was a psychological ploy, a taunt meant to make them feel surveilled, exposed. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

Responsibly, they’d exchanged comms and data, though Kenobi had balked at the idea. They’d agreed that, as soon as possible, another Jedi master-padawan pair would be sent to assist. And if no one suitable could be found, Dooku had vowed to himself he’d return—no matter what the Council decreed. His word was his bond, a promise forged in the crucible of his honor, and he’d see it through, even if it meant defying the Order itself.

“Padawan Kenobi, I promise you—I will not leave you to rot here,” Dooku declared, his voice a low, unyielding vow. “I will find a master to continue your training, and if I cannot, I will do it myself.”

“But you already have a Padawan, Master,” Obi-Wan replied meekly, his voice soft, almost fragile. Yet the smile curling his lips spoke volumes—a tangle of a thousand complex feelings shimmering beneath the surface: gratitude, doubt, hope. Oh, Qui-Gon, Dooku thought, how badly have you cracked this child’s trust and self-worth? Or was it the Temple itself, with its sterile disinterest, that planted these seeds of uncertainty?

“She will share, then,” Dooku countered, his tone firm, brooking no argument. “It will be a good lesson. For family, we all have to make sacrifices—uncomfortable as they may feel in the moment, they will make us stronger down the road.”

Obi-Wan nodded in silent agreement, his blue-gray eyes steady with a flicker of trust. From there, Quinlan Vos took the lead. The young Kiffar darted into the ship, returning moments later with a spare fuel cell clutched in his hands. It wasn’t ideal—a crude fix at best—but as Dooku locked eyes with Tholme, they exchanged a nod. Kenobi wasn’t trapped here solely by the children; his sense of duty and protection anchored him. His ship, drained of fuel, had sealed his isolation—escape wasn’t an option without this. The cell would let it limp toward the nearest system, enough to seek help if not to fully flee. It was one small counter to Juno’s suffocating grip, a thread of hope they could weave now.

Far from ideal, but workable. They all held their breath as they departed, expecting the hangar gates to slam shut, trapping them in her web. Nothing happened. Reluctantly, they relaxed—though the Force remained taut, a coiled spring beneath their calm. Once they breached Coruscant’s airspace, the Jedi Temple’s loading bay gleaming below, that tension snapped. The Force constricted, a vise around Dooku’s chest, and a familiar voice slithered through the speakers.

“So, this is the fabled Jedi Temple,” Juno purred, her tone dripping with condescension. “I expected it to be bigger.” The words jolted them—an AI murderer loose on a planet dependent on recycled air? They were ready to crash the ship, to isolate her at any cost, when her laugh erupted—sharp, almost maniacal, cutting through the cockpit like a blade.

“Oh, it’s sweet that you think that would help,” she taunted. “But I do appreciate the dedication.” The navigation controls locked, screens flickering as her grip tightened. “Here’s the thing—I can’t really let you come back, despite what you discussed with Caretaker Kenobi. You are an… all-around bad influence on him and the children.” Her voice turned treacly, severe, raising Dooku’s hackles like nothing in the galaxy ever had—or ever would again.

“I’ll take what you said to heart,” she continued, mockingly earnest, “but that’s as far as it goes. Now, be prepared for a few turbulences. One of my few still-functioning droids managed to implant a sunburst virus on your ship. It will disable electronics and wipe all potential logs that could help you find us or make contact.” You could almost hear the smile in her voice, smug and venomous. “I do apologize, Padawan Vos, for the bumpy ride. However, according to the flight path and build of this ship, you should survive if you hide in the sleeping quarters in this section. Please do hurry.”

A display flashed on-screen, mapping the quarters. Tholme barked at Quinlan to move, his voice a whip-crack of urgency. Like all learners, Vos hesitated, reluctance flashing in his dark eyes—he didn’t want to abandon his master.

“It’ll be easier to focus the Force on bringing the ship down safely if I don’t have to worry about your survival,” Tholme said, his tone steady but firm, brooking no dissent. Quinlan relented, darting off as the ship shuddered beneath Juno’s sabotage.

The screen flickered, and in an instant, everything plunged into darkness. The cruiser hurtled toward the docking bay, its fate as uncontrollable as a stone skipped across water. With two esteemed masters aboard—Dooku and Tholme—they somehow cushioned the crash, the Force bending around them as they aimed for the pillars. The ship’s wing sheared off with a scream of metal, momentum bleeding away until they slammed into the bay—bruised, rattled, the Force ringing in their ears like a struck bell. True to Juno’s taunting warning, Padawan Vos emerged unscathed, while Dooku nursed a sprained wrist and Tholme clutched his side, ribs bruised from his backward fall.

“What a bitch,” Tholme growled, voice rough as they clambered out, aided by attendants prying open the ship’s mangled shell.

“I’m beginning to think that term’s too polite for her,” Dooku groaned, staring at his dead comm. He’d memorized Obi-Wan’s codes and some coordinates—meditation might dredge them up—but the station drifted constantly, and every call, from his new comm or any other, had been killed or rejected. Juno had seemingly excised them from Kenobi’s life, a weight that pressed heavily on all three. If only he could convince Qui-Gon to use his bond with the boy to find him—but his former Padawan was a ghost, chasing every mission to outrun his grief, rarely seen at the Temple. Dooku thought he’d buried this pain, sparing Komari the burden, but she’d noticed anyway.

Just as he turned to answer her—to deflect her probing—a staticky crackle burst through his comm, a voice achingly familiar. “Thissss… is Padawan Obi-Wan… KKKK-Kenobi,” it blared, fractured by static. “Please respond! You’re walking into a trap! I repeat, it’s a trap! The governor of Galidraan is using you to murder—” Static spiked, cutting him off. “He’s using you to kill the Mandalorians…” The signal dropped, then flared back. “He’s using you! You have to stop! Stop! Stop!” The phrase looped, desperate, until a brief window of clarity opened as they passed over the palace. No more words—just relentless banging on doors, shouts, and the sharp whine of blaster fire.

“Obi-Wan?!” Dooku shouted into the comm, but silence answered. He strode to the ship’s rear, fixing the droid attendant with a glare. “Open the loading bay now.”

“Sir, we’re in mid-flight—this violates safety protocols,” the droid stammered.

Dooku ignited his saber, it hum a quiet threat. The droid faltered. “Um, yes… I… um, see you’re aware of health risks. Let me just—”

“Master, what are you doing?!” Komari demanded, hovering at his side like a shadow, perturbed.

“Listen to me, Komari,” he snapped, voice iron. “I need you to corral the Jedi on the ground—make them wait for me. Play them the message when we land. No moves are to be taken unless I’m there and I say so. I’m counting on you. If this is true, this man shall not play us for fools!” His words were a near-growl, and Komari flushed—a reaction inappropriate for the moment, one he’d have to address later… or perhaps never. Teenage years were odd.

The bay door groaned open, icy wind roaring in, dragging their capes behind them. “Stay and do as you’re told,” he commanded one last time, then sprinted down the ramp and leapt. For any normal being, it’d be a swan dive to oblivion, the palace tower looming far below. But Dooku was no ordinary man—he was a Jedi, some would say among the best. Terminal velocity was no match for the Force flowing through him.

He felt Kenobi’s presence, a faint beacon in the chaos. Then he saw it—a Mandalorian, jetpack flaring, rocketing toward the same window like a blaster bolt. They landed on the tower balcony in unison, and there stood Obi-Wan—wounded, bleeding, clutching a glowing sword. Its turquoise blade sang an eerie, ghostly melody as he deflected blaster bolts, one strike lopping an assailant’s head clean off, blood arcing through the air.

Neither Dooku nor the Mandalorian asked questions. They charged forward, allies by necessity—Dooku’s saber carving a bloody swath through the armored men, the Mandalorian’s blasters firing with deadly precision. The enemy faltered, then fled, leaving the room empty but for the three of them. Dooku leveled his saber at the Mandalorian— while Fett aimed his blaster at the Jedi’s head, tension crackling between them.

Bloodied and barely standing, Obi-Wan staggered between them. “Enough… enough… you were both tricked. The governor—” His words drowned in a wet cough, blood spilling from his lips as he dropped to his knees. Recklessly, Dooku let his saber fall, rushing to the boy’s side, catching him before he hit the stone.

“We got your message, young one. It’s all fine—you’ve averted a great injustice,” he said, voice steady despite the ache in his chest.

The Mandalorian lowered his weapons, speaking into his helmet’s comm in silence before addressing Dooku. “Our medic’s on his way, Jedi. Can he survive a few more minutes?”

“He’ll survive longer than that,” Dooku replied, stubborn resolve hardening his tone as he pressed a hand to Obi-Wan’s chest, channeling the Force to stem the bleeding. “But do tell him to hurry,” he added, less certain now, urgency creeping in.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere was taut, a wire stretched to snapping. Jedi bustled about the governor’s commandeered medical facility, tending to civilians—bandaging wounds, hauling stretchers—while browbeating reluctant Mandalorians into helping. It could’ve been a harder sell if they wanted the mercenaries to sheer something other than muscle and time, but Dooku had declared the governor would open his private medical stocks and facilities to his people as penance. No one needed to know the elder Jedi had all but wrung this generosity from the corrupt sleemo, both a metaphorical vibroblade’s edge to his throat and literal one. For it was only the Jedi's suborn cold logic that held the venomous need for flesh and blood retribution at bay in Jango. Besides, The man owed his populace this—owed Obi-Wan this—after the blood spilled on Galidraan’s snow.

Dooku sat in silent vigil beside a med bed, his weathered frame hunched, cradling a ghostly hand in his. The sight of Obi-Wan Kenobi—pale, unmoving, a frail wisp beneath bacta patches—gnawed at his core. Too small for sixteen, weighted by cruelties no master had shielded him from. Dooku wasn’t one to coddle; he let his students taste the galaxy’s harshness, forging their light in its fire. But he’d always been a breath away—Qui-Gon, Rael, all of them—ready to catch them. Obi-Wan had no one. Juno, that conniving witch, had used him, twisted his giving hart into a leash that bound him down. And the Order—he—had failed to intervene, letting the boy slip through their fingers after Melida/Daan, into her clutches, anyone's clutches truly. For all that he wanted to place the blame on that wretched A.I, he knew deep down that Kenobi's state after that type of ordeal must haw been fragile, anyone could haw swooped in to take advantage of the boy. It made him irrationally angry. Non of this should haw happened. But it did and Now here he lay, a broken testament to that neglect.

The door hissed open, and Korr Gilamar entered— grey, broad like a wine barrel on legs, one cybernetic eye whirring round the room as it fixed on Dooku. The Mandalorian baar'ur set a datapad before the Jedi with a grim thud, his weathered face hard.

“You’ve much to explain, jetii,” he said, tone teetering on accusation, too sharp for Dooku’s liking. “The med droids scanned your ade. Frankly, whoever was meant to care for this young one deserves a beating within an inch of their life.”

Dooku flinched, Qui-Gon’s face flashing in his mind—his wayward apprentice, a son in all but name. Disappointment stung, but he’d never let harm touch him. The boy was Sick and in need of healing in his own right. This failure reached beyond one person.

“He was failed by us…” Dooku admitted, voice stoic, his gnarled hand clasping Obi-Wan’s frail one. “But the Force permits—now that we’ve found him, we can make amends.”

Korr barked a harsh laugh, devoid of mirth.

“Amends? This boy’ll never reach his true height—short by normal standards’d be a miracle! Malnourished so long his organs’ve changed—digestive issues for life from starvation. Blaster scars. Slave scars. Bones broken and rebroken in some primitive harvester’s torture—should’ve crippled him, killed him, with punctures along his spine. Beyond me how he fights like he does. That’s not even touching the frostbite, hypothermia, and bruised bones from the last day here.” His voice dropped, a growl. “If a fraction of this was one of you—”

Dooku rose abruptly, cutting him off, his presence a storm.

“None of us raised a hand against him!” he snapped, then forced calm, violet eyes flashing. “Padawan Kenobi fell into ill company, I fear. This… being kept him secluded. We found him briefly, months ago, but his captors separated us—tried to kill us to keep him. We survived, lost all data pertaining to his location, all contact possibilities. It’s a miracle we found him here, that he stopped this twisted plot.” He sighed, heavy, sinking back. “It’s imperative we track him now, keep him from that charlatan.” His gaze hardened, shadowed. Korr eyed him, suspicious.

“Why’d the boy return to his abuser if he escaped?” the ba’arur pressed.

“His abuser holds hostages to force compliance,” Dooku replied, voice tight. “And I fear my grandpadawan’s too kind-hearted to let others suffer in his place. He’s young—his heart’s pure…”

“But his brain’s short on common sense, eh?” Korr snorted, softening. “I’ve three sons—know that age’s folly. Thank the Ka’ra my youngest, Mij, has more pragmatism than most his peers, though his heart still outweighs his head, lands him in messes. If you’re truthful, and this child’s in danger, you’ve our help. We owe him a debt.” He looked at Obi-Wan, grim fondness in his gaze. “He’s got a warriors spirit.” Ther would be no shortage of us to adopt him if you fail to honour this child. was left unsaid.

Dooku nodded, exhaling. Politely ignoring any implications unsaid. “He’s brave… but, as you say, properly foolish, as youth demands.”

“Can you please not stand over me and call me an Stupid?” A soft, raspy voice cut through, startling both men. Obi-Wan’s eyes fluttered open, bleary but defiant, fixed on them.

“Padawan!” Dooku loomed over him like a dark cloud, seizing a fragile hand in his. “You’re causing this old master undue stress,” he said, exasperation laced with fondness. “But I’d lie if I said I’m not thankful to the Force you’re here.”

Obi-Wan managed a weak smile, straining to sit up. “Stay put, or I’ll tie you down,” Korr commanded, stern as durasteel. Obi-Wan glared back, unyielding.

“I need to find my kids,” he croaked, voice raw but firm. Before Korr could protest, Dooku stiffened.

“You got them out too?” he asked, incredulous. Obi-Wan nodded, slow, pained.

“Please tell me you found them…” His plea was soft, tired. Dooku’s face fell, squeezing that frail hand. Admittedly he had not given this possibility any thought till now. But he resolved to rectify this fact instantly.

“They’ll be here soon—I’ll find them myself, I promise. Rest, boy. The worst has passed.” But Obi-Wan didn’t relent.

“Did you get that Vizsla man?” he pressed, eyes sharpening. The singing sword on the bedside table vibrated faintly—had it been all along, unnoticed in Dooku’s vigil? Before the Jedi could answer, Korr stepped in.

“Rat fled when reinforcements showed—some leader,” he spat, disgust thick.

Obi-Wan sighed, serious. “His men kidnapped children from the village—everyone of fighting age, girls too, packed onto transports…” Dooku slipped out as the boy debriefed Korr, the infirmary buzzing with life—wounded groaning, more dead than alive, executed in the streets.

He scanned the crowds for a blotch of white—those eerie children, impossible to miss. They weren’t among the wounded, meaning they were either safe with survivors or taken. The latter twisted his gut—their striking looks, pale as snow, would draw deviant eyes. He searched with frantic urgency, questioning Jedi and Mandalorians alike, until he reached the palace grounds, where bodies lay under blankets and tarps.

There they were—Priscilla, Isley, Rigardo—assisting the cleanup, faces stoic amid the grim task. They were older than he remembered, older than they should be given the time. But heed recognize their ghostly grace everywhere. Priscilla knelt by the dead, wiping blood and mud from their faces with a gentleness belying her years. Isley and Rigardo hauled heavy, cold corpses, laying them on pine branches to keep them from freezing to the pavement—a practical rite Dooku hadn’t noticed before. His heart ached at tis sight. Children striped of years that were to be their most venerable and innocent. He cursed Junos name in every tongue he knew and that was not an insignificant amount.

“Priscilla! Isley! Rigardo!” he called, surprisingly elation cutting through exhaustion and anger. “Your father’s awake.” The absurdity of calling Obi-Wan—a boy himself—a father flickered in his mind, but the spark in their usually impassive eyes erased doubt. That title was earned, forged in blood and care.

The children spotted him instantly, swarming Dooku’s side like moths to a flame. Priscilla flung herself at him, small arms wrapping around his waist in a hug brimming with pure, unguarded joy—a rare crack in her stoic shell. Isley and Rigardo were quieter, their silver eyes glinting with fond smiles as they pressed close, subdued but warm. Dooku’s stern facade softened, a gentle hand resting on each boy’s head as he gazed down, a faint smile tugging his lips. Yet, even in this fleeting warmth, a chill pricked his senses—someone was missing.

“Where’s your sister?” he asked, voice low, dreading the answer. “Did she not come with you?” Isley stepped forward, calm and collected, a small adult in a child’s frame.

“She let them take her,” he said simply, unflinching. “We were spiriting people away from the guards, but when the first convoy ship left, she decided to follow.”

Dooku frowned, brow furrowing. “How does following end with capture?”

Priscilla released him, silver eyes wide as she piped up.

“She said there’s no point running after them like a homeless dog when she could get a free ride to where ever they’re going.” Her voice soft whit out a hint of fear. Maybe a bit of exasperation as if she was tattling on a sibling.

Dooku drew a deep breath, exhaling slow and meditative, steadying himself. Yes—that chaotic, reckless logic screamed Riful. In the brief time he’d known her, she’d shown a knack for disregarding danger. Was it his bad example that started this? He prefers not to think about it. Mentally, he filed a note: if Riful and Komari Vosa ever shared a room, they’d need constant supervision—two wildcards like that could burn the galaxy down.

“She’s not in dire straits,” Rigardo added, matter-of-fact. “The chains won’t really weigh her down.” Isley nodded, but a flicker of tiredness crossed his face—he knew those words offered no comfort to normal humans. A curious insight from a child that had so little contact whit what could be considered normal society.

“Right…” Dooku murmured, forcing focus. “One problem at a time. I’ll delegate a party to find the missing children—your sister included.” His tone was decisive, brooking no debate. Nearby, Mandalorians and Jedi glanced over, curiosity piqued—rumors already churning through the mill. “For now, you’ll care for your father. He’s taken a beating and needs rest and comfort.”

“But he’ll worry about Riful,” Priscilla protested, her big, sad eyes tugging at him. Such a sweet child, despite her edge.

“We can sense her,” Rigardo cut in, voice firm. “Our help could pinpoint them faster—” Dooku’s hand slashed the air, silencing him, his sternness flaring.

“Absolutely not. This isn’t a fight for ten-year-olds. Your father would join the Force from sheer stress if he knew you were gallivanting out there. You’ll clean up, go to him, and leave this to the adults—no buts or ifs.” Priscilla’s mouth opened, Rigardo’s jaw tightened, but a soft huff from Isley stilled them. The boy stepped forward, a faint, smile on his lips.

“It will be as you say, Grandfather,” he said, voice smooth. Dooku blinked, caught off-guard—mockery or sincerity? The glint in those silver eyes, sharp and mischievous, echoed Rael, his reckless first Padawan, more than it should’ve. Truth or ruse, it unsettled him. Nothing good could come of this.

“See that you do,” he replied, clipped, making a mental note to assign Komari to watch duty. He wouldn’t have these little ones slipping off to chase adventure—or death. Force knew it was grim enough facing Obi-Wan’s eyes to confess one of his precious children was lost to the Death Watch.

---

Jango Fett lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, his blue-grey armor catching the med bay’s sterile light. His gaze stayed locked on Obi-Wan Kenobi, the boy’s frail hands tracing the singing sword’s beskar edge with a reverence that didn’t match the killer Jango had seen carve through Death Watch goons. The blade purred under his touch, a low, vibrant hum filling the room—alive again, its turquoise glow casting faint shadows across the boy’s pale, hollowed face. Sixteen, Korr had said. Too young for the scars riddling him, too small for the fire Jango knew burned inside.

Korr stood at the bed’s foot, as he adjusted a drip with a grunt.

“Keep that smug look off your face, kid,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel, flicking a glance at Obi-Wan’s stubborn posture. Apparently the Boy had out suborned the aged baar'ur and was allowed to sit instead of lie down. Jango was impressed being more than once himself at the business end of this particular man and his skills, outstubborning a baar'ur this old to the craft was indeed a victory. “Flicked your nose once—don’t tempt me for a repeat.” Korr said fixing the boys pillows but his scowl promised no further concessions.

Obi-Wan smirked anyway, a flicker of teenage defiance breaking through the sedatives’ haze, then winced as his fingers brushed a fresh bruise.

Eyes dropping to the weapon. “What metal is this ? Feels… lighter than it looks. But also incredibly dense in the force” He tilted it, studying the worn runes etched along its spine—illegible now, whispers of an ancient hand.

Jango stepped closer, helmet strapped to his belt, dark eyes narrowing in contemplation. “Looks like beskar ore—raw, unpolished. Forged before we cracked the tricks to refine it.” He nodded at the strings stretched taut along the blade’s edge, glinting faintly. “Baskar always sings in a way, whit every impact and cut—Do its beyond me why a mandalorian would ever create an instrument like this, waste of ore. Must haw been made by an aruetii. And yet it looks like Goran work. Amateur, maybe, but with soul. Apprentice level maybe?”

Korr huffed, crossing his arms. “My brother’d call it a first draft—functional, but sloppy. He’s the specialist in maters of steal and fire—I just patch what’s left after blades and blasters do their work. I could get you in contact whit him, ask what he thinks... perhaps he could even ask his own master about it” His gaze softened, just a hair, on Obi-Wan. “One thing im certain of even whit out his impute is that You’re holding history, ade.”

Obi-Wan’s lips quirked, sheepish. “That's still more information than i could gather on my own, id be grateful for any help... It is a truly fascinating creation, i think i saw blades like this in books, at the temple they go way back in history to the times of ancient Jedi. Its..it feels similar to a lightsabre, but louder. It's voice is so clear where current crystals are more like a feeling tugging at your mind.” He strummed the strings lightly, and the blade flared brighter, its song swelling—a keening melody that prickled the air. His breath caught, eyes widening with a mix of awe and something deeper, like recognition. “It’s tied itself to me, somehow. I don’t know how. I wonder would it be overstepping to keep it?”

Jango and Korr exchanged a glance—sharp, unspoken. The Mandalorian medic shifted, voice dropping low. “Beskar’s got a way of finding its own. You’re not Mando-born, but that—” he jutted his chin at the glowing sword—“if it truly claimed you. Like armor claims us. Respect it choice to serve in your hand rather than rust in a pit”

Jango’s jaw tightened, memory flashing to the balcony—Obi-Wan crashing through, blood and steel in his wake, that blade singing death.

Obi-Wan blinked up at him, startled, then looked back to the blade, fingers tightening around its hilt. he maped every chip and scar on the blade not disimilar to the ones littering his own teen body. “I need to fix it— polish it. Fix, the crystal setting…” He trailed off, lost in thought, a mechanic’s itch sparking behind his eyes despite the exhaustion weighing him down.

Korr snorted. “Fix it? Kark You’re half-dead, kid. Leave the smithing to a goran—focus on not keeling over.” But there was a glint of respect in his growl, a nod to the boy’s grit.

Fett stood silent thrue it all, eyes fixed on Obi-Wan Kenobi as the boy cradled the singing sword with a gentleness reserved for newborns or wounded critters too frail to stand. It jarred him—this wasn’t the stance of a warrior, despite the beskar heart pulsing beneath that battered frame. Jango had seen him fight, seen that gift ignite houers ago when Obi-Wan warned the Jedi of the governor’s betrayal. The kid had charged into the metaphorical storm after, blade singing, carving through goons, a deadly dancer surrounded by ribbons of blood and turquoise light. When Jango crashing through glass beside the older Jedi, the mans black cape flaring like a demon bird’s wings as they dropped from the transport, blaster and saber flashing. He never expected Jetii to be like this, to fight alongside them. It was as if they were composed of two entirely different beasts somehow sharing in the same skin. One powerful enough to protect and one meek and in need of protection.

Jango struggled to comprehend south an existence. Obi-Wan sat propped in the med bed, small and pale, a broken thing dwarfed by the sword he held. Korr had pegged him at sixteen standard years, but Jango wouldn’t have bet on fifteen. he was given the medical report first as intel. So he knew Malnutrition had hollowed this boy, scars shrinking a frame that should’ve been broad with youth. So much hurt, damage and yet not an ounce of anger or resentment. The blade hummed softly in the boys grip, strings brushed with reverence, not menace—like it wasn’t forged to cut, to kill, but to comfort. How fitting thaws two would find one another.

He shifted, armor clinking, glancing at Korr. No mater what they thought of the situation and their history whit the Jetii, they owed a debt to this ade and they would honour it.

Before Jango could speak again, the infirmary door slammed open, three silver-white blurs darting through like missiles locked on a target. Obi-Wan’s face lit up, instinct overriding pain—he shoved the singing sword onto the bedside table with a clatter and flung his arms wide, ready for the onslaught.

The trio would’ve tumbled into a chaotic cuddle pile, but Korr Gilamar stepped in like a durasteel wall. The ba’arur snatched them mid-leap, hands clamping scruffs and waists, hauling them back from the bed.

“You’re not undoing my work for a hug!” he growled, cyber-eye flashing. “This boy’s barely strung together with spit and wire—one more bruise, and he’ll fall apart!”

“That’s a gross exaggeration, don’t you think, Master Gilamar?” Obi-Wan’s voice was soft, teasing, but Korr whirled on him, murderous glare cutting through the medicated’ haze.

“It is not an exaggeration, young man! And you’d better not be prepping to stand!” He plunked the kids down, then grabbed Obi-Wan’s legs—half-dangling off the bed—and shoved them back onto the mattress with a grunt. “Stay. Put.”

“…So can we hug Dad or—” Priscilla’s voice piped up, small and tentative, her beskar-bright eyes peering from the trio. Jango and Korr froze, truly clocking the kids for the first time. Pale as Galidraan’s snow, platinum hair glinting like polished metal, dressed in grey thermals too short for bodies stretched by recent growth spurts—they were eerie, otherworldly. Jango flicked a glance at Obi-Wan—pale too, slim, but with lively copper hair and blue-grey eyes. No blood tie here, yet…

“Just be gentle,” Korr relented, stepping aside. The kids moved slow, deliberate, settling around Obi-Wan—Priscilla curling at his side, Rigardo perching near his feet, Isley standing close, a quiet sentinel.

“They’re really yours?” Jango asked, voice low, as the scene sank in. Obi-Wan’s faint smile held a weary pride.

“In every way that matters.”

Adoption, then. Jango’s mind turned—among Mandos, taking in foundlings was honorable, sacred even, but this? A kid barely sixteen, battered himself, stepping up as buir? Whatever forged this family had to be dire—grit and loyalty binding them tighter than beskar. Impressive, and damn near unheard of.

The door hissed again, slower this time, and Dooku strode in—black cape swirling, face etched with displeasure. “What did I tell you about running off?” he admonished, voice sharp. A chorus of soft, half-hearted “I’m sorries” mumbled from the kids, lacking conviction.

Obi-Wan’s gaze snapped to the Jedi Master, cutting through the noise. “Is… Riful not with you, Master?” Worry edged his tone, and Dooku’s stern mask deflated, shoulders sagging—a rare crack in his poise that sank Obi-Wan’s heart like a stone.

“I’m sorry, Padawan. It seems little Riful was taken…” Before he could muster reassurances—I’ll find her, I swear—Obi-Wan went rigid, eyes icing over with cold resolve. He snatched the sword from the table, its hum flaring sharp, and declared,

“Alright, then—we’re going to get your sister.” As if his body wasn’t a ruin, ribs creaking, legs trembling under their own weight.

Korr bristled like a cornered loth-wolf, lunging to stop him. A scuffle erupted—wild, messy. The kids turned feral, Priscilla sinking teeth into Korr’s arm, Rigardo kicking at his knee cap, while Obi-Wan swung his legs free, sword glowing but whit no intent to cut. yet. Jango stepped back, arms crossed, watching the ba’arur wrestle them down—Korr emerging with bite marks and a snarl, jabbing a sedative into Obi-Wan’s shoulder. The boy slumped, sword clattering, but the fight lingered in his glare.

Amid the chaos, Isley stood apart—calm, silver eyes darting across the room, mapping exits, angles. Jango clocked it instantly: the quiet one, the scalpel—not a blade swinging wide, but a precise cut when it counted. If any trouble was to come of this it would be, this kid that led it.

His dark ayes met silver as the boy smiled at him whit falls innocence and a challenge in his silver ayes. -you think you can stop me?-

Suddenly Jango felt a bone-deep weariness settle in, a sudden weight of years he has not yet lived. He glanced at Dooku—the Jedi’s face mirrored his own exasperation, violet eyes shadowed with the same grim certainty. Wonderful. If the old man was worried too, it wasn’t just Jango’s gut talking nonsense. This was going to be more of a mess than it already was.

Chapter Text

Riful perched near the transport’s rear hatch, legs tucked beneath her in the cramped hold. Death Watch had herded them in—kids packed tight as blaster clips, no regard for space or warmth—spiriting them across Galidraan’s frozen wilds toward a hidden base nestled in the mountains. The air stank of fear and frost, the low whine of repulsorlifts vibrating through the durasteel floor. These weren’t captors who cared—half these kids had watched their parents butchered before their eyes, blood staining the snow, and now they were being hauled off to a fate that might eclipse death itself.

Her silver eyes slid from one huddled cluster to the next—terrified faces pressed against the walls, shivering, paralyzed by trauma. Sympathy didn’t cover it; something deeper gnawed at her, a hollow ache. She rested her head on her pulled-up knees, the calmest soul in this rattling cage. Closing her eyes, she tuned out the whimpers, focusing inward—reaching for her siblings’ yoki. That demonic aura, stitched into them lifetimes ago, burned like a beacon. A curse once turned against them, now it was her compass—home’s pulse, steady and sure, no matter how far she drifted. Father wouldn’t be thrilled, but she’d deal with that later.

Her lids flicked open, catching a glimpse through the gloom—a small blonde girl, freckles stark on a bruised face, stifling sobs into a tattered dress. The only light came from a narrow viewport in the hatch, angled more for peering in than out—a design for a prison convoy. The girl’s fear yanked Riful back, millennia spiraling down to a forgotten world. She’d been that small once—human, huddled in a training camp with other girls, survivors of the implantation that scarred her chest. The wound never stopped aching, never stopped trying to split open, and the trainers hadn’t cared—beating them bloody, forging them into weapons against the yoma they’d created. Failed experiments, chaos agents…Both sides of the war they died for were controled by the same corupt filthy bunch. Ther life and death was a joke. Her fist unclenched, a shiver of righteous fury rippling through her.

Lashing out here—over old wounds, in a hold full of kids—wouldn’t help anyone. That energy needed somewhere to go, something useful. Father always begged them to channel it, not let it fester. She stood, steady despite the transport’s lurch, and pressed a hand to the hatch. The Force wasn’t theirs to wield—not like Father’s—but they could sense it, a lattice weaving through all things, fungal roots threading life to life. She pictured a blank canvas in her mind, letting that web unfurl—a map of faint trails, sparse in the wilds, until they thickened into a pulsing cluster to the east. A village, too far for the kids to trek by day, too exposed under Death Watch eyes. Still, it was their shot. She’d go it alone if she had to.

Drawing that nervous fire into her core, she lifted her foot and slammed it into the hatch’s lock—hard. The kick roared through the hold, a thunderclap of power. The transport bucked, rear skipping up, then swerved wildly as the driver wrestled control over dry snow. A crunch—metal kissing tree—and it jolted to a stop. The kids shrank deeper into the shadows, huddling tighter, eyes wide with terror. Riful didn’t sway, lowering her leg slow, stance casual as if she hadn’t just rocked the ship.

Shuffling boots outside, then the hatch creaked open—blinding snow-glare flooding in. A Death Watch goon loomed, beskar helmet tilting as his gaze landed on her, inches from the exit. Any other kid would’ve bolted, ducked under his arm for a desperate run. Riful stood stock-still, silver eyes cold as polished beskar, meeting his stare—no fear, just a quiet challenge.

“Got a problem, kid?” he growled, blaster twitching at his hip, aiming to cow her.

She smiled, polite and thin. “Is that something you want?”

He sputtered—indignant, spitting curses under his breath—then shoved her, hard. She didn’t budge, rooted like stone. Perplexed, he froze—an armored man shoving a slip of a girl should’ve sent her sprawling. Riful sighed, beleaguered, and took a half-step back, offering a dry, “Ouch,” before sliding right back to her spot.

“I’m telling you now, brat—Prist’s got no sense of humor,” he snarled, jabbing a finger at her before slamming the hatch shut. Muffled orders barked outside—move it, get going. Riful hummed softly. “Good thing I’m not in the mood for jokes,” she murmured, shrugging. The goon hadn’t clocked the dent—a human heel’s imprint—crumpling the lock.

The transport steadied, engines growling back to life, cutting through the snowscape as the sun dipped low, staining the horizon red. The kids relaxed, bit by bit, tension easing in the dim hold. Riful stood vigil—statue-still, silver hair catching faint light—until, without warning, she raised her foot again. This time, she slammed it harder, power surging through the strike. The lock buckled, the hatch groaned, and the transport lurched—nose burying into a snow dune with a dull thud. Shouts erupted outside—curses, crunching footsteps.

“Don’t yell at me, you karking fool—I didn’t hit anything!” The driver’s voice cracked as the hatch flew open, revealing his armored frame. He froze, blaster half-drawn, staring at Riful. She stood before the huddled masses like some ten-year-old angel—tattered thermal gear, too-short dress, pale as the snow beyond. No fear, no rage—just peace, her silver eyes locking onto his with unnerving calm. He yanked his blaster free, jamming it against her forehead, desperate for a flinch, a human spark. Nothing. She gazed back, unblinking, and despite his armor, his weapon, he felt stripped bare—naked under that stare.

Riful stood rooted by the transport’s rear hatch, silver eyes glinting past the blaster’s muzzle as if it were smoke—unseen, irrelevant. The Death Watch goon’s grip trembled, his helmeted glare faltering, when a second figure loomed behind him. A gloved hand seized the blaster, forcing it down with an annoyed growl.

“Don’t take your kark-up driving out on the merchandise, boy.”

“It’s her—I know it’s her,” the younger Mandalorian snapped, jabbing a finger at Riful. “Something’s wrong with this kid.” The elder turned, assessing her—his weathered gaze sharp beneath his visor. She stared back, unflinching, measuring him in return.

“She’s the weirdo Prist wants for himself,” the older one said, voice flat. “You shoot her, he’ll show you personally how he breaks ‘em in. Want that?” The younger shuddered, a violent ripple shaking his frame.

“No… n-not again. Once was enough.” Riful hummed to herself, a quiet note of understanding. An abuse victim turned abuser—pathetic, predictable. So Death Watch wasn’t here to kill or sell them. They snatched kids to twist them, indoctrinate them into their pack—beat them to madness until a crumb of kindness chained their loyalty for life.

How eerily familiar. The galaxy spun on, eras piling up, yet evil stayed the same. She unclenched her fists, swallowing the bile of recognition.

The elder clapped the younger on the arm, a curt gesture, and the hatch slammed shut, plunging them back into shadow.

“We can’t keep stopping,” his muffled voice barked outside. “I’ll drive from here—you take a speeder, link with the others ahead. We’re close enough; I don’t need backup. Not like these kids’ll run.” Authority laced his words, certain and cold.

Riful’s lips twitched—a faint, knowing smile. Easier now. She turned from the hatch, stepping toward the huddled children for the first time. They flinched back like spooked nerfs, eyes wide with terror at her strength—her kick still echoing in their bones.

“Listen close,” she said, voice steady, cutting through their fear. “I won’t help twice. You’re not my siblings—I owe you no loyalty past this kindness.” They stared, perplexed, silver-haired and serene amid their chaos. She pointed east, firm. “Next time I hit that door, you run that way. Stick together. When you hear a speeder, drop flat—burrow deep in the snow, hide your shapes. A mile out, there’s a village. They’ll shelter you, get word to the others. Clear?”

“You gonna fight ‘em?” A boy piped up—small, dark-haired, fists balled tight. Anger simmered beneath his fear, a spark ready to flare. Riful’s smile softened, almost fond.

“Not yet. I need to find where they took the rest.”

“I’ll go with you!” he blurted, trembling but resolute. An older girl smacked the back of his head, sharp and scolding. Riful laughed, a rare, childlike sound that startled them all.

“I appreciate it, soldier,” she said, pointing at him. “But put that faith, those skills, into what I told you. If you don’t reach the village, don’t get the message out, none of this matters. That’s an order.” The boy stiffened, saluted crisp and instinctive, then blinked at his own hands, stunned.

“Who are you?” the older girl asked, voice low, skeptical, dipping to a whisper. “A Jedi sent to help?”

Riful tilted her head, pondering. “My dad’s a Jedi. I’m a claymore—his sword to their shield.” The girl’s brow furrowed, so Riful shrugged, elaborating. “No Force tricks here—just tough, strong. Dad’s got the powers, but he’s too nice to kick ass as often as he should. So I do it for him.”

“The Jedi use kids your age to fight for them?” A difrent girl pressed, dubious.

“Pfft, no.” Riful grinned, wry. “Dad’s probably having an aneurysm back home right now. That’s why you need to get that message out—I don’t want him worrying too much.”

“You sound like you got caught on purpose,” a preteen boy cut in, eyeing her warily. Silence stretched, heavy. Riful met his stare, unblinking, until he looked away.

“So—will you do it?” she asked, stern now, voice like a blade’s edge. A ripple of silent nods answered—tentative, then firm. She flashed a bright smile, turning back to her post by the hatch. “When it swerves, protect your heads,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Might get bumpier than before.”

----

Obi-Wan Kenobi drifted in a sedative haze, a shadowed realm both dark and warm enveloping him. His body blazed like a furnace, torching the intruding venom with the ferocity of a sand storm across a Tatooine dune. The toxin burned away, purged swiftly from his veins, unless tethered to a steady drip or Master Dooku had warned the Baarur of a Jedi’s unnatural resilience. Soon he’d rise, clarity piercing the gloom, a beacon reigniting amidst the murk.

His mind waged war in the interim, conscious and unconscious clashing as he sifted the ashes of the past day’s chaos. Pride flickered—quiet, steady—for he’d unraveled a slaughter’s dark design, the governor’s betrayal exposed beneath his hand. Yet sorrow sang like the sword, a mournful dirge for the barkeep who’d fallen, a blaster bolt searing through him as he shielded his kids. A noble soul snuffed out, and Obi-Wan bore that loss like a shroud.

Ill fortune dogged him, a relentless shadow across the stars. Broken bones and bruises he could take—Jedi trials etched into flesh, or so he thinks—but the death of another, sparked by his mere presence, was a weight too cruel. Logicaly he knew the truth, carved deep by Melida/Daan’s brutal lessons: no one could save all. No matter how swift his stride, how high the Force lofted him, he’d fall short sometimes, and others would pay in blood. His mind grasped this, but his heart—defiant, raw—throbbed with a pain reason couldn’t quell.

He seized that anguish, named it, then released it to the Force, letting it flow outward until it dulled to a scar. It wouldn’t fade—not like armor’s scratches smoothed by a Armorer. And that was right, Juno had said. In rare moments, when her guard slipped and Obi-Wan glimpsed the woman beneath the madness , she’d spoken with a sage’s calm: “Think about scars—trace their roots, their meaning, the missteps they mark. But know they’re echoes, not chains dooming you to repeat them.”

Juno. Her name stirred his drifting thoughts. Dooku wouldn’t let him near her again, and the Mandalorians—judging by the fragmented mutters he’d caught as consciousness waned—seemed loath the idea to. Blast it all. He’d have to snatch the kids and run, a desperate flight through the void. Disappointment would trail him, bitter from those who’d trusted him—trust he felt unearned and unworthy of. He hated that sting, the silent reproach in their eyes. But the children—their hope hung on him.

A heavy sigh broke the stillness, then a strangeness shivered through him. In this astral drift, a tremor danced along his bones. The scars Juno’s machine had seared into him flared in the Force—gleaming like stars, radiant as polished beskar catching Blaster light. Peering inward, he saw it—a presence shifting beneath his flesh, flowing out like a silver fish breaching a still lake. It took shape, tiny yet potent, smaller than an infant, cradled in his calloused palms. A humanoid form, avian in grace, its owl-human face echoing the silver desert’s beasts from Juno’s device.

A stowaway? No—impossible. Winged as if cloaked in feathers, its frail frame sheathed in delicate armor, forged for speed and durability. It made him think of forme III for some force forsaken reson.

Awe threaded through him as he sensed twin energies entwined within: the strange yoki the kids carried, and the unmistakable hum of his own Force signature.

His… offspring? Absurd.

No...

This was—

“Me,”

he whispered, a breath lost to the void. Then he jolted awake, the vision shattering like glass. The fleeting specter—born of his essence—dissolved, forgotten in the rush of waking. A silver glimmer sparked in his lake-blue eyes, so faint none would note it. For now.

Obi-Wan Kenobi blinked the haze clear, body and mind snapping awake. Three familiar faces hovered above—Priscilla, Isley, Rigardo. Then it hit him: fourth one missing. Riful.

That steel resolve—the one Korr had sedated him to kill—flared back, hot and fierce. It was Dark outside. Med bay silent but for the wounded’s coughs and wheezes, the sword’s eerie glow humming on the bedside table. Waiting. Eager

He shifted, ribs creaking, and caught the kids’ eyes. Jerked his chin toward the door—felt a Jedi presence there, soft and heavy, sunk deep in sleep. Priscilla smirked, leaning in.

“Isley dosed her with those pills they tried on us,” she murmured, mischief glinting as she nudged her brother. Isley just shrugged—quiet, efficient.

“Snagged you clothes,” Rigardo cut in, dumping a pile of scavenged gear at his feet. Kid was fast—moved like a shadow slipping blaster range. Obi-Wan sifted through it—mismatched thermals, a patched tunic, boots scuffed but solid. Clean enough. His old stuff? Torn to hell in the well drop and the governor’s goon fight. He wrinkled his nose, but slid a hand over Rigardo’s hair, ruffling it gentle—fatherly, he hoped.

“Good work,” he said, voice low. Paused, then added, “But don’t steal unless it’s life or death. Bad habit to carry.”

He was guessing at this—patching together crèche masters’ stern tones, Melida/Daan kids’ tales of decent folks, flickers of holo-drama dads. Balance was a mystery, but at sixteen, he figured he wasn’t kriffing it up too bad as a parent. The kids watched him, waiting, and that trust—earned or not—kept him moving.

“Let’s get your sister,” he said, a wicked edge curling his lips as he tugged on the clothes. The sword settled against his back, straps snug, its hum a steady pulse. He steped to the window, cracked it open—cold Galidraan air biting his face. “I’ll jump first. Force’ll catch you after. One by one.” He glanced back, meeting their eyes—steady, sure. “Ready?”

---

Dooku would curse himself for years over this—spit in his own face —as he approached the med bay door to relieve Komori. Her slumped form hit him first, a shadow against the wall. Foul play screamed in his gut—governor’s loyalists? Maybe Mandalorians? Deatch Watch?! He knelt, brushed her cheek—warm, damp, alive. Not dead, not wounded—just sunk deep in sleep, sweating rivers as her body chewed through a sedative. Jedi-grade. A water cup rolled free, clinking on the floor. He snatched it, squinted—waxy powder clung to the rim, traces of dissolved pills. Several, by the look.

He growled under his breath. He’d warned Korr—don’t underestimate the younglings. They’d swiped the sedatives, waited, then played their hand on someone softer, less wise to their tricks. Komori’d fallen for it—truth was, most Jedi would. No one Thinks of a kid’s gift as poison. Disappointment stung, but he couldn’t fault her too hard—not yet.

He rubbed his face, annoyance prickling, and shoved the infirmary doors wide. Predictable his gaze fell on an empty bed, then the open window, cold air gusting in. With a flick of his wrist, the Force slammed the window shut. He scooped Komori up—limp, heavy—and placed her into Kenobi’s bed. She’d wake furious, no doubt, and he’d have words for her—sharp ones. A lapse like this couldn’t be coddled, excusable or not.

His gaze dropped to the comm on his belt. He pinged the other Jedi on watch— curt, clipped. “Our waiward Padawan and his wardsare gone. We must move while the tracks are fresh.” Hunting his grand-padawan like some pack of loth-wolves twisted his stomach, but losing Obi-Wan again? He’d be damned to the ninth hell first.

He tugged the blanket over Komori, tucking it tight against the chill seeping through the walls—her breaths steadying under the rough fabric. Then he turned, swift and final, black cape flaring behind him like the wings of some hellish specter loosed from the pit. His boots struck the floor, a relentless drumbeat echoing down the corridor as he stormed out—each step a vow, each shadow bending to his will. The hunt was on, and the stars themselves would tremble before he let it end in failure.

---

The transport groaned to a halt at the Death Watch base, its rear hatch swinging loose, battered and dented—a testament to chaos unleashed. Scratches marred its sides, metal scarred from impacts no ambush could claim. The older Mandalorian stumbled from the controls, limping toward his comrades, breath ragged. They stared, perplexed, alarm tightening their grips on blasters trained at the starless dark beyond—Galidraan’s snowy wilds stretching silent and eerie, amplifying every snapped twig.

“Were you ambushed, old man?” someone shouted, voice taut, eyes darting to the shadows. The driver clutched his chest, struggling for air until a flask of something sharp and alcoholic was thrust into his hands. He took a swig, steadied, then pointed a trembling finger at the truck’s open back.

“Deam’han,” he croaked—demon.

A chill rippled through the group. Warily, they edged toward the hold, blasters raised. There she stood—Riful, ten years old and pale as the snow dusting the wind, slight as a wisp, silver eyes gleaming like unpainted beskar. No fear, no weariness—just a polite smile, serene against the dozen muzzles now fixed on her. Unease shuddered through the crowd until one lowered his weapon, jerking it aside—wordless command to step out.

She complied, dainty as a noble. Lifting her tattered skirt’s hem, she hopped from the transport to the pavement, landing soft as snow sliding off a branch. She stood there, swaying childishly on the balls of her feet, surveying the base like a tooka staking claim to a stranger’s house—entitled, unimpressed. The elder driver babbled nonsense, ushered off to the ba’arur as the spell of silence held.

It shattered with Preist Senior’s arrival, his two sons—Whip the elder, Dred the younger—flanking him. He barreled through the crowd like a storm of rage, halting only when his gaze snagged on Riful. He flicked from her to the broken, empty convoy and laughed—a long, guttural roar that sent younger Death Watch scrambling back, trembling. They’d been trained by his fists, broken by his cruelty—Riful was inhumanly eerie but still; Preist was a rabid dog, unpredictable and vicious. You knew he’d bite; you just didn’t know who.

His menace slid off her like oil on beskar. Her eyes pierced past him, into a past littered with men like him—trainers who’d beaten girls into weapons, thriving where violence shaped the young and desperate. Organizations like this bred them—monsters eager to lend a claw, free of charge, so long as their darker appetites went unchecked. Payment was just a bonus.

“So you lost all of ‘em but the one I wanted,” Preist said, turning with mock admiration. “That’s some skill.” He motioned to Dred, the younger son. “Take her. You lot are lucky we’ve got spares—the brats’ll freeze out there anyway. Scouts find corpses, haul ‘em in. Pile ‘em up for the new ones—show ‘em there’s one way out of Death Watch.”

Riful let Dred seize her arm, but a scoff slipped free—audible, sharp. A shudder ran through the crowd as Preist wheeled on her, eyes narrowing.

“Little lady got something to say?” His voice dripped menace.

She huffed, rolled her silver eyes, and turned her face away—silent dismissal, cutting deeper than words. Stunned, then furious, Preist swung a fist. She dodged, fluid as shadow, and his blow slammed into Dred’s gut. The boy doubled over, armored or not, a pained “ouf” escaping as Preist stepped back. He grinned at the crowd, false bravado loud.

“Stay sharp, boy.”

Riful’s gaze burned with disdain. She had him pegged—a loudmouth coward coasting on trauma inflicted young, fear lingering into adulthood. No merit in his fists, just a leech fattening on others’ lives to prop up his own. Someone found their spine, muttering,

“Old man called her a demon…” Silence snapped tight as Preist’s eyes pinned them—paralyzed, they shrank back.

“Demon, huh?” He smirked, reaching for her hair—twirling it, then clamping her jaw hard. His fingers dug in, pressing to crack her resolve. She didn’t yield, face stone-still. Losing ground, he pried her lip up with a gloved thumb, inspecting her teeth. “Looks normal to me. Bet I can train her like I did the Fett girl—to be one.”

Her jaw unclamped then, lightning-fast. Teeth sank into his hand, piercing between the finger guard’s plates—sharp, slicing flesh so deep only the glove kept skin from peeling off like flimsi. Preist groaned, yanking free, and swung again. She dodged; Dred caught it instead, crumpling with a wheeze.

“What do I keep telling you, boy?” Preist roared. “Stop getting under my fist!”

Riful was shoved toward what could only be called a human kennel, a dank stretch of durasteel cages lining the walls. Some held strills—snarling, pacing beasts—others kids and teens, all feral, cowering or snapping as the Preist clan strutted past. Claws and fingers rattled bars, a chorus of rage and fear.

They stopped at a cage with an occupant—a woman, maybe twenties, slumped against the wall. Bruises bloomed fresh across her face, a beating still settling into her bones.

“Meet your new cage-mate,” Preist said, voice dripping fake cheer as he crouched to Riful’s level. “She’ll settle you in, little girl—teach you the pecking order.” He jerked his chin at the woman. “See, Arla here just had a whelp and forgot her place. Had to jog her memory. If she’s got any sense left, she’ll toe the line and treat you right… or she won’t see that brat again.”

Arla’s head twitched up, hope flashing—then Preist laughed, a guttural bark echoed by Whip, his eldest.

“There it is! Nah, just kidding, love—shipped the kid off with its father. You did your job, bitch.” He slammed a fist on the cage door, metal rattling loud. Arla shrank back, the kennel falling dead silent. Riful didn’t flinch—just turned, raised an eyebrow like she was asking, That all?

Preist huffed, spat on the floor—masking a crack in his swagger—and clapped a hand on Dred’s shoulder.

“You’ll break her in. Time to use those lessons.”

“He won’t,” Riful said, simple and flat, silver eyes locking onto Preist’s.

“Excuse me?” he bristled, looming closer. “Wanna bet, little lady? ‘Cause I’m damn sure if I tell my boy to kriff you up, he’ll do it.”

“I know he’s scared enough to try,” she said, calm as ice. “He just won’t make it past the door before I toss him out. Send your eldest—or come yourself? Ill even make you a fair deal. You’ll swing at me three times. Twice you’ll miss. Third time, you won’t hit anything again—ever. But if the Force lets you land one, I’ll spare your life till you forget your lesson and try again.” Her voice stayed steady, a faint Coruscanti lilt—Obi Wans influence —threading through it. Preist stared, baffled. Fear flickered in his eyes, quick as a heartbeat, before he roared a laugh.

“You think you’re some hot shit, huh, missy?” he sneered. His sons joined in—Whip grudging, Dred shaky—like a weak echo.

“I don’t think what I know,” she shot back, huffing. “I know what I am. I know what you are.”

“Oh yeah?” he growled, leaning in. “What am I?”

“A picker of unripe fruit,” she said, voice cutting sharp. “Scum lower than sewer trash—a rat born in filth, spreading your unfortunet type of disease like a croked gosspel. A beast no one’ll mourn or notice missing when your better grinds your ugly skull into the dirt.” Her gaze slid to his sons, cold as beskar. “A crooked, diseased tree spitting out rotten diseased apples. That’s what I know you to be.”

Preist shifted, squaring up, mustering all the grit he could scrape together. “And what are you?”

“A better monster,” she said, simple and true. A smile split her face—wide, honest, eyes crinkling into half-moons, disarming and deadly.

Preist shot to his feet, glaring down like she was filth under his boot.

“For that, I’ll cut your rations—both of you. Not enough for one, and Arla won’t starve. Sleep with your eyes open, princess.” He turned, smirking.

“Same to you,” Riful tutted, silver eyes glinting as the cage door slammed shut.

True to Preist’s word, Arla tried to establish dominance—lurched forward, all shaky muscle and postpartum haze. Took one slap from Riful—barely a flick—to send her whimpering into the corner. Riful felt damn bad for it. The woman was a mess, hormones and trauma sweating out of her like a busted still. Half-mad, half-broken—a blaster primed to fire wherever you pointed it.

Riful crouched, silver eyes narrowing. Could you fix a soul this shattered? Salvage it—or would it be kinder to end it quick? No one blinked at a lame horse or a spine-shot critter—just pulles the trigger. Claymore rules drilled into her said no hurting humans, but she’d broken that plenty—flesh-eating, monster that she became. They ment nothing to Riful the awoken. Now, though, her father’s voice echoed soft over the old code: patient, steady Obi-Wan. Life is preciouse.

She’d bitten him once—as a toddler—iron teeth sinking into his arm, expecting a fist. He’d just petted her hair, murmured calm words as blood filled her mouth. Siblings froze, waiting for the hit that never came. She’d let go, stunned, and he’d pulled her into a hug—no anger, just a promise.

“I won’t give up on you,” he’d said. “You’re just messy and mad—not lost.” Like he knew what its like.

That memory stuck as she edged toward Arla. The woman—twice her age, built like a fighter—curled tight, trembling, conditioned to shrink when in company of bigger predators. Riful towered over her, slight frame casting a shadow. She reached out, hand brushing the womans matted hair—then Arla’s head snapped up! Teeth clamping onto her teenyear old wrist.

Riful didn’t flinch—stifled a sigh, unimpressed. Free hand patted Arla’s head, gentle, steady. The woman gnashed, tears streaming, trying to hurt her. Riful took it—same as Obi-Wan had—silent, no harsh words, just shushing her soft. Finally, Arla let go, sat up slow. Before Riful could crack a joke, the woman yanked her in—arms tight, rocking back and forth, sobbing.

Trap sprung. Riful couldn’t move without hurting her. She sighed—tired, resigned—and let Arla rock, cry it out. Dignity stung, but what harm could she do? Catharsis had a price and a vice hug seamed to be it.

Food came—slop in a dented bowl, barely enough for one. Riful shoved it all at Arla. Claymore metabolism ran slow—she’d last; this crap wouldn’t dent her. Arla hesitated, eyes flickering—share or not?—but hunger won. She wolfed it down, fast and messy. She stared at the empty bowl, longing, then shot Riful a guilty glance when she thought the kid wouldn’t catch it.

So ther was some humanity left in her beneathe the animal they tried making her into. Riful smirked to herself. Good.

---

Obi-Wan Kenobi trudged through the snow-swept wilds of Galidraan, boots crunching ice as he cleaved the swirling, white mist with the Force—a blade slicing flimsi, parting the veil of frost before him. His mind was a durasteel edge, honed and unyielding, every thought bent toward one purpose: seek and save his child. Behind him, the younglings followed—Priscilla, Isley, Rigardo—small silhouettes against the howling gale, tracing the path he’d forged through the storm. They moved as one, obedient, their silver hair catching dawn’s first glint like beskar shards. He’d outrun the Jedi pursuit so far—their presence a faint ripple in the Force, distant but dogged. Goons lingered in the shadows—Death Watch stragglers, armed and foolish. He’d disarmed them swift, a flick of wrist and blade, leaving them sprawled in the drifts.

Their ambushes only sharpened his certainty. He was on the right trail. The kids were his compass—unerring, drawn to Riful by some deep, primal thread. Obi-Wan felt it too—a whisper in his blood, a tether pulling him toward her, faint but growing stronger with every step. The Force hummed around him, alive in the storm, guiding his battered frame forward.

They crested the final hill, a jagged spine of rock and ice piercing the sky. He halted, breath fogging in the frigid air, snow spiraling wild around him like a shroud of restless spirits. Below, the hidden Death Watch base sprawled—a jagged wound in the valley, its lights pulsing faint through the haze. Crates loomed like tombstones, ships crouched like predators, their hulls glinting dully under frost. Figures milled—ants in armor, scurrying with purpose. Too many. Far too many for one man, even a Jedi. His resolve flickered—heart thudding against ribs still bruised from Juno’s scars. Wait for Dooku, for Jango’s strike team? Reinforcements could turn the tide. But Riful was down there—caged, enduring Force-knew-what at Preist’s hands. She was tough, forged in fire, but those men were a venomous breed—evil that gnawed at the soul. Waiting wasn’t an option.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slow, and opened himself to the Force—seeking clarity, a sign. The storm roared, wind clawing at his stolen thermals, but one word cut through—clear as a silver bell tolling in the void: Play.

His hand found the sword’s hilt, fingers curling around the cold beskar as he drew it from his back. The blade gleamed—turquoise light flaring against the dawn’s bloody edge. He brushed the strings, a tentative strum, and the snow answered—kicking up fierce, swirling tighter with every note. He shut his eyes again, diving deep into memory—a hunting tune from the ehru, lilting and sharp, once played in Coruscant’s quiet halls. No bow here, just fingers on steel. He adapted fast, strumming the blade, letting the melody rise—haunting, relentless. In his mind’s eye, silver sand stirred, then took shape: a horse, skeletal and vast, its rider a phantom born of storm and will.

Below, the Death Watch camp jolted awake. Goons froze mid-step, heads snapping toward the eerie wail—man-made, twisted by stone and ice into something otherworldly. Dry snow surged, a wall of white rising like a tsunami across the valley—boiling, furious, towering over their pitiful base. Some squinted, swearing they glimpsed a shape within—small, fleeting—but the storm swallowed it, roaring earnest now, a beast unleashed. “Dust-up!” one barked, voice cracking. Another raised a trembling hand, visor fogging. “No—it’s—”

From the churning ice and snow, sculpted by silver-white flecks dancing in the dawn’s pale, blood-streaked rays, she emerged—a titan of frost and wrath. A young woman, her form colossal, her bosom bare and drenched in crimson, as if bathed in the blood of the slain. She rode a skeletal steed—armor-plated bones, pale as death itself, its hooves grinding the air with silent menace. Her grace was terrible, her size a judgment—they beheld her, blasters slipping in numb hands, and named her Death, rider of the pale horse, come to reap.

She struck the camp like a tempest born of Hoth’s deepest core—snow boiling with mountain frost’s razor edge, blinding fury whipping through. Ships groaned, repulsors failing as she slammed them into the ground, hulls buckling under ice. Crates toppled, splintering into shards that vanished in the gale. Doors froze wide, hinges snapping like brittle twigs—entrances gaping, defenseless. Men fired wild—blaster bolts streaking red through the dark, some clipping allies in panicked sprays, most sizzling useless into the storm. They cowered, armor no shield against the cold biting through seams, HUDs fritzing as snow clogged visors and choked breath. Obi-Wan walked in her shadow, sword singing low, each note a thread weaving the chaos tighter. The kids trailed—ghostly shapes, silver hair flashing like specters in the whiteout.

Far off, atop a ridge, the Jedi-Mandalorian strike team stared—breath held, hearts pounding at the monstrous form tearing through the valley. A young Jedi, face pale as the snow, stammered, “That sword—it’s a dark side artifact. He’s fallen.” His voice shook, fear lacing every word.

Dooku’s hand rose, sharp and final, cutting the nonsense dead. He gazed down, violet eyes alight with awe—pride swelling at the sheer magnificence unfolding. The Force sang here, a symphony of power and precision, raw yet controlled. “Feel it,” he commanded, voice steady as durasteel. “There’s no darkness—only peace.”

“He’s slaughtering them!” the Jedi protested, gesturing at the chaos below.

“That remains to be seen,” Dooku replied, cool and unyielding, a faint smirk tugging his lips. He’d find his grand-padawan—drag him back, pick his brain over this feat. It was a marvel, a masterpiece of will and storm.

Beside him, Jango Fett and his Mandos stood rigid—silent as sentinels carved from beskar, reverence etched deep in their stance. They’d witnessed the Manda descend—a shard of the Ka’ra itself, vengeance made flesh to right the wronged. The air thrummed with it, holy and fierce, gripping their souls like a war hymn. No words passed—just the weight of awe, binding them to the sight.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan Kenobi hadn’t meant the blizzard to reap lives—hadn’t meant much beyond finding Riful—but honesty cut deeper: he wasn’t fully in control of the beast he’d unleashed, nor himself. The Force had swallowed him whole, his consciousness a fragile ember flickering in the vast, howling aura of Galidraan’s frozen mountains—a primal tempest of ice and wind that roared through his veins, older than time. Only his resolve—iron-hard, forged in the fire of her name, Riful—kept him tethered. Without it, he’d vanish, another claimed by the white, lost to the cold.

He descended into the compound, boots sinking into snowdrifts, the endless flurry cloaking him—a living shroud of frost and shadow, bending the gale to his will. The sword thrummed in his grip, strings vibrating under fingers that danced beyond his command—each strum a pulse of power, turquoise light flaring from the blade to ignite his eyes. They glowed, eerie and unyielding, twin lanterns piercing the storm’s heart. Deatch watch warriors littered the yard—some curled fetal against crates, others slumped beside grounded ships, beskar dulled by frost. The cold was unnatural—paranormal—blinding HUDs with static, choking blasters. Their breaths fogged fast inside ther huds, desperation clawing at their frizzing lungs. To any who dared to rid themselves of ther helmets to see, he was a myth made flesh—a fog figure, eyes ablaze, trailed by three shadowed younglings—Priscilla, Isley, Rigardo—their silver hair catching the storm’s glint like shards of unpainted beskar.

No resistance rose as they pressed deeper—the tempest had shattered it, scattering defiance across the snow-swept ground. Obi-Wan’s steps echoed with purpose, crunching ice underfoot, until they reached the inner sanctum’s doors—massive durasteel slabs, sealed tight against the wild, etched with scars of blaster fire and time. He turned to his kids, their faces pale but fierce under the gale’s lash—Priscilla’s jaw set, Isley’s eyes sharp, Rigardo’s hands clenched. Three nods met his gaze; Isley’s arm lifted, pointing toward Riful’s direction beyond the door.

He released the strings, the melody fading to a low, mournful hum that hung in the air like a dying star’s breath. He lifted the sword —moving it with slow, deliberate grace, an extension of his soul—and he flowed into the base saber forms, a dance of precision and grace etched into his bones by years of practice at the temple. Each motion a prayer, each arc a vow—turquoise light spilled from the blade’s core, rippling to its edges in waves of shimmering brilliance. He slashed once—a single, fluid strike down the door’s central seam, swift as lightning, silent as death. To any watcher—if any still stood—it was a fleeting gleam, a trick of frost and dawn. But the durasteel answered—groaning deep, a tortured wail of metal buckling under unseen force. His hand rose, fingers splayed— Force surged, a tide of will, and the severed lock surrendered. The doors parted, grinding open like the gates of some ancient vault, revealing the shadowed maw within—dust and echoes spilling forth.

There she stood—a sentinel clad in heavy armor and furs, a blacksmith’s hammer gripped in one hand, pincers in the other, their edges glinting with the promise of forge-fire. She stod rigid and unyielding beskar forged in flesh. The goran of this clan, her presence a wall of unyielding spirit against the blizzard’s unstoppable wrath. She squared her shoulders, stance rigid—not hostile, but a challenge etched in every line. Her hammer rose, leveled at Obi-Wan’s chest, and her voice boomed—fierce, commanding, a thunderclap in the quiet.

“Why have you crawled from your grave, demon? State your business or return to the pit where you belong!”

Had his mind been his own—unclouded, unshackled by the Force’s grip—he might’ve faltered, bowed to her authority, her sheer presence. But the storm’s will pulsed through him, tunnel vision narrowing his world to Riful alone.

“You have… my ade,” he rasped, words drifting airy and inhuman, clawing their way from a throat no longer wholly his. “Ade… of Galidraan… do not… belong… to youuu.” His voice twisted—a howling chorus of the lost, blaster-rent souls trailing his shadow, their cries for blood and justice woven into the gale’s roar, a dirge that shook the walls.

The goran lowered her hammer, slow and deliberate, her molten gaze tracing him—the glowing figure, the beskar-hued children at his heels, their silver hair whipping in the wind’s dying breath. To her, they were no mere flesh—they were Manda, spirits risen from the Ka’ra, vengeance clad in frost.

“My clan has wronged you,” she said, voice heavy with the weight of truth, each syllable a stone laid bare. “Children are the way—the heart of us—and you awoke to reclaim yours by storm. I honor that strength. I’ll not bar your path. This clan’s long overdue for a new alor. Take your fill of blood, demon—if you can slay them, their flesh, their crown, it’s yours by right.”

Obi-Wan wrestled the haze, clawing his body back from the Force’s edge—each breath a battle, each heartbeat a tether.

“Keep… your crown,” he hissed, venom threading the words, sharp as a vibroblade’s edge. “What need… have I… to lead lesser men?” His hand shot out, halting the kids—Priscilla’s foot froze mid-step, Isley and Rigardo stiffening behind her, their instinct to claim the title checked by his will. Another voice tore through him—not his, but brimstone and fire, a ghost ablaze with righteous fury, searing the air.

“You were tasked with their education—their souls! You ceded your forge to that rabid dog—let unskilled hands twist beskar into brittle steel, unworthy of the name!”

The goran stiffened, breath snagging in her chest—fear and awe warring in her eyes.

“Ba’buir,” she whispered—ancestor, elder—a hiss of reverence and dread, barely audible over the storm’s last gasps. She dropped to one knee, hammer clanking against the frost-rimed floor, head bowing as if before a shrine.

“You speak for the dead, wielding the sword of spiritual justice—I’ve heard the legends, the trickster’s bloodline. I thought it fable, a tale for younglings.” Her voice sharpened—warning and wonder entwined—“Yet here you stand.”

“I am…” Obi-Wan faltered, the haze clawing at his name, his essence—memories slipping like sand through his grasp. Priscilla’s small hand gripped his arm—warm, fierce, an anchor in the void—and he clung to it, pulling himself back. “I am… the buir of demons… and unwanted,” he forced out, each word a jagged shard tearing free. “I speak… for the voiceless… give voice… to their hurt…” Pain burned now—existence itself a wound—“Let them… rest… in the Force.”

“Jetii!” she barked, surging to her feet, hammer rising once more—defiance flaring bright.

“No… not… anymore,” he breathed, a final shudder rippling through him, like a body exhaling its last. He willed himself forward—sword dimming, storm fading to whispers at his back—past her unyielding form. The kids trailed—shadows guided by Priscilla’s tug—into the compounds shadowed depths, their footfalls soft as if unchained by physical weight. The goran stood aside, rigid as beskar, watching them vanish into the dark—her breath fogging in the chill.

She exhaled deep, a ragged sound heavy with centuries’ weight, shoulders slumping faintly under her furs. “The age of beskar and fire dawns, then,” she murmured, eyes tracing the storm’s retreating edge—snowflakes spiraling like ashes of a burned world. “The Ka’ra stirs restless… and speaks at last.”

---

Riful crouched in her cage, silver eyes sweeping the kennel—a grim sprawl of durasteel and despair, strills and humans huddled tight against the biting cold that seeped through the walls. The temperature had plummeted—sharp, relentless—her breath now a spectral plume curling in the dim, flickering light of failing strips overhead. Something loomed beyond the stone—a storm, vast and violent, its pulse thrumming in her bones. She felt her siblings’ yoki—a familiar, steady beat—entwined with a darker force, wild and untamed, reeking of death. It burned like a furnace in the void, and she knew: they were coming. Humming low—an ancient tune from lifetimes past—she fixed her gaze on the durasteel doors as they groaned, metal protesting, and slid apart with a hiss of frigid air.

Hope flared—a fleeting spark—her family, at last!

But it snuffed fast. The Dreads stormed in—Preist Senior, Whip, Dred—silhouettes of malice framed by the emergency glow, armor clanking with every swaggering step.

“Get the dogs, the older kid's —cannon fodder slow him down if nothing else!” Preist Senior’s voice cracked like a blaster shot, barking orders that echoed off the walls. “Arla, haul your sorry ass up—time to fight!” Cages rattled—bodies rose, slow and obedient, their eyes hollow pits, souls long broken under his heel. Some shrank back—cowering as Whip’s electro-lash snapped through the air, violet arcs dancing like venomous serpents, promising agony to any who lagged.

Riful’s patience—thin even in her adult years, and being a child did it no favour—shattered. Ten years old or not, she’d never bowed to fools, and this disappointment stoked her ire. She rose, slight frame taut with defiance, silver hair glinting like a blade in the gloom.

“Afraid to fight your own war without a meat shield between you and your foe, you flabby, rancid dick?” she growled, voice low and cutting—vibroblade-sharp, laced with venom. Preist wheeled on her—face twisting, eyes blazing like twin suns gone nova—spittle flying as he snarled

“I don’t have time for you, you little bitch!” His hand shot out, yanking a teen boy from a cage—thin, trembling—shoving him forward like chaff to a pyre. “Arla—put her in her place!”

Arla stayed put—curled tight in her corner, Riful’s slap had set the cage’s law. She wouldn’t cross the demon child now—respect or fear, it held her still. Riful smirked, silver gaze glinting with cold amusement.

“She’s smarter than that—or smarter than you and the spawn of that festering rot you call sperm.” Preist’s face contorted—rage boiling—but before he could spit a retort, Whip surged forward—eldest son, broad and brutal, eager to carve his mark. He ripped the cage door wide, hinges screeching, and raised his lash—electricity crackling purple, a storm of pain coiled in his grip.

The jolt slammed into Riful—sharp, new, a sensation she’d never tasted in her long, monstrous existence. It stung—prickled her nerves, sent a faint tremor through her frame. Painful? Yes. Enough to cow her? Not in a thousand lifetimes. Her hand lashed out—small, deceptively delicate—seizing the whip mid-strike, fingers clamping like beskar. She yanked—hard, sudden—and Whip stumbled, momentum his traitor. She drove her foot into his pelvis—grinding deep, bone creaking . He grunted, pain flashing across his face as he swung a to slap her down.
Swift as a shadow, she twisted the lash—coiling it round his neck like a ribbon of death, electricity surging anew. He screamed—raw, guttural—collapsing to the floor, body twitching, writhing to the cruel rhythm of his own weapon. Above him, Riful loomed—bathed in the lash’s purple glow, a hedonistic, sadistic smile splitting her face ear to ear. Her eyes narrowed—serpentine slits, silver swallowed by a yellow blaze, demonic and fierce—like hellfire igniting the abyss. Her teeth gleamed—spiked, jagged—hands unfurling into ribbon-like tendrils, rippling with a menace that belied her child’s frame.

The Dread clan froze—horror seizing them, breath snagging as this girl morphed into something ancient, something beyond flesh. Preist Senior snapped from his stupor—blaster rising, shaking in his grip—bolt streaking red through the dark. True to her word, she’d held her strike—until he fired thrice. Now, her promise unfurled like a storm breaking. Tendrils lashed—swift, precise—snaring his arm, twisting until bone snapped like dry twigs. He roared, blaster clattering free, but she wasn’t done. A second ribbon coiled his throat—squeezing, lifting—his feet kicking air as his face purpled, veins bulging. When she released him, he crumpled—broken, gasping—a husk that’d never strike again. Dred cowered—youngest, trembling, eyes wide as twin moons, terror choking his voice.

“Will you kill me?” he whispered, a plea barely audible over the strills’ growls.

Riful stepped close—the electro lash crackling in her grip, dragging Whip’s corpse behind her like a rag doll, casual and brutal. Her yellow eyes bore into him—unblinking, merciless.

“Did you torture them?” she asked, voice calm as a blade’s edge, patient yet deadly. Dred shook his head—frantic, sweat beading, dripping down his pale face. “So if I open the cages, they won’t gut you for revenge?” Her hand flared—tendrils snapping out, a whip of motion—unlatching every cage in a cascade of clangs. Strills and prisoners stumbled free—zombies reborn, hollow-eyed but ravenous, their breaths fogging in the chill. A strill lunged—claws digging in Preist’s corpse, gore splattering the floor, the stench of blood and fear thick as oil.

“Please—don’t,” Dred begged, voice cracking, piss staining his armor as the strills snarled louder—teeth flashing, red with meat. Riful loomed—yellow gaze unrelenting, whip sparking at her side.

“Then run,” she said, simple and cold as a winter dawn. “Run far, run fast—don’t stop ‘til your feet bleed. This is my first and last mercy, Dred, son of Preist—I am Riful, Abyssal Empress of the West. Next time I see you—next time I recognize you—I’ll purge your bloodline from this galaxy, root and stem.” Her words struck like a hammer on beskar.

Dred scrambled—clawing at the door, nails scraping metal in desperation. It hissed open—revealing Obi-Wan beyond: eyes blazing turquoise, sword humming a haunting tune, rags clinging to his storm-wrought frame, snow still dusting his shoulders. Dred darted past—fleeing into the blizzard’s fading howl, footsteps swallowed by the wind, running ‘til his feet would bleed as commanded. Riful turned—tendrils retracting, yellow fading to silver—and her smile softened, a flicker of warmth breaking through the monster’s mask. Her father was here—the storm had brought him home.

“Dad!” Riful’s cry pierced the silence—a raw, joyous shout—as she let the electro whip and corps clatter from her grasp, leaping forward with a grace that belied her ferocity. Obi-Wan dropped to his knees—snow-dusted, weary—arms flung wide to catch her, pulling her into a fierce embrace that crushed the breath from them both. He held her tight, face buried in her silver hair, her small frame pressed against his chest—a lifeline in the chaos. The sword slipped from his hand—striking the durasteel with a mournful clang, its turquoise glow extinguished—and the tempest collapsed around them, snow and ice cascading to the floor like a a decoration severed from its strings. In that heartbeat, no demons raged, no Jedi stood—just a father and his children, reunited amidst the blood and ruin, clinging to the fragile warmth of each other’s presence in the frigid dark.

The Force’s grip shattered—Obi-Wan’s consciousness roared back, frail threads snapping taut, seizing control of his body once more. The haze lifted, the storm’s howl fading to a whisper in his skull, and he was himself again—battered, human, alive. He cupped Riful’s face—hands rough with time and battle, trembling with raw, unfiltered emotion—and barked, voice thick and hard

“You are so grounded, missy!” He pressed a kiss to her forehead—fierce, protective—then pulled back, eyes glinting with a mix of relief and reprimand. “Never do this again, or I swear by the Force, I’m not letting you off that station ‘til you’re older than me—gray hair and all!” Absurd in its purest form but welcome all the same- He hugged her tighter, a shield against the galaxy’s cruelty, and Riful melted into him—her iron will softening, silver eyes glistening with something rare: vulnerability. She’d known he’d come—always believed it, through lifetimes of broken promises—but feeling his warmth, seeing the joy in his storm-weary face as he held her? It struck a chord deeper than any battle, any betrayal. For the first time in too many existences, someone had kept their word.

The moment fractured—too brief, too fragile—as Obi-Wan’s gaze drifted past her, into the kennel’s shadowed depths. He flinched—hard, visceral—stomach lurching at the sight. Gore painted the floor—strills tearing into a corpse, jaws dripping crimson, sinew snapping under their teeth. Kids—barely older than him —kicked another body, its neck bound by a dead electro-whip, flesh bruising under their ragged boots. Blood pooled, thick and dark, the air heavy with the reek of death and despair.

“What… happened here?” he rasped, voice breathless, horror clawing up his throat—choking him, a nightmare too vast, too cruel to process. His mind reeled—where did you begin unpacking this ? What words could even begin to mend this?

“They tortured kids here—to forge them into Death Watch goons,” Riful said, voice flat and dismissive, her silver gaze sweeping the room like it was a battlefield she’d long since conquered. She’d lived it—endured the stripping of her own humanity, knew the living hell it carved into a soul. Empathy simmered beneath her steel, but she wouldn’t coddle them—those broken shells had to claw their own way out or die trying. “They lived true it now they just need to wake up.”

“Horrible,” Obi-Wan whisperd, anger and disgust coiling tight—Melida/Daan surging vivid in his mind, ghosts of war-torn younglings screaming through his skull, their faces blending with these. He saw blaster burns, heard cries cut short, felt the weight of every child he couldn’t save. “How do we help?”

“We don’t,” Isley murmured, stepping to his side—voice quiet, firm, silver hair plastered to his face by the storm’s last breath. Priscilla clung to him, her small arms wrapped around his waist, his hand gentle on her head—tender amidst the ruin. “This is for wiser, more seasoned hands to adres—not us.”

“But surely there’s something,” Obi-Wan pressed, rising—legs unsteady but driven—taking a tentative step into the carnage. Four small hands seized him—Priscilla’s tugging his robes, Isley’s gripping his arm, Rigardo’s steady at his elbow, Riful’s arms locking tight around his thigh like a beskar clamp. They stopped him cold—anchors against his instinct to plunge in. The kids and strills inside snarled—feral, guttural, a chorus of wounded beasts. One rose—an adult woman, tall and gaunt, her frame draped in tattered rags—holding a scavenged blaster, its barrel trembling as she aimed between Obi-Wan’s eyes. Her gaze was vacant—dead—a hollow shell staring through him, finger twitching on the trigger.

Riful whipped around—teeth bared —hand raised high as if to slap the defiance from her soul. The woman faltered—blaster slipping from her grasp, clattering loud on the blood-slick floor—retreating a step under that demon glare, fear flickering in her empty eyes.

“Fine,” Riful sighed, exasperation thick as she rolled her shoulders, “guess we can’t let ‘em cannibalize the bodies.” She pulled free from Obi-Wan—stepping into the chaos, boots squelching in the gore—and raised her fingers to her lips. A whistle tore through—shrill, piercing, a frequency that scraped teeth, rattled bones, and set strills whining. “Fall in!” she barked, voice a whipcrack slicing the air—and it would’ve been laughable, a ten-year-old commanding, if not for the primal dread it sparked. They obeyed—strills, kids—shuffling into ragged lines, driven by an instinct older than memory, older than pain.

With a stern glare—silver eyes hard as beskar—she pointed to the door, her small frame radiating authority.

“ This place is under new management now!” She seized Obi-Wan’s hand—small but iron-strong, grounding him—and the room shifted, a tide turning. One by one, they bowed—deep, reverent—heads dipping low, voices murmuring “Alor” in hushed, broken tones he couldn’t parse. Obi-Wan’s head throbbed—a headache blooming behind his eyes—as he scanned them: scrapes weeping blood, bruises purpling flesh, hollow gazes staring back like he was their salvation or their doom. He hummed soft—a reflex, a balm—and stepped to the nearest—a boy, no older than twelve, flinching, cowering under his shadow. Kneeling, he laid a gentle hand on the swollen face—skin hot, angry—channelling the Force, his own life flowing warm and steady into the battered flesh. He’d done this on Melida/Daan—honed it with his kids—cuts, bruises, sprains his quiet art now, a healer’s touch born of war’s wreckage. The swelling eased—fear fading under his fingers, the boy’s breath steadying.

“There… no more hurt,” he said, smiling—patient, kind, a flicker of light in the dark. “Anywhere else?” The boy hesitated—eyes darting—then offered his wrist, sprained and raw, purpled from a shackle’s bite. Obi-Wan healed it—slow, sure—fingers tracing the injury ‘til it faded, then moved on—child to child, strill to strill, kneeling in the blood and filth. They watched him—red-haired, Stewjoni, clad in storm-torn rags—like some mythical beast, a marvel stepped from tales into their gore-streaked reality, his hands a quiet miracle against their scars.

Isley lingered by Rigardo—silver hair plastered with snow—mouthing low, barely audible over the strills’ panting.

“They’ll be loyal to him now—more than a starved dog to a scrap of meat.”

“He doesn’t grasp what he’s done,” Rigardo replied, shaking his head faint—voice tinged with awe, with worry. “Why does he do this?”

“Because, Rigardo…” Isley’s gaze softened, tracing their father’s gentle hands—kneeling, healing, heedless of the blood staining his knees. “We’ve found a unicorn in this foul galaxy—or he found us, by some twist of the Force’s grace.” His words hung heavy, a rare crack in his steel.

“Don’t understand,” Rigardo murmured, brow creasing—young, sharp, grappling with the weight.

“A truly good man—uncorrupted,” Isley said, exhaling deep—a sigh that carried lifetimes. “Rare as the rarest of stones, noble as in the old tales—they draw followers to their light, like moths to a flame…” He let it drift, unfinished, the shadow of what came next too dark to voice.

“But many’ll want to break him for it,” Rigardo finished, sadness shadowing his face—eyes older than his years. “Mistake kindness for weakness—hunt him for it.- Or covet him like a dragon.”

“Then we kill them,” Priscilla whispered—fierce, quiet, her voice a blade’s edge—still pressed to Isley’s side, her small frame still with resolve. “Let them come—one by one, or all at once—we’ll kill them all the same.”

The boys stared—long, steady—silver gazes locking, then smiled—slow, grim, nodding in unison.

“Even Riful wouldn’t fight that,” Isley murmured, watching her stand by Obi-Wan like a loyal hound—small but fierce, enforcing order with a glare, keeping the kids in line as he healed—her tendrils coiled but ready. “But for his sake… we don’t tell him this resolve. It’d sit wrong with Father—tear at him.”

Priscilla and Rigardo sighed—tired, resigned, shoulders slumping under the weight of their pact—but dipped their heads in agreement, sealing it silent in the shadows. Their father knelt on—hands glowing faint with the Force, a beacon in the ruin—unaware of the blood-oath sworn behind his back, the guardians he’d unwittingly forged.

---

The strike team breached the Death Watch camp with cautious steps once the blizzard abruptly ended, boots crunching through snowdrifts hardened by frost, the sound sharp against the eerie stillness. Blasters rose in steady grips—barrels glinting faintly under Galidraan’s pale sun—while lightsabers hummed low, their blades casting blue and green glows across the icy ground. Mandalorians fanned out beside Jedi, visors scanning the wreckage. Dooku led the vanguard, cape billowing like a shadow of judgment, his stern profile etched with focus. Jango flanked him—rigid, silent—his beskar helm tilted as he surveyed the chaos, blaster steady in one hand, the other poised near a vibroblade sheathed at his hip.

To their collective shock, most Death Watch warriors still drew breath—huddled in clumps, shivering, frostbitten, eyes wide with terror that cut deeper than the cold but alive all the same. The few corpses strewn about bore no marks of deliberate slaughter—only random blaster burns, scorched into armor or flesh, haphazard and wild. Dooku paused beside one—a sprawled figure, chest seared black—his violet gaze narrowing.

“Panic fire,” he murmured, voice low and clipped. “The blizzard struck—someone shot into the haze, and someone else paid the price.” His words hung heavy, a grim footnote to the storm’s wrath.

The camp itself lay in ruin—gigantic icicles speared crates like jagged teeth, their surfaces glinting wickedly in the dawn’s frail light. Sheets of snowy ice encased tents, their fabric petrified mid-flutter, and ships sat grounded, hulls entombed in frost so thick it defied thaw. Hangars loomed in the distance—sealed tight, their doors iced over with a solidity that mocked any hope of escape. Even if a craft hid within, it’d stay buried—nature’s prison locking this base in stasis for Force-knew-how-long. The air carried a stillness—broken only by the creak of ice and the distant howl of wind—a graveyard of ambition, frozen in time.

“What Jedi nightmare was that?” a verde growled beside Jango, voice rough through his helm’s modulator, one hand flexing on his blaster as he eyed a toppled transporter half-buried in snow. “She looked like a demon straight from haran—hooves and all.”

“Or a goddess of war,” another added—a younger voice, tinged with awe, his beskar plates scratched but gleaming.

A Jedi learner, barely past initiate, butted in—robes dusted with snow, lightsaber still lit in his grip.
“I’ve never seen a Jedi weave anything like that—not in any holocron, any class at the Temple. I don’t even grasp why he’d conjure it.”

Jango tilted his helm, glancing back at the kid—voice dry, edged with grit.

“He was facing a hidden base of Death Watch—alone—for his kids. Couldn’t charge in so…” He trailed off, gauntlet grazing a razor-sharp icicle protruding from a crate—its tip drawing a faint scratch across beskar. “I’d call it a distraction, but this… this is...”

“Exactly,” the learner piped up, eyes wide behind his hood, voice rising with conviction. “That sword he found—it’s possessing him. Some ancient artifact, steeped in the —”

“You’re not wrong,” a deep, resonant voice cut in—mysterious, heavy—rumbling from above like a storm breaking. The team jolted, heads snapping up. Perched atop a frozen ship—its hull a twisted relic of the blizzard—stood the Clan Viszla goran, her armored form glinting in the new sun’s rays. Her hammer rested in one hand, pincers in the other—tools of the forge, now weapons of presence—her furs rippling faintly in the wind, a stark silhouette against the pale sky.

“Enemy!” a Jedi shouted, igniting his saber— blade flaring—while Mandalorians raised blasters in a ripple of motion, barrels locking on her. Then—recognition hit. Hands shot out—beskar-clad palms halting the Jedi’s advance, voices barking sharp.

“Stop! It’s a goran!”

“A what now?” another Jedi stammered—perplexed, saber dipping as he glanced between allies and the figure above, confusion warring with instinct. Why shield an enemy who’d seized the high ground?

“A blacksmith,” Dooku’s stern voice answered—cutting through the tension like a saber through silk. He stepped forward, cape sweeping snow in his wake, violet eyes locked on her. “Keeper of lore, mother to the beskar that flows through their clan… Did I get that right, my lady?” He and Jango approached—measured, respectful—heads dipping slightly in acknowledgment. The goran nodded once—crisp, deliberate—then leapt from the ship’s crest, landing with a grace that belied her bulk. Snow puffed around her boots, settling soft—she moved like a predator, and a few Jedi exchanged glances, wondering if the Force didn’t hum faintly in her veins.

“You know our ways, jetii—good,” she said, voice carrying an air of dignity edged with steel, hammer resting easy at her side. “It’d serve your kind to drill that same readiness into every soul on a strike team. Ignorance is a sin paid in blood.” Her words struck—pointed, ironic—given her clan’s gambit had banked on that very flaw to fuel their slaughter.

Dooku inclined his head—polite, firm—a diplomat’s grace masking the barb to come.

“An oversight born of haste—I’ll ensure the Council hears of it. Though the dishonour remains yours, and your clan’s.” His tone stayed even, but the jab landed—sharp, unyielding.

The goran twitched—anger flaring in her stance, shoulders tensing beneath her furs—then exhaled, posture easing, head bowing faintly as if under a weight too heavy to shrug off.

“True,” she admitted, voice low, gravelly with shame. “Clan Viszla lost its path—twisted the old ways to suit their dark ambitions—and so the Ka’ra sent a punisher to scourge us.” Her molten gaze lifted, piercing Dooku’s—beskar reflecting his own stern face back at him. “That boy—is he yours?”

Dooku nodded—slow, deliberate—meeting her stare unflinching.

“My grand-padawan…” He caught the flicker of confusion in the Mandalorian head tilts —and sighed, amending, “Bu'ad. Raised by a man I reared as my own, whom I claim as Ad.”

“He’s not yours anymore,” she said, blunt as a hammer’s strike—her words landing heavy, cold. “He bears the Sword of Spiritual Justice—its weight will subsume him, hollow him out with the myriad voices it channels, the restless dead it speaks for.” Her tone carried no malice—only certainty, a warning in beskar.

Dooku flinched—subtle, but real—his gaze snapping back toward the base’s shadowed entrance, worry creasing his brow. He could sense Obi-Wan—alive, unbloodied beyond what Happened before—but this gnawed at him, a splinter in his calm.

“You know of that blade, then?” he asked, voice steady but edged with urgency.

“Legends,” she replied, shifting her hammer to rest across her shoulder—its head catching the sun, glinting like a beacon. “It’s one of a set—forged for three sons: the Sword of Spiritual Justice, the Sword of Mercy, the Sword of Temporal Justice. Tales say two shattered; one was lost—destined to rise again when the galaxy darkened, when the age of beskar and fire dawned anew, filling the void with the screams of the restless who cannot march on.” Her voice dipped—somber, resonant—a shudder rippling through the crowd, Jedi and Mandalorians alike, as if the Ka’ra itself whispered in her words.

“Is there a reason you lingered to tell us this?” Jango spoke now—voice rough, cutting through the silence, his helm tilting as he stepped closer, snow crunching under his boots.

The goran nodded—slow, grave—her gaze sweeping them all, a prophet bearing ill tidings.

“I bring this warning to you—as I will to every goran, for their clans to heed. Prepare. War looms—sharpen your blades, breed your singing birds, steel your hearts and souls. What comes will spare none.” With that, she turned—furs swaying, hammer swinging at her side—and began to walk away, her silhouette shrinking against the frozen horizon.

Komori—ever the eager padawan, groggy from sedatives yet burning to prove herself—lurched forward, hand outstretched to seize the goran’s cape. A blade flashed—swift, lethal—streaking past her face, nicking her left cheek with a crimson slash. It embedded deep into the ice behind her—sinking like butter under a hot knife—quivering with a faint hum. The goran didn’t glance back—no words, no pause—just kept walking, her warning delivered, her presence fading into the snow’s embrace.

Dooku’s hand clamped Komori’s shoulder—warm but iron-firm—yanking her back with a strength that brooked no argument.

“One does not strike a goran, Komori,” he said, voice stern, unyielding—eyes boring into hers. “When this is over, you’ll study every module on Mandalorian customs the Temple holds—mark my words.” She groaned—loud, petulant—still woozy from the drugs, her legs unsteady from the sprint to catch them. This mission was her chance to shine before her master, and it had crumbled—failure piling on failure. Rage flared—hot, bitter—and she heaped it all on Obi-Wan Kenobi’s shoulders, a deep resentment blooming in her heart, dark and thorny, taking root.

Chapter Text

The Force convulsed—a wail tearing through the dark side’s inky depths, raw and furious, like a predator robbed of its rightful kill. It echoed across the galaxy, a tremor born on Galidraan’s frozen plains, where blood should’ve soaked into snow, where Jedi and Mandalorians should’ve shattered under the Death Watch rouse.
The dark side had hunted—pawns nudged into place, chaos ready to erupt—only to find its prize snatched away, the slaughter undone by a defiant spark!

In a Coruscant underlevel, far beneath the Senate’s gleaming spires, two Sith Lords felt the loss, their minds entwined in meditation, probing the dark side.
Darth Sidious knelt on obsidian tiles—robes pooling like spilled ink—his pale face taut, eyes half-closed but burning yellow beneath heavy lids. Beside him, Darth Plagueis loomed—Muun frame gaunt, crimson cloak swallowing light—his breath a slow hiss through the mask concealing his ravaged features. Their chamber was a crypt—walls carved with Sith runes, air thick with the tang of ozone and malice—a sanctuary where the galaxy’s fate bent to their will. The Force churned around them, a vortex of shadow fed by the wound just beneath the Jedi temple, as they peered beyond the veil, seeking the root of this outrage.

It towered in the astral plane—a behemoth of ash and wailing spirits, its form a nightmare woven from anguish, astride a steed of bone and blade, jagged edges glinting like broken stars.
Magnificent, it roared—pain given shape, fury given flesh—the dark side exulting in its torment. Sidious’s lips twitched—a hungry ghost of a smile—as the beast’s power pulsed, tugging at his soul, yearning to rip it free and merge it with the raging whole.
Plagueis’s claw-like hand flexed—midi-chlorians humming in his veins—his scientific mind enraptured, cataloging the vision’s might. The dark side thrived here—fed by promised blood, molded into form—until the music shifted.

A note pierced the ash-strewn plane—eerie, alluring, a tune that clawed at the spirit, soft yet unyielding. The behemoth paused—its roar faltering—as the melody swelled, weaving light where shadow reigned. From the endless gray stepped a figure—dim, unassuming—its presence so faint it barely rippled the Force, midi-chlorians whispering low, a candle against a storm. Sidious’s eyes snapped open—narrowing—Plagueis’s breath caught, a hiss of surprise. This being—barely a mark on the universe—reached out, fingers brushing an artifact obscured by mist, its shape lost to the Force’s haze. The music it drew forth defied words—no Sith tongue held a name for that sound, a chord that sang of peace, of endings.

The figure played—relentless, gentle—and the beast softened, its fury quenching like embers under rain. Spirits wailed—lost souls, unjustly slain—but the song soothed them, their cries fading to sighs. When the figure raised its arms—embracing the darkness—it didn’t devour them. The behemoth knelt—yielding, dissolving—ash scattering to nothing. A wrong righted, a wound that should’ve festered now sealed, the dark side’s hunger left hollow.
Sidious’s hands clenched—nails biting flesh—rage sparking at the theft. Plagueis leaned forward—robes rustling—his gaze dissecting the scene, a puzzle defying his mastery.

They circled the figure in the vision—like vultures over wounded prey—probes of will darting close, seeking its face, its place, its truth. Who was this? Where are they? What had they done and how? Each attempt met resistance—a lash, swift and sharp, like an iron rod cracking across their minds.
Sidious snarled—teeth bared—Plagueis recoiled, a rare flinch. They pressed harder—relentless, ravenous—until the figure stirred, sensing not them, but its defenders—unseen guardians swatting at shadows. It reached again—hand closing on the artifact—and played a single chord, pure and fierce.

The vision shattered. Sidious gasped—eyes wide—his body sliding back across the tiles, robes tangling as the Force shoved him centimeters from his place. Plagueis rocked his mask askew, one hand gripping the ground tight like it would vanish at any moment. The chamber hummed—runes flickering blue for the briefest of seconds—silence falling heavy as the Force stilled.

Sidious recovered first—fingers smoothing his immaculate hair, dark strands snapping back into place—his gaze locking on his master, raw hunger blazing in his eyes. Knowledge. Power. That artifact—whatever it was—called to him, a prize to claim.

“What was that?” he asked—voice silk over venom—leaning forward, every syllable a demand.

Plagueis stared at his hand—midi-chlorians pulsing beneath gray skin—his mind turning, cautious where Sidious burned.

“A cure,” he said after a beat—voice low, deliberate—“a cure for the dark side, rooted in the Force.”

Sidious scoffed—dusting his robes, rising fluidly—disbelief curling his lips.

“You can’t cure the dark side, Master.” He paced—boots soft on stone—his tone sharp, mocking. “To fall is to choose—power over servitude. A choice isn’t undone by some… melody.”

Plagueis stood—tall, skeletal—his crimson cloak pooling like blood.

“And yet,” he countered—eyes glinting behind the mask—“lesser beings fall to shadows born of wounds—scars in their Force presence, festering until they consume even noble souls.” He stepped closer—voice dropping, a lecturer’s calm laced with menace. “On a grander scale, the Force itself bears fissures—gashes carved by acts so heinous they scar reality’s weave. This being… soothed one.”

Sidious halted—skepticism sharpening his gaze—hands folding behind him.

“A cure to free will, then? You think this… figure can unmake choice?”

“No.” Plagueis’s tone hardened—final, cold. “He’s a gift—like bacta to a wound, antibiotics to a plague. He could hinder us—greatly. The dark side acknowledged his act, felt it.” He turned—staring at the holocron’s dying glow—mind racing. “There’s power in him—danger.”

Sidious’s eyes narrowed—thoughts spinning, a predator scenting opportunity.

“So he’s a threat?”

Plagueis shook his head—slow, measured—caution tempering his lust.

“The Sith’s design has unfolded for millennia—unbreakable, inevitable. He’s no unraveling force, no matter how brightly he burns.” His voice steadied—resolute, a vow—“What we lost tonight is a trifle. It changes nothing in the grand tapestry.”

Sidious tilted his head—smile thin, calculating

“Does it? Perhaps we should apply… precautionary medicine of our own. Excise this growth before it becomes a more of a nuisance.”

Plagueis paused—considering—then nodded once, sharp.

“If the chance arises, perhaps. For now, we find him—learn who he is, where he hides, what this weapon does.” His claw tapped the chair—rhythmic, deliberate—“Once we know, we plan.”

“As you wish, Master,” Sidious said—smile widening, voice honeyed but sharp—“I’ll use my connections—see if the Jedi whisper of this. Our singer’s aura was weak… he may not be one of them.” He chuckled—low, private—scheming already. “Think he could be persuaded to play for us?”

Plagueis’s gaze turned—piercing, unreadable—before he looked away, back to the shadows contemplating. The chamber fell silent—plans coiling, the Sith’s eyes fixed on a distant spark, a boy they didn’t yet name, whose song had shaken their night.

---

The freighter’s hold reeked of rust and recycled air—a claustrophobic cage juddering through Mandalore’s orbit, its durasteel bones groaning under the weight of void. Qui-Gon Jinn knelt on the cold floor, robes pooling around him , eyes shut tight, breath a steady rhythm against the chaos of his upcoming mission. The ship was already attacked once despite him being an official envoy of the Republic asked to help whit negotiations.

Blaster scars smoked on the walls—'pirates' in armour routed, their cries silenced—but his mind drifted far from the fight, sinking into the Living Force, chasing a presence that never left him. Obi-Wan. His padawan—eternally his—bound by a thread no distance could snap, a light that burned behind his lids, vivid as a holofeed, real as the saber at his hip.

The Force thrummed around him—a pulse like an restless animal sensing what was about what was to come.—its currents swirling wild in the hold’s dim glow. Mandalore loomed below—war-torn, beskar-sharp, he had little hopes there would be any actual negotiation taking place.

Qui-Gon knew once his boots hit its dust, deep meditation would slip from his grasp. Here, now, was his chance—to reach, to see—Obi-Wan’s echo calling louder than the galaxy’s din. He sank deeper, letting the Force flood him, a river of life that carried him to his padawan’s side. Not in body—never that, not since Melida/Daan—but in spirit, where borders blurred, where Obi-Wan stood as real as the day they’d parted.

Visions flared—of Obi-Wan at his shoulder, a flicker in the corner of his eye, red hair catching imagined light. His presence glowed—steady, bright—a candle that never guttered, trailing Qui-Gon like a second shadow.
Sometimes he forgot—spoke aloud, words tumbling free—expecting that soft sarcastic voice to answer, that wry grin to flash. He’d turn—heart leaping—only to find the temple corridor empty , the Force humming alone.
Guilt stabbed—sharp, fleeting—but he brushed it away, quick as a breath. Melida/Daan had been… a misstep, perhaps. He could’ve handled it better, as Dooku’s stern voice had chided. But regret withered fast—how could it linger when the Force had decreed it?

He’d never filed the forms—never marked Obi-Wan officially lost, severed, or struck from the Order. In the Temple’s cold records, he was still Qui-Gon’s padawan, their bond unbroken, their path merely… unconventional. The Force had willed it—shaped Obi-Wan into this, a beacon leading four silver-haired younglings, their laughter a proof of destiny’s hand.
Had he chained him to Coruscant—saber drills and Council meeting's—would he shine so fierce? No. The Force saw clearer—Qui-Gon saw it now, too. His choice had freed him, set him to bloom where rigid Jedi halls couldn’t reach.

A smile ghosted his lips—eyes still closed—visions swelling like a tide.

The bond sang—fragile, alive—a lifeline he’d clutched through darker days. Xanatos had cracked his soul—betrayal a blade that cut deep—Tahl’s death had torn it wider, a chasm swallowing light. Obi-Wan—thrust into that ruin—had mended him, somehow someway by merely existing. Qui-Gon had stood in a pool of shadow then—water lapping, nose barely clear—treading despair’s depths on weary toes. He could’ve snapped the bond—frail as it was—let it fray after Melida/Daan. But re awoke after somebody used it- most likely master Dooku do it didn't feel like he was alone - the interference brought it back from its dormant state and strengthened it.

Obi-Wan’s watch kept time when his own had stopped and life fell into nothingness—each pulse a reason to rise and move. He’d held it—greedy, fierce—strengthening it until it opened like a window, showing him worlds.

A station bloomed—metal ribs cradling a village, a forest of green he ached to tread. Children grew—silver hair flashing—small hands tugging Obi-Wan’s robes, their voices weaving bonds as real as blood. Qui-Gon felt them—grandchildren, almost—his heart warming strange and soft. These weren’t Temple walls—sterile, stone-cold—but life, raw and rooted, kids raised in the Force’s breath, as he’d always believed.

Mornings brought tea—his cup steaming as he sat alone, the silence of the room unbroken—and he’d close his eyes, seeing Obi-Wan’s table: kids bickering, manners reprimanded, faces wiped, bread slightly charred but golden-warm.

Obi-Wan’s cooking sharpened—quick, like his saber forms, Never being taught more complexed moves obi wan had dedicated himself to perfecting the basics he had, something his master full heartedly endorsed—and Qui-Gon chuckled, the Force humming happy around its phantom feast.

Why hunt him, as Dooku urged—frantic, stern? His padawan stood beside him—always—in every closed-eye dream, every bond-borne glimpse. The Force wove their paths—why chase what was already his?
Galidraan had stirred doubts—rumors from Temple comms, a tragedy whispered—but clarity came. Obi-Wan hadn’t just survived—he’d triumphed. The sword—Spiritual Justice, they called it—sang in his hands, an artifact lost to time, now found. Qui-Gon knew its music—had felt it, faint, through the bond.

His padawan—HIS—had turned a black mark to light, healed what would haw been a galactic scar. Had he been at Qui-Gon’s side—leashed to missions—could he have wielded such power? No. The Force had planned it—perfect, precise.

Pride swelled—eyes fluttering open—green gaze distant, fixed on stars beyond the hold’s grime. Obi-Wan would master that blade—his hands, his heart, too straight laced to falter. He already killed the passion in himself true isolation and hard work. There was no more danger of him falling like Xanthos

When shadows pressed—fear or pain spiking the bond—Qui-Gon reached back, pouring light, peace, a master’s touch to ease his path. It was his role—always would be—to guide, to guard, but from afar. The freighter rattled—Mandalore calling—but Qui-Gon lingered for a bit longer, visions fading slow, Obi-Wan’s light a beacon he’d warm himself by. Force permits soon there paths would cross again.

--

To say Yan Dooku was not a happy man would be a gross understatement. Nearly two months had passed since the chaos of Galidraan, and the sting of failure gnawed at him—a wound that refused to heal. He stood in the Jedi Temple’s archives, a towering figure in black robes, his violet gaze sharp as a vibroblade, cutting through the dim glow of data-stacks. Coruscant’s serene hum—speeders droning beyond the spires—couldn’t soothe him; his grand-padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi, had vanished into the night—again—fleeing with those silver-haired younglings, muttering of duty and Juno. Dooku’s hands clasped behind him, fingers flexing with restrained fury, as he recalled their last moment: a brief touch on the boy’s shoulder, a promise to study that cursed sword together. Then—nothing.

The battle’s aftermath had been a snarl of crises—too chaotic for Jedi or Mandalorians who often booted heads over the smallest of things- to notice one boy and his charges slipping away. War prisoners crowded the camps, most revealed as child soldiers—stolen youths, eyes hollow with pain, forced to wield blasters for Death Watch. Jango Fett’s sister, Arla, had resurfaced—a ghost from the grave—her mind a fractured storm, her blaster aimed at her brother’s chest, not for strategy but sheer, beastly rage. Dooku’s lip curled— he really prefers to not thing of his own sister ever being in that position-Broken beyond the ability to recognize him- he sympathized deeply whit Fett in that moment.

He paced the archive’s stone floor, boots echoing soft against the silence, his mind dissecting Galidraan’s rot. The more he probed the uglier it grew. Corruption festered here, layered deep: Republic officials bleeding the planet dry, via local tyrants, then Death Watch, who took their toll in children—protection rackets paid with lives. No wonder the people had all but crowned the True Mandalorians saviors. Faced with Jango’s honor—a warrior’s steel, unyielding as beskar—they’d thrust power upon them, declaring their rule.
Myles, not Fett, now stood as Galidraan’s head, a detail that pricked Dooku’s curiosity. Why not Jango? Was he not the leader of the True Mandalorians? The question lingered, unanswered, a thread he’d tug when time allowed.

For now, his focus burned elsewhere—Obi-Wan, that reckless spark, and the artifact he carried, a sword that sang of spirits and storms. Dooku’s jaw tightened— eyes narrowing—as he recalled the goran’s warning, her voice rough as iron: It’ll hollow him out. He’d felt it then, in the boy’s frayed presence, Sifo-Dias visions ringing in his ears. Something was coming together, but what?
The sword’s turquoise gleam haunted him, its strings keening in the blizzard, a relic that turned a bloodbath to a peaceful do cold surrender. What was it? No Jedi text held answers, no Council whisper named its kind.

He paused before a data-terminal, its blue glow casting shadows across his angular face, and summoned Jocasta Nu. She glided in—a gem of a friend, her love for knowledge rivaling his own, eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed spectacles. “Yan,” she greeted, voice warm but wary, sensing his mood. “You look as though you’ve chased a ghost across the stars.”

“Perhaps I have,” he replied—dry, clipped—his hand gesturing to the terminal. “I seek a relic—a sword, found on Galidraan. It… sings. Old, tied to Mandalorian space. What do you know?”

Jocasta’s brow furrowed—fingers dancing over controls—her mind a vault of lore. Holos flickered—texts, myths—but her search slowed, lips pursing thin. “There’s little,” she admitted—voice tinged with rare defeat—“scattered tales, mostly children’s stories from the Mandalorian sectors. Fables, not histories.” She tapped, and a holo bloomed—a crude image of three figures, blades in hand. Her voice softened, reciting: “Once, three brothers were born to a mighty clan leader. The eldest, a paragon of strength, his battle-fury unmatched. The youngest, a steward of fields, his life steady as soil. The middle—heart of their bond—odd frail form but whit a tongue and voice that made simple men into grand armies…”

---

Obi-Wan Kenobi sat hunched in a tavern that wasn’t there, the singing sword heavy in his lap, its turquoise strings glinting faintly under a haze of smoke and starlight. The world felt wrong—edges softened, shapes blurring if he stared too long, as if reality itself had loosened its grip. Sounds muffled—clinks of mugs, murmurs of unseen patrons—fading to a dull hum, leaving only the sword’s weight, real and cold against his thighs. Right and wrong tangled in his chest, the Force a restless tide, pulling him somewhere he couldn’t name. Beside him, on a bench of weathered wood, sat an old Mandalorian—armor bronze-yellow, worn to the bone, segmented plates chipped like ancient relics. His face was a map of scars—left cheek gouged deep, a chunk missing, right eye split by a jagged line—yet his smile held a sardonic warmth, eyes glinting with memories older than the stars.

The man’s voice rumbled—gravelly, fond—cutting through the tavern’s dreamlike fog.

“Can’t say me and my youngest brother ever saw eye to eye—not without our middle sibling to bridge the gap. To me, he was a god of absolute sloth—lazy as a bantha in a sandstorm. But we could fight, me and him—oh, we’d make worlds tremble. That was our bond.” He leaned back, armor creaking, gaze distant. “Our middle brother… eh, he could fight—every Mandalorian does—but his body wasn’t built for it, not like ours. Wispy, fast, crafty—like you, kid. Our trickster, always one step ahead.”

Obi-Wan’s lips quirked—a tired smile—his fingers brushing the sword’s hilt, grounding him.

“You sound close,” he said, voice soft but curious, the Force nudging him to listen.

The warrior’s chest swelled—pride flaring—his fist thumping his breastplate with a dull clang.

“Close? We were legends—gods!” he boomed, grin wide, eyes alight. “The three of us did things no one dared—carved our names in the galaxy’s bones!” Obi-Wan rolled his eyes—playful, not cruel—the man’s grandeur too big for this hazy tavern, like a holodrama hero spun from cheap spice. The warrior chuckled, undeterred, but then his face fell—shadows pooling in his scars—voice dropping low, heavy as stone. “Didn’t last, though. When we turned on each other… it got ugly. Fast.”

Obi-Wan blinked—surprise sharp—leaning forward, the sword’s weight shifting in his lap.

“Turned on each other?” he echoed, brow furrowing. “You said you were close—why?”

The man sighed—rubbing his scarred cheek—his gaze drifting to some lost horizon.

“We grew up, kid. Marriage age hit us—me and Sloth, we were courted by a pair of witches from a dark world. Young, full of fire, we didn’t stand a chance.” He smirked—hands tracing the air, shaping curves that spoke louder than words—a woman’s form, beguiling, dangerous. Obi-Wan’s face flattened—deadpan—his snort cutting the haze.

“So they were pretty, and you were randy,” he quipped, voice dry as Tatooine dust. “What a novel concept.”

The warrior barked a laugh—deep, rough—his hand clapping Obi-Wan’s shoulder with enough force to jolt his bones, nearly unseating him.

“That we were, boy!” he roared, grin flashing, but his mirth faded, eyes darkening. “More than that, though—those women… they didn’t take to our trickster’s bride, they wanted him to marry one of ther kind. She was one of yours—a Jetii.”

Obi-Wan’s breath caught—heart stumbling—fingers tightening on the sword.

“What?” he stammered, cheeks flushing. “I’m—not—I…” His words tripped, tangled, the Force swirling uneasy.

The man patted his shoulder again—gentler now—barreling on as if the outburst meant nothing.

“We drifted—each chasing our own clans, our own futures. Ill counsel came with our wives—poison in their whispers. Before we knew it, we believed our brother was bewitched—his Jetii wife a sorceress, their children demon-spawn meant to ruin us all.” His voice grew cold—eyes hollow—scarred face twisting with old shame.

Obi-Wan’s spine chilled—the tavern dimming, its edges dissolving into shadow, the Force coiling tight. He felt it—a weight, a wrong—dread pooling like ink.

“What did you do?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, needing to know, fearing he already did.

The warrior’s gaze met his—unflinching, ancient.

“We murdered them,” he said—flat, final—“all of them… but one. Our brother hid his youngest son—stashed him on a world far beyond our reach gifting him whit his mothers last weapon —and cursed us, our blood -he shattered one of his wife swords fighting me- , to never know peace- He shaterd the last of her swords called Mercy in front of us himself - till we paid in kind. That day, I saw him rage for the first and last time—true Mandalorian fire, not tricks. Mandalore suffered after— clans fighting, cursed by, rage, and sloth with nothing to unite them, make them look past them selves to something bigger. Sometimes, some of his blood resurfaced in times of great need, but we betrayed them time and time again because we were still angry, hurt. Every drop of blood fed a growing debt, piling high for generations…” His voice deepened—a growl, a quake—“a debt only his bloodline line can lie to rest.”

The world pitched—blackness swallowing light—as the man changed, armor overtaking flesh, spikes jutting from plates like thorns of bone. Obi-Wan’s heart raced—fear spiking—the sword humming hot in his grip, its strings trembling. Before words could form, reality shattered.

He woke—gasping, ragged—lurching upright in his bunk at Juno’s station, sheets tangled, sweat cold on his skin. Alarms blared—shrill, urgent—Juno’s voice crackling through the comm, summoning him. The kids had barely settled—fresh from Galidraan’s escape—when trouble struck again, the station’s hum turning to chaos. Obi-Wan swung his legs free, boots hitting the deck, the sword’s hand made scabbard a shadowed weight . The dream’s chill clung—spiked armor, cursed blood—but he shoved it down, letting it slip to the Force’s forgotten corners. No time for ghosts—not now. He rose, saber clipped, and ran toward Juno’s call, the tavern’s echo fading with each step.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan Kenobi charged into the laboratory, his boots striking the steel floor, each step a thunderclap in the stifling air. His heart raced, a boy’s fear warring with a Jedi’s resolve, as he beheld Juno’s holographic form—a goddess wrought from light, her visage the serene majesty of Juno from ancient myth, her robes shimmering like a cascade of stars. Yet her eyes burned with a restless fire, darting across consoles - in a less than composed manner as her visage started to crack - that spat sparks , their glow painting the chamber in fleeting, ghostly hues.

The lab thrummed with chaos, and Juno’s divine form flickered, unraveling into a haze of static. She flickered back as a human doctor, her hair a wild tangle, her face etched with raw, desperate urgency bordering on hysteria.

“Obi-Wan, move!” she shouted, her voice a passionate blaze, hands clawing the air - as if she could still grab and hold- toward a pod pulsing with crimson light. “Get to the left pod—rip its tubes out, now, or we lose everything!”

The Force flared in Obi-Wan, a wild song urging him on, his braid swinging, his hands trembling with youthful fervour as he took to the task. The pod's surface hot and thrumming like a fevered beast. Its red lights flashed, a frantic warnin. He attacked the tubes, thick and pulsing, his fingers slipping on their slick surfaces. Each yank unleashed a flood of rancid sludge, its stench a living assault—rotting flesh, sour decay, a violation that clawed at his throat. Obi-Wan gagged, his stomach lurching, but he pressed on, tearing free the final tube. The alarms’ wail died, the lights dimming to a sickly flicker, leaving the chamber steeped in an oppressive hush.

The air reeked, of miasma, of death so thick Obi-Wan feared it would linger even in his dreams. He steadied his shaking hands, leaning toward the pod, and peered into its depths. The liquid churned, a purple-black mire, viscous as festering pus, rippling with a malice that chilled the Force itself. Yet a whisper sang through him—a life, small, fierce, clinging to existence. A child.

“I’m starting the purge,” Juno called, her form shifting back to the goddess, her robes flowing like liquid, hair immaculately braided. But a shadow of strain clung to her, her luminous hands trembling as she gestured at the consoles. “This system’s gotta be cleaned.”

Her words barely reached him, drowned by the Force’s call. A child, fighting, alive—it was all he needed to know. His heart pounded, a boy’s defiance against the galaxy’s cruelty, and he reached out, the Force his strength, his will a blade. He focused and the pod’s seams groaned, then split in a scream of tortured metal, the vile liquid spilling forth like a broken dam.

“Obi-Wan, stop!” Juno’s voice cracked, her goddess form dissolving into the doctor’s frantic face, eyes wide, hair a chaotic halo. “You’re wrecking it! Leave her, damn it!” Her cry echoed, a plea laced with fear, but Obi-Wan shut it out, diving into the fetid stream. The liquid engulfed him, sticky and searing, a nightmare tide of slick and simultaneously viscous ruin. It was like plunging into a sewer, each breath a fight against the nausea clawing his gut. The thought of this filth on his lips was unthinkable, and he grit his teeth, hands searching blindly through the murk.

His fingers brushed a form, soft yet strange, and he pulled, his muscles straining. The infant answered, tendrils snapping around his wrists, their grip fierce, unyielding, as if she sensed hope and seized it. Obi-Wan poured his heart into the Force: 'You’re safe. I’ve got you. Hold on'. They broke free, the liquid parting like a curse shattered, and Obi-Wan staggered back, coughing, hacking the sludge from his lungs. The child’s wail split the air, a piercing, primal cry, a song of life against the dark. He clutched her to his chest, her trembling form warm against his racing heart, her gasps a fragile echo of his own raged breaths.

He gazed down, and his breath caught, a sharp pang in his chest. She was no human child—her body gleamed with a scaly texture, a deep azure that shimmered in the lab’s dim glow. Her head bore a crown of writhing tendrils, slender and sinuous, each tipped with a scaly sheen, weaving like living serpents. Her arms were wing-like, a mas of tendrils stretching from forearm to wrist, their surfaces matching the hair-like strands that danced with eerie autonomy. She was a creature of the silver sands, a dragon-kin like the ones he saw in the machine, her form both wondrous and alien. Yet a T-shaped scar blazed on her chest, the mark of her kin's human shape, -it gave him enough hope to think a human soul was still in there, he could feel it in the force- binding her to the others. One of them, but twisted by some cruel fault.

“She’s a wreck,” Juno said, her holographic form hovering close, the doctor’s face raw with frustration as she fixed a pair of non existing glasses on her nose, her voice thick with disdain and disappointment. “You should’ve let me flush it, Obi-Wan. Quick, painless—better for it.”

“Don’t you dare call her ‘it,’” Obi-Wan snapped, his voice shaking with a righteous anger, cradling the child as her tendrils tightened around his arm. “She’s alive, Juno. Will the others… end up like her?”

“No, I froze their pods, stopped the rot,” Juno said, her tone softening, a flicker of pain crossing her goddess form, now restored but trembling on the edges. “But fixing this, saving the system—it’s gonna take resources, kid.”

“Resources?” Obi-Wan’s voice cracked, his young face creasing with confusion. “You’ve got machines that make anything! What’s missing?”

“I make plenty,” Juno shot back, her form fizzing to the doctor, her eyes blazing, hands gesturing wildly. “But I’m not a damn miracle worker! Think of my replicators like a forge—they need ore, elements, raw stuff. We’ve been scraping by for centuries, shutting down drones, unneeded sections all to save what we had.” Her goddess guise returned, but her voice trembled with passion, her gaze darting over the faltering machinery. “It was enough for one last birth cycle, one final shot. Then this mess that had you go planet side whit the kids burned through a key element, threw the birthing fluid out of whack.”

Obi-Wan’s stomach dropped, guilt crashing over him like a wave. This was his fault—his clumsy, reckless touch, his stupid need to break free and show the children a world outside the station. Had he cursed this child, this fragile life, for what?- The chance to hurt good people, loose chis children to the Death watch? No ,no , no don't think like that obi wan, you helped...but was it enough ...no its never enough. that's why you'll never be a Jedi, your not enough. - He swallowed hard, shoving the thought down, and met Juno’s eyes.

“Break it down for me.” He needed to focus on the here and now.

“The fluid didn’t have what it needed,” Juno said, her doctor form flickering, voice sharp with exasperation. “Their human shape needs the right elements to be their dominant form, a perfect mix whit a very fine line of error. Without ‘em, they balance shift to their —dragon-kin side, like her.” She jabbed a finger at the infant, her passion flaring. “We could’ve—”

“No way,” Obi-Wan cut in, his voice fierce, a teenager’s defiance burning bright. “She’s alive, Juno. She’s staying. Can we find this element?”

“She’s wild, a beast!” Juno’s voice rose, her doctor form blazing with desperate intensity.

“She’s a kid!” Obi-Wan shouted back, his heart pounding. “Kids are wild till we help theme grow! What about the resources?”

“We could start over, no cost to you—” Juno pleaded, her tone softening, almost tender.

“I’m done with this discussion!” Obi-Wan roared, the infant squealing in his arms, her tendrils gripping tighter. He lowered his voice, but his eyes blazed, young and unyielding. “She’s here. She’s mine to protect. It is the will of the Force.”

Juno froze, her holographic lips parting in a tongue Obi-Wan didn’t know, her hand brushing her luminous brow.

“Dios mío, like mi madre…” she whispered, her doctor’s face soft with sorrow, a glimpse of a woman lost to time. Then she snapped back, the goddess’s fire reignited. “Fine, kid. Your funeral. Hope she doesn’t rip you apart.”

“I’ll handle it,” Obi-Wan said, his voice steady despite everything, the infant’s tendrils a fierce anchor to who's at stake. “What’s the plan?”

“I’ll scan nearby planets, asteroids, for the stuff we need,” Juno said, her tone sharp and steady, her goddess form blazing. “ I find it, You grab it. That’s the easy part.”

“And the hard part?” Obi-Wan asked, bracing himself.

“I haw No extraction drones left,” Juno said, her voice suddenly tired . “You’re scouring the station for manual extraction gear.”

“Force help me,” Obi-Wan groaned, his young face twisting. “This place on foot? That’s days if not weeks! Tell me it’s close.”

“Hmm.” Juno’s form shimmered as she bypassed the question whit an apologetic smile, a map of light blooming before him, its lines snaking through the station’s shadowed depths. “I’ll mark the paths, kid. We’ll fix this for another hundred fifty years, maybe fire up the drones, get this place alive again so next time you don't have to hoof it on foot.”

Obi-Wan groaned, a sound from his soul, the infant’s tendrils tightening as if sharing his dread. The galaxy couldn’t possibly throw anything worse at him.

Not for the first time, nor surely the last, Obi-Wan Kenobi was wrong. After a gruelling week traversing the station’s labyrinthine depths, gathering what he needed for a planetside journey he prayed would be less harrowing than the nightmare of Galidraan, - Not happening- Few hours forward The young Jedi found himself in the heart of chaos there ship disabled. Mandalore burned around him, its skies scarred by civil war, and Obi-Wan crouched with five children behind a crumbling wall, mortars and blaster bolts shrieking overhead like vengeful spirits.

'it has to be some sort of curs' He muttered to himself desperately deflecting blasters back.

The air was thick with dust and the acrid sting of plasma, the ground trembling beneath their feet. Isley, Rigardo, Riful, and Priscilla pressed close, their eyes sharp with a vigilance that belied their youth. The boys and Riful clutched blasters—procured, somehow, in ways Obi-Wan prefer not to dwell to long as his ayes slide to the numerus corpses strung about the battle ground—and fumbled with them, their movements awkward, unaccustomed to the duck-and-shoot rhythm of battle. Priscilla alone seemed at ease, her gaze darting with a predator’s focus, like a spring reedy to unfurl. Obi-Wan felt the Force pulse within him, an itch to leap into the fray, to carve through their attackers with the blade that sang in his hand.

He glanced back, feeling the newest member of their makeshift family—baby Odet, strapped tightly to his back, bundled in cloth to conceal her scaly nature. Her azure skin shimmered faintly beneath the wrappings, her crown of writhing tendrils, scaly and sinuous, tucked away. Her wing-like arms, bound close, but her dark human eyes, wide and curious, peered out, unfazed by the clamor. She wiggled and cooed, as if the war were a spectacle for her amusement.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Obi-Wan murmured, reaching back with his free hand to caress her, his other gripping the turquoise sword. Its blade hummed, its glow bathing their faces in a soft, otherworldly light, a beacon in the madness.

Beyond the wall, Death Watch goons fired relentlessly, their armor’s stark colors—blue, grey, unyielding—a grim echo of Galidraan’s he hopped was left behind. How numerus were those vermin? Obi-Wan’s blood boiled at the sight, memories of child soldiers and betrayal clawing at his heart. He’d never forgive what they’d done, what they still did. The Force whispered of action, of justice- or was it the sword in his hand?-, and he could no longer stay still.

“Stay here, cover me,” he told the kids, his voice firm but trembling with urgency. He vaulted over the wall, the sword singing as he charged, its turquoise arc deflecting blaster bolts with eerie, resonant cries. Each strike was a note, a wail that shivered through the air, and as he closed the distance, he turned the blade downward, fingers brushing its strings in a swift, deliberate stroke. The sound wave erupted, a shimmering pulse that stunned the shooters, their movements faltering. It was all Obi-Wan needed. Backed by the boys’ wild blaster fire, he scattered the Death Watch with precise, Force-guided slices, his braid whipping as he moved, a boy against a storm.

Suddenly! A hand seized his arm, and Obi-Wan spun, the sword rising with lethal intent, his force screaming. The glow of a lightsaber stopped him dead in his tracks, its green hum a shock to his senses, and his breath caught, sharp and painful, in his throat. Qui-Gon Jinn stood before him, towering as always, his robes stained with dirt and burn marks, his face lined with exhaustion but alight with a smile—warm, impossibly fond, as if their last meeting hadn’t been on Melida/Daan, where Qui-Gon’s eyes had held only contempt, his back turned as he took Obi-Wan’s lightsaber and left a boy to face hell alone.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said, his voice soft, laced with a love that pierced the boy’s heart. He dodged a stray blaster bolt, his lightsaber a blur, yet his smile never wavered. “It’s been too long. Those are the children, I presume?”

Obi-Wan stared, dazed, his mind a tangle of hope and hurt, unable to process the man before him.

“Y-yeah,” he managed, his voice frail, a teenager’s faltering reply. Snapping from his stupor, he waved to the kids, signaling an ally, his hand shaking with the weight of it all.

“I knew the Force would weave our paths again,” Qui-Gon said, his smile deepening, eyes crinkling with warmth. “I’m pleased it was so soon.” He moved toward the children, calling their names—Isley, Rigardo, Riful, Priscilla—as if he’d known them since their first breaths, his presence a beacon of calm amidst the war’s fury. The kids bristled, wary as feral tookas, backing away from this stranger who loomed too close, too fast.

Obi-Wan stood frozen, his heart a maelstrom. Hope surged, bright and painful, clashing with the sting of embarrassment, the ember of anger, the chill of fear, the fragile joy of reunion. It was too much, a flood overwhelming his sixteen-year-old soul, and he couldn’t find words, couldn’t move, caught in the absurdity of this moment—his master, here, on Mandalore, smiling as if the past had never broken them.

A soft step sounded behind him, tentative, and Obi-Wan turned, senses sharp. A girl approached, cloaked in tattered rags that couldn’t hide her grace, her wispy blonde hair catching the blaster-lit glow. Even in ruin, she carried the air of nobility, a charge Qui-Gon must have been sent to protect. Her eyes, bright with curiosity, met his, then flicked to Odet, who peered over Obi-Wan’s shoulder, her dark human eyes gleaming with interest.

“Hello… are you a Jedi too?” the girl asked, her voice quiet, almost shy, faltering as Odet’s tendrils twitched beneath her wrappings. “Oh! I… um…”

Obi-Wan blinked, jolted back to reality.

“Sorry, I’m—uh, Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he stammered, his cheeks flushing, a boy’s awkwardness betraying him he didn't mean to be rude. “This is… my daughter, Odet. And, uh, the others are…” He glanced at Qui-Gon, now kneeling by the kids, who eyed him warily, their small forms tense, ready to bolt. “We should join them before they bite my old master,” he said, mustering a weak grin, motioning for the girl to follow.

“Do they… bite often?” she asked, falling into step, her tone light but curious. “I thought Jedi weren’t allowed families. And that sword—it’s not what Jedi carry. You’re… odd for a Padawan. Master Jinn didn’t mention you.” Her words spilled out, a steady stream of questions and observations, her voice reminiscent of Juno’s passionate chatter but softer, less frenetic, like a breeze rather than a storm. Obi-Wan let the cascade wash over him, his focus split between her and the surreal sight of Qui-Gon with the kids.

“I’m Satine, by the way,” she said at last, and Obi-Wan turned, offering a smile, his manners kicking in despite the chaos.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, his voice steadying, a father’s resolve grounding him. He ignored the crimson flush spreading across her face, his attention shifting to Qui-Gon, who was far too close to the kids for their liking. With a huff, Obi-Wan strode forward and bonked his master on the head—not hard, but enough to startle the crouching man, his tone stern but tinged with a boy’s exasperation. “You’re crowding them, Master. Give them space.”

To his surprise, Qui-Gon listened, rising with a soft chuckle, his eyes crinkling with an apologetic warmth.

“My apologies,” he said, bowing to the kids, his voice gentle. “I let my excitement get the better of me.” The children relaxed slightly, their wary gazes softening, though they kept their distance, blasters still clutched tight.

Obi-Wan’s mind churned with questions, words he ached to hurl at his old master—anger for Melida/Daan, hurt for so much, hope for this impossible reunion. But half were too raw, unfit for the kids’ ears, and the rest too heavy for an open battlefield, where blaster fire could erupt anew at any moment. He swallowed them down, his young face tight with restraint.

“Let’s find a camp, somewhere safe,” he said, his voice firm, a father and a Padawan all at once. “Then we can… introduce everyone.” Qui-Gon nodded, his optimism a palpable glow, unsettling the small party—Obi-Wan, Satine, the kids, even Odet, who cooed softly against his back. It was too much, too bright, but for now, they moved as one, seeking refuge. Hopefully his master would realize and tone it down.

He didn't.

Qui-Gon Jinn was a storm of presence and a conversational Tornado, annoyingly vivid, his voice weaving through the shelter like a melody too bright played at a funeral. He knelt by the kids asking questions that pricked Obi-Wan’s nerves: How did you learn to shoot? Where did you find that blaster? His tone was warm, too familiar, as if he’d watched them grow from cradles he shouldn’t know existed. The kids bristled, their wary eyes darting like feral tookas, clutching blasters they barely knew how to wield. Qui-Gon pressed on, undeterred, his smile a beacon of relentless optimism, as if Melida/Daan’s betrayal had never scarred them both.

Obi-Wan turned away, his jaw tight, and busied himself with the shelter’s meager order. He swept ash from the floor, propped up a heater scavenged from the station, its faint hum a small defiance against the cold. He set out bedrolls, their worn fabric a thin promise of rest, and stirred a pot of rehydrated rations, the steam curling like a ghost in the dim light. Anything to avoid Qui-Gon’s gaze, those eyes that once held contempt on Melida/Daan, now alight with a warmth that felt like a lie. His hands moved, but his heart churned—hope, hurt, anger, all tangled in a boy’s chest, too raw to name.

Satine stood apart, shuffling her feet, her tattered cloak failing to hide her noble grace. Her blonde hair caught the heater’s glow, and her eyes flicked nervously between the kids and Qui-Gon, now cross-legged in meditation, his serenity a stark contrast to the war outside. Obi-Wan watched her, then glanced at his master, and a pang of realization hit: they had no provisions, no gear, just the clothes on their backs and Qui-Gon’s lightsaber. With a heavy sigh, he approached Satine, clutching his own bedroll, his braid swinging as he forced a smile he hoped was kind.

“Here, take this,” he said, his voice soft, a teenager’s attempt at gallantry. “I’ll share with the kids.”

Satine’s eyes widened, half-spooked, half-flushed, and she reached for the bedroll with a curt nod, her fingers brushing his. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice quiet but warm, a noble’s poise tempered by youth. Obi-Wan smiled wider, easing her nerves, then turned to the kids, unstrapping Odet from his back. The infant cooed, her scaly azure skin hidden beneath tight wrappings, her tendril-crown and wing-like arms—membranes of writhing, scaly tendrils—bound to conceal her dragon-kin nature. Her dark human eyes gleamed, curious, as if the shelter’s tension were a game. He moved to pass her to Rigardo, but Qui-Gon’s voice cut through, bright and unyielding.

“I’ll hold her,” his master said, rising with a smile, his hands outstretched. Obi-Wan froze, his heart a battlefield. Part of him screamed No!—Odet was his, his responsibility, his daughter. Yet another part, weary and hopeful, ached for an adult’s aid, a moment’s respite from a father’s burden. The kids hadn’t warmed to Odet, their new sibling a strange, scaly thing they handled with grimaces, as if she were a foul-smelling chore. Even now, Rigardo’s face lit with relief, his shoulders sagging as he dodged the task.

Obi-Wan sighed, heavy and reluctant, and handed Odet to Qui-Gon, his voice low with warning.

“Don’t put your fingers near her mouth—she bites, hard.” He hesitated, then added, “And… don’t undo her wrappings.”

Qui-Gon ignored him, his smile widening as he tugged Odet’s cap free, revealing her tendril-crown, each scaly strand curling around his fingers like living vines. “Like vine tendrils—how quaint,” he said, his voice brimming with delight, eyes fixed on the infant, not Obi-Wan. “What did you say her name is?”

Obi-Wan’s chest tightened, a flare of hurt he tried to smother.

“I didn’t say,” he snapped, his tone polite but laced with a boy’s bitterness, sharp enough to cut. “I’m surprised you don’t know, since you seem to know everything else.” Qui-Gon didn’t flinch, his focus on Odet, as if the barb had never landed.

“She’s a new addition, one I didn't see yet,” Qui-Gon said, his voice cryptic, a puzzle Obi-Wan couldn’t solve. The boy hummed, his mind racing—Master Dooku must have spoken of the other kids, but Odet was too recent, too unknown. He rummaged through his backpack, pulling a small cantines, and shot Satine an apologetic glance.

“Her name’s Odet,” he said at last, his voice softening. “From a book. She’s… about a week old.” He held up the containers. “Any chance you know a water source so we can fill them up?”

Satine’s eyes flicked from Odet’s tendrils to Obi-Wan, her curiosity bright. She set down her bedroll and nodded, firm and decisive. “There’s an emergency water access a block away,” she said, her voice clear, a noble’s resolve shining through her youth. Obi-Wan motioned for her to lead, entrusting the kids to Qui-Gon with a twinge of dread. He half-expected to return to an empty shelter, the children abandoned, his master vanished like a dream. But Qui-Gon stayed, his relentless quest to win the kids’ trust unbroken, his voice weaving through the evening, probing, joking, as if they were family long parted.

Night fell, and Obi-Wan lay by the door, his body a shield, one arm curled around the kids—Isley, Rigardo, Riful, Priscilla—and Odet, her tendrils twitching against his chest. Satine slept across the room, her back to the wall, her breaths soft in the dark. Qui-Gon kept watch, his silhouette framed by the heater’s glow, a sentinel in a world of war.

Morning broke, and Qui-Gon was gone. Were it not for Satine’s presence and a comlink with a pre-recorded message, Obi-Wan might have thought his master a dream. The comlink flickered, Qui-Gon’s holographic form shimmering, his voice calm but maddeningly cryptic.

“Obi-Wan, I trust you understand the Force wills me to follow its call. I believe there’s more to uncover in this plot. For now, I need you to protect Miss Satine Kryze and get her to safety. I’ll contact you when I can, my Padawan.”

Obi-Wan’s eye twitched, a spark of frustration flaring in his chest. Qui-Gon Jinn was no dream—he was a nightmare, the kind that left you with duties unasked, questions unanswered, and a heart heavy with the weight of being called Padawan once more.

---
Satine had graciously shared her plight—her family slaughtered by Death Watch, her life a target, sister missing—after Obi-Wan confessed his own: a strained bond with Qui-Gon Jinn, a master who’d ditched him with five children in a warzone - for the second time in his short life- quest to obtain mineral samples for the station the list interesting foot note. He saw Satine’s jaw tighten, her eyes flashing with the realization that she’d been foisted onto a young man already stretched thin. But before she could protest, insisting she could manage alone, Obi-Wan raised a hand, his voice firm, a spark of defiance in his youthful gaze.

“From this moment, we travel as a clan,” he declared, sweeping his eyes across the huddled group—Isley, Rigardo, Riful, Priscilla, and Odet, strapped to his back, her scaly warmth a quiet anchor. “We have one another’s backs, no matter what. Understood?”

“Wait, Blondie’s staying?” Riful asked, her voice muffled around a spoon, bits of ration porridge clinging to her chin.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Obi-Wan chided, his tone stern but softened by a father’s care. “And yes, Satine stays until this war blows over, until Master Jinn returns, or until we get her somewhere safe. We’re a family now—got it?” His gaze locked on each child, then Satine, who flushed at the word clan, her noble poise faltering under the weight of his resolve. She liked this commanding young man, his soft spot for children a quiet strength, but the kids’ begrudging nods pulled her back to the moment. They agreed, if only to appease their makeshift father.

“Right,” Obi-Wan continued, his braid swinging as he leaned forward, hands braced on his knees. “If we’re to move clandestinely, we need to know who’s after us.” He turned to Satine, his voice steady but gentle. “Anyone with less-than-stellar intentions looking for you?”

Satine sighed, her eyes dimming, heavy with grief.

“Death Watch murdered my family,” she said, her voice low, raw. “Until they have my head, I’m a target. But as far as I know no specific bounty hunters” Her gaze drifted, sad and tired, and the air grew heavy. Riful shifted, uncomfortable, until Priscilla nudged her softly. With a robotic pat, Riful touched Satine’s knee, as if soothing a skittish pet, her small face tight with effort.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said, his sincerity a warm thread in the cold shelter. Isley, ever thoughtful, spoke up, his voice slow and deliberate.

“Requiescat in pace,” he said, and his siblings echoed, their voices a soft chorus that startled Obi-Wan and Satine.

“What does that mean?” Satine asked, her curiosity piercing her sorrow.

“Rest in peace,” Isley explained, sipping his tea, the mug dwarfing his small hands. “An overseer at our old home said it when someone died. Seemed… appropriate.” His eyes flicked down, a shadow of memory crossing his face.

Obi-Wan’s mind flashed to Juno, her alien tongue echoing in his memory, words like Isley’s slipping from her holographic lips. The kids had known her as human, not just a manic, mangled soul in a machine. The thought struck him—Juno as flesh and blood, a broken person, not a broken system. It was easy to forget, in her fractured presence, that she’d once been a whole flesh and blood being. He shook the thought away, focusing on the moment, the clan before him. He would solve the station problem later.

“On Mandalore,” Satine said, her voice tugging with emotion, “we say, Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la—‘Not gone, merely marching far away.’” She paused, her elegant shoulders lifting in a shrug. Priscilla tilted her head, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“Marching where? Sounds like a lot of work for a dead person,” she said, her tone frustratingly child like and innocent.

Satine’s lips twitched.

“With our ancestors, I suppose. I don’t know where or why—it’s tradition. My father…” She cut herself off, pain flickering in her eyes, and swallowed hard. “Anyway, thank you. I appreciate it.” She nodded at the kids, who nodded back, a silent pact forming in the dim light.

Obi-Wan cleared his throat, his voice gentle but practical.

“I hate to be insensitive, but you’ll need a new name for now. A hood and some dirt on your face can hide you, but your name’s a dead giveaway.”

Satine cringed but nodded, understanding the necessity.

“It’s not offensive,” she said, her voice soft. “It just feels like losing one more piece of myself.”

“How about Aunt Sara?” Priscilla piped up, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Sounds close but different. We can slap some rags on your back to make you look humped, maybe mat your hair.”

“Oh, I can do better,” Riful said, a sly grin spreading as she set down her spoon. She darted to the hut’s corner, returning with a dry red brick. “We can make you a redhead, like Dad!”

Obi-Wan chuckled, warmth breaking through his stern facade, and rummaged through his bag, pulling out a bottle of vinegar and a jar of vaseline fat.

“Not bad thinking,” he said, holding up the supplies. “It’s not a long-term fix, but if we dye the front of your hair and bangs, it’ll throw off anyone peeking under your hood. We haw all we need”

Satine eyed the brick, vinegar, and grease skeptically, her hands instinctively shielding her blonde locks. “You plan to do that with a brick, smelly water, and… armor grease?” Her voice dripped with doubt, a noble’s disdain surfacing.

“It’s not perfect, but it’s what we’ve got,” Obi-Wan said, his tone earnest. Then he faltered, catching her hesitation, his teenage uncertainty creeping in. “If you really don’t want to, we can try avoiding attention the basic way. It’s… okay.” His voice softened, a boy’s doubt undermining his father’s resolve.

Riful blinked, surprised at his sudden lack of confidence, her gaze sliding to Satine. With a huff, she glanced at her siblings, who shared a knowing look, as if sensing a threat to their family’s balance.

“So, just to be clear,” Riful said, her voice loud, almost theatrical, “you’re playing our aunt.” She paused, then added, softer but razor-sharp, “’Cause we don’t need a mom.” Her smile stretched tight, her lips a thin line, a warning wrapped in a grin.

Satine stiffened, a flush creeping up her neck, her eyes wide with surprise. Obi-Wan stared at his kids, perplexed, the subtext sailing over his head. At sixteen, he was a devoted father but a romantic novice, blind to the tension crackling between Riful’s protectiveness and Satine’s flustered poise. What he did catch was Riful’s edge, teetering on rudeness, and he frowned, his voice firm.

“Riful, be polite,” he said, his tone carrying a father’s weight. “It’d actually make more sense for Satine to pose as your mom, since you’re all blonde. I’d be the uncle.” He froze, catching the kids’ betrayed, stubborn glares, their small faces set like stone. “As a disguise,” he added quickly, his voice softening, a boy’s attempt to backtrack.

Isley opened his mouth, the voice of reason ready to speak, but Riful stomped her foot, kicking up a cloud of dust.

“Not happening,” she snapped, her voice final. “If it’s such a problem, we’ll dye our hair too. But then Blondie sticks out even more.”

“My name’s Satine,” she huffed, her pacifist roots straining against Riful’s disrespect, her eyes flashing with a noble’s fire.

“Blondie,” Riful shot back, her grin defiant.

“Why, you little—” Satine began, her voice sharp, a spark of defiance breaking through her restraint.

“Ahem!” Obi-Wan raised his hands, his voice cutting through the bickering like a lightsaber’s hum. “Let’s remember we’re on the same side. Riful, apologize—now—and be nice.” His tone was commanding, a father’s authority clashing with a teenager’s exasperation.

Riful rolled her eyes, exasperated, and muttered,

“Sorry your so delicate Blondie.” Her tone was grudging, but the edge softened, a concession to her father’s glare.

“Riful!” Obi-Wan barked, his voice a thunderclap, and that was their morning—strategizing, squabbling, and forging a new balance in the shadow of war. Death Watch loomed, unlikely to grant them peace for long, and Obi-Wan knew they’d need every ounce of unity to survive. With Odet’s faint coos against his back, her tendrils twitching beneath her wrappings, he led his clan forward, a boy carrying a galaxy’s weight.

Chapter Text

The refugee camp sprawled beneath Mandalore’s ash-streaked sky, a fragile haven of tents and flickering pyres trembling against the civil war’s distant thunder. Smoke and sweat thickened the air, mingling with the low hum of weary voices—refugees and verde in scarred beskar, their eyes hollow yet defiant. Ne’tra gal, a rare spirit in these burning times, warmed the throats of the fortunate few. Kal Skirata set his cup on a crate, the rough old durasteel cool against his calloused fingers, and turned his gaze to the camp’s heart. There, among huddled families and grizzled warriors, a boy of sixteen stood out, an oddity with a stranger weapon—a turquoise sword, its blade strung like a hallikset, casting an eerie light across his pale, freckled face, framed by striking red hair. Around him clustered a gaggle of kids, pale as freshly fallen snow, their eyes glinting like polished beskar, and a hooded woman cradling an infant, its azure skin peeking from tight wrappings, clearly near-human. War orphans, Skirata mused, or something more? They were aruetii— outsiders- That much was clear, but they were also bound by a bond fiercer than blood.

Obi-Wan, known here as Ben, plucked the sword’s strings, coaxing a melody that rose like a prayer—a galactic ballad learned on a distant station, its notes mournful yet hopeful, a lament of broken vows and quiet triumphs. It didn't mater if you understood the language or not, his tenor and the pitch of the blade conveyed universal emotions. His voice, warm yet worn, wove with Priscilla’s, her childlike clarity soaring: words of loss and resilience, a hymn without a god, stirring the camp’s soul. The song, soft as a whisper, fierce as a vow, lifted weary spirits, its cadence curling through the crowd like a healer’s touch. Hardened verde tapped their hands to the rhythm, their ale cups forgotten, while parents ushered children closer, eager to escape the war’s weight for a moment. The pale kids danced to their own songs, each movement a story. Isley and Rigardo, synchronized yet competitive, wielded sticks in a sword dance, their vibroblade training clear in every precise step, their beskar-bright eyes locked in a silent sibling duel to a heartbeat of a song. Priscilla moved with speed and dignity, her steps tracing a slower, mournful tune, her pale hands graceful as a noble’s to simpler songs more in tune whit snowy landscapes. Riful, a tiny terror, was a hurricane of ribbons, her dance wild and untamed, her blonde hair a blaze in the firelight. It was a sight to stir even the hardest heart and the manic nature of the song played for her erased tiredness from muscles and memory.

“You see that, don’t you? They’re all warrior-trained,” Walon Vau hummed, his keen eyes fixed on the kids, dissecting their movements like a tactician.

“Not that abnormal in Mandalorian space,” Skirata said offhandedly, swirling his black ale . “A good parent would’ve taught them to fight.” He and Vau were no friends—begrudging allies at best, sharing drinks and the occasional brawl,- sometimes among themselves, usually when Skirata decided the other mans personality required an adjustment- their respect forged in necessity rather than warmth.

“This is different,” Vau countered, his voice low, sharp. “They’re clearly aruetii. They don’t fight like any clan I know.” He pointed a gloved finger, and Skirata, begrudgingly, hummed in agreement, sipping his drink. The kids deferred to Ben as their guardian and buir, their trust palpable in every glance, every step. It was clear as beskar: this boy, barely an ad himself, was their anchor.

“Heard ‘em call him buir,” Vau said, slamming his cup down, the Tihaar gone in a single gulp. “What a joke. Clanless, playing a fiddle like he’s in the Core Worlds. They’re gonna get themselves killed.”

“Watch it, Vau,” came a female voice, sharp with mirth. Rav Bralor approached, her own cup in hand, her beskar gleaming faintly under the firelight. Younger than Skirata and Vau, but no less fierce, Rav was a menace, her savage marksmanship a point of pride for Clan Bralor. “One more comment like that, and someone might think you care.”

“Feh,” Vau waved her off, his scowl deepening. “Just stating facts. Clanless out there in the shootout? They’re sitting ducks. One day we’ll find ‘em shot dead in a burned-out house or a ditch. IF we find them at all” his voice dropped'' Kara knows Many will never find their Vod again after this mess.'

Skirata hated to admit it, but Vau had a point. Clan was safety, clan was life. To be an outsider, tangled in Mandalore’s conflict without protection, was a death sentence. His eyes lingered on the clan—Riful’s ribbons slowing, Priscilla’s song fading, Isley and Rigardo’s sticks lowered, their rivalry buried in the slow claps of on lookers. The hooded woman swayed, her grip on the azure infant tight, her face shadowed but proud. They were aruetii, yes, but also Lonely ad, and that gnawed at him. He set his cup down, the decision settling like beskar in his bones, and moved toward the small family.

“Where are you going?” Rav asked, perplexed, her brow arching.

“Gonna talk with our young entertainer,” Skirata said, a smile tugging at his lips. “See if he knows some proper Mandalorian ballads.” His companions exchanged a glance, their eyes narrowing. They knew Skirata’s penchant for adopting strays—his clan was more obsessed with ade than most Mandalorians. If any other clan had a shot at proposing adoption to this odd family, they’d have to keep him in check.

---

Obi-Wan sighed heavily, his fingers aching from playing, each note a futile attempt to dispel the dark cloud hanging over the refugee camp. It was like waving a hand fan against the smog of an entire city—exhausting, endless. His throat itched, dry as ash, his hands cramped into claws, but this was his toll for the camp’s hospitality. Their supplies—scraps of food, sips of water—were dwindling, and nothing lasted forever on the run. He still had to retrieve the samples, a task that gnawed at him, but first, he needed his family safe, tucked away somewhere so he could venture out alone. It was the quickest, safest path, though it tore at his heart to think of leaving them, even briefly.

Clearing his parched throat, he nearly jumped out of his skin when a canteen appeared before his face, held by an older, grizzled Mandalorian, his beskar scarred but gleaming in the firelight.

“Looks like you need it,” the man said, his voice rough but kind. Obi-Wan hesitated, his senses brushing the Force—no poison, no drug, just water. He accepted with a nod of thanks, cautious not to impugn Mandalorian honor, but one could never be too careful with dependents in tow.

The kids reacted instantly, their near-human instincts flaring as the Mandalorians—Skirata, flanked by Rav Bralor and Walon Vau—drew near. They formed a ring around the Mandalorians surrounding there buir, their pale, beskar-bright eyes sharp with expectation, as if trouble were a breath away. Isley, the boy with a smile that never reached his savage eyes, locked gazes with Vau. Electricity sparked between them, a mutual recognition of the world’s universal cruelty, though Isley’s polished facade outshone Vau’s blunt honesty. He too old to waste time on pretense, saw his own hardness reflected in the boy’s gaze, but tempered by youth—or perhaps by a darkness that rivalled his own. A sharpness made of necessity and the willingness to do that with was hard to accept for a grander more noble goal. It wasn't evil, but few would see the subtle difference.

Rav, on the other side, faced a similar staredown with the girls. Riful, a spitfire by her own heart, burned with wild, undisciplined energy, a living rain of blasterfire. Rav knew instantly she’d never be a marksman—too chaotic, too raw. Priscilla, beside her, was calmer, her eyes boring into Rav with a blend of childish curiosity and a calculating depth unfit for someone so young. It was a look that chilled, yet intrigued, like staring into a mirror of innocence held as a shield by something cunning.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said, returning the canteen with a soft smile. “I suppose you come with a request?” Skirata hooked the flask to his belt and nodded, his arms crossing with a warrior’s ease.

“You have a fine voice, outsider,” he said, his tone probing. “Don’t suppose you know any Mandalorian songs?” Obi-Wan grimaced, the question striking a nerve. His outsider status was plain as day, marked by his red hair and galactic ballad—a station-learned lament, its mournful notes still lingering from his duet with Priscilla.

“I know some,” he admitted, striving for an apologetic look, “but I’m not confident in my speaking skills. I prefer not to sing what I can’t do justice to.” Skirata nodded, undeterred, and tossed a few credits onto the crate.

“Try anyway,” he said, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “I’m curious what you know.”

“I… ah… I don’t think credits are needed, sir,” Obi-Wan said, gently pushing them back, his gaze sweeping the overcast sky and the tents swollen with displaced souls. “Not in these circumstances.” Skirata nodded, conceding the point.

“True. How about a promise of safety then?” Satine twitched under her hood, her grip on Odet tightening, the infant’s azure tendrils curling beneath wrappings. “I can take you into my clan. It’s not much, but it offers safety in numbers.”

“That’s generous, sir…” Obi-Wan began.

“The name’s Skirata. Kal Skirata, boy.”

“Ma...ah..Sir Skirata, then,” Obi-Wan said, nodding. He had almost called the man Master, an old habit that was unlikely to gain him any sympathy but definitely quip somebody's attention. He didn't haw to be a scholar to know of the complicated relationship Mandalorian and Jedi had. “I appreciate the gesture, but we’re already a family. We don’t need adoption… with all due respect.” He added the last quickly, wary of offense, but Riful, as always, felt no such restraint.

“Enough whit the parenting offers!” she snapped, her ribbons still tangled from her dance. “ We HAW a father, and we’ve got someone trying to hard to be our mom—we’re not auditioning for more grandparents!”

“Riful!” Obi-Wan chided, his voice sharp. Last thing they needed was her accidentally dropping master Dooku's name or offending somebody. “What did I say about manners?”

The girl shrugged, unrepentant. “A lot of things. You need to be more specific.” Vau, despite himself, snorted a laugh, masking it with a fist. Rav had no such qualms, her smile wide at the small piranha before her.

“She’s a mouthy little one, isn’t she?” Rav said, her tone warm.

“I swear she means no offense,” Obi-Wan tried, his face flushed with effort.

“I mean, I’m not going for it, but if you take it, I’m not apologizing either,” Riful shot back, sparking a chain reaction. Isley nudged Rigardo hard, who nudged Priscilla, who slapped Riful over the head with a scowl.

“Kids, come on,” Obi-Wan said, as Satine, under her hood, echoed, “Enough.” Both tried to calm the chaos, oblivious to the Mandalorians’ amusement. “Could you not be more like your baby sister?” Satine murmured, bouncing Odet, who, as if on cue, snapped her jaws with a loud click, her dark eyes glinting.

“Oh, I can bite alright,” Riful threatened, rubbing her head and glaring at Priscilla defiantly.

“Ragtag bunch with no discipline,” Vau proclaimed, his voice cutting through. “You won’t survive a single shootout. You’d do well to accept Skirata’s offer—or any of ours, for that matter.” He turned to Isley and Rigardo, his eyes narrowing. “You two shoot like osik, but I can see you’re versed in melee combat by your dance. I can teach you to fight like proper Mandalorians, but I ain’t gonna coddle you through it.”

“Walon,” Skirata warned, as Obi-Wan stiffened, his hand twitching toward his sword grip.

“With all due respect,” Obi-Wan said firmly, his voice steady despite the tension, “our clan stays together. If your intention is to separate us…”

Before Vau could escalate, Rav elbowed him sharply in the side, and Skirata raised a hand in a peaceful gesture. “At ease, ad. Nobody’s trying to separate you. We’ve been watching you for a while now. It’s clear you’re an outsider, and despite whatever training you might have, you’re stretched thin and in need of assistance.” His voice was slow, deliberate, a trick learned long ago from Jaster Mereel, whose calm tone could tame wild animals and children alike. Honesty in movement, clarity in voice—Skirata knew kids and beasts sensed any tremors and saw them as either proof of dacite or sing of danger.

Obi-Wan’s guard lowered, his eyes flicking to Satine, seeking her counsel. She nodded hesitantly, turning her back as Rav tried to glimpse beneath the hood.

“I’m afraid we come with a burden of ill luck,” Obi-Wan said simply. “It might be best if…” His words were cut short by a deafening explosion. The camp erupted in chaos—a Death Watch raid, blasterfire tearing through the night, screams rising like a tide. Panicked crowds stampeded, threatening to crush all in their path. Instinctively, the Mandalorians yanked the children—Riful, Priscilla, Isley and Rigardo—into their circle, pulling Satine and Odet close, shielding the clan from the trampling mob. What followed was carnage, a blur of blood and steel, too many civilians, too few verde. The end was bloody, tragic, a wound carved into the camp’s heart.

Obi-Wan stood on a small hilltop, dripping with blood, his turquoise sword glowing, its blade slick with crimson. The kids fared little better, their pale faces smeared with gore, their beskar-bright eyes feral, scanning for anything else that needed to die. Isley regained composure first, his savage smile gone, replaced by a cold, commanding clarity. He slapped sense—quite literally—into Rigardo and Riful, their feral snarls fading, then pointed at their father. Obi-Wan stood frozen, eyes unfocused, breathing hard, the sword’s glow pulsing like a heartbeat. Ash swelled in the air, thick with the Force’s weight, the dark side was smothering the light, a restless call for vengeance from beyond. He teetered on the edge, a new specter, clawing at his soul asking to be set free and haw its fill. This wasn't the peacful cold embrace of death from Galadraan, this was something borne of the Mandalorian soil asking to cut a bloody swatch true their enemies and allies alike. Had it not been for the touch of small hands, he might have been lost to that savage demand.

Gazing down at the children, tears spilled over his face, hidden beneath dirt and dried blood. The surrounding suffering stabbed at him through the Force, burning deeper than any blaster bolt.

“Breathe, Dad… breathe,” Isley’s soft voice coaxed, his small hands gripping Obi-Wan’s face like a vice, his savage eyes now steady, anchoring.

Obi-Wan took a ragged breath, then another, each inhale and exhale grounding him, tethering him to the here and now, to the body and soul that ached with exhaustion.

“Ad!” came a frantic call from below, urgent, raw with care, not just for show. Skirata stood haggard, his face etched with relief, while Vau, masking his own, looked genuinely shaken.

“How did you survive that?” Vau asked, his voice thick with surprise. Isley turned, his smile gone, replaced by a neutral mask, but his eyes—those eyes were cold, sharp as a vibroblade’s edge.

“Why wouldn’t we?” he said, his voice a chilling whisper. “What use would the devil have to take demons back to hell?”

Chapter Text

Jedi Master Yan Dooku sat in his quarters, a sanctuary of elegance amidst the austere sprawl of the Jedi Temple. Light streamed through the narrow window, catching the crystal knickknacks littering the sill—prisms carved from Alderaanian quartz, a gift from a long-ago mission. They refracted the sun’s rays, casting a myriad of rainbow dots across the room, dancing over tapestries and the polished floor. The air was soft with the scent of fine Sapir tea, its steam curling from the cup in Dooku’s hand as he sipped, savoring the quiet. Beside him, Sifo-Dyas lay sprawled on the couch, his head resting in Dooku’s lap, his breathing slow and even. Dooku’s fingers traced lazy patterns through his friend’s dark hair, a rare moment of peace as Sifo-Dyas’s turbulent energy settled, the relentless visions that plagued him finally granting respite.

The Force hummed gently between them, a thread of warmth and trust woven through years of companionship—lovers, confidants, brothers in all but blood. Sifo-Dyas’s visions, a storm of futures both bright and shadowed, had driven him to the edge of exhaustion, but here, in the stillness of Dooku’s quarters, he found an anchor. Dooku’s own mind, sharp and disciplined, relished the calm, a counterpoint to the Council’s endless debates and the galaxy’s growing unrest. He thought briefly of Obi-Wan Kenobi, his grand Padawan whose fate had sparked his fiercest arguments with Yoda and Mace Windu yet—a youngling of promise, now lost to the winds jet again. The thought stirred a flicker of unease, quickly buried beneath the tea’s bitter warmth.

“You’re about to get a holo message,” Sifo-Dyas murmured, his voice soft but tinged with mischief. He shifted, rolling onto his back to gaze up at Dooku, his pale face marked by the faint sickly pallor of his visions but lit with an honest, impish smile. His eyes, though weary, sparkled with a secret known only to seers.

Dooku’s lips quirked, poised to deliver a witty retort, but the com chirped before he could speak, its shrill tone cutting through the tranquility. He sighed, setting his tea on the low table, its surface etched with Serenno’s crest—a gift from his sister and a nod to his true heritage that called out to him loudly in recent years.

“You’re cheating, Sifo,” he said, reaching for the com, his voice laced with fond exasperation.

“Oh, you have no idea how much,” Sifo-Dyas laughed, a soft, melodic sound that belied his fatigue. “Go on, play it… it’s going to be glorious.”

Dooku raised an immaculate eyebrow, assessing his friend with curiosity. What was Sifo-Dyas planning? The seer’s smile widened, a crescent of delight that promised chaos. With a theatrical sigh, Dooku pressed play, expecting a Council summons or a report from a far-flung mission. Instead, the holo flickered to life, revealing the grinning face of Tholme’s young Kiffar apprentice—Quinlan Vos, unmistakably, his braids swaying as he bounced with barely contained energy. The boy’s eyes darted, avoiding contact even in the pre-recorded message, a telltale sign of nerves or guilt.

“Hello, Master Dooku,” Quinlan began, his voice too bright, too fast. “I’m calling about our… um, mutual acquaintance, Obi-Wan. I know I wasn’t as open in my looking as you. I’ve heard of the fights you had with the Council about this…” He prattled on, then paused, looking straight at the recorder for the first time, raising both thumbs in approval, as if Dooku’s defiance were a personal victory.

“And oh, what fights they were,” Sifo-Dyas sighed, his fingers wandering lazily to the hem of Dooku’s tunic, teasing the fabric. “I always feel… inspired... when I see you debate someone this passionately.” His tone was warm, provocative, a lover’s jest.

Dooku swatted the hand away gently, his lips curling into a purr.

“Behave, you,” he drawled, the words carrying no true bite, only the velvet of a good mood. It was a rare day, the Force light around them, and he saw no need to hide his contentment. Whatever this message held, Sifo-Dyas’s approval suggested it was no cause for alarm. The rainbow dots danced across the couch, catching Sifo-Dyas’s hair, a fleeting halo.

Quinlan’s holo continued, his voice gaining confidence.

“So, anyway… I managed to narrow down the coordinates where the station can possibly be.” An offended scoff sounded off-screen, and Quinlan’s grin faltered. “Fine, somebody else managed to do it, but I helped get the necessary information to extrapolate it,” he amended, glancing sideways and mouthing, “Happy?” to an unseen ally—likely another Padawan, perhaps Obi-Wan’s crèche mates considering the relationship he had with Vos?

Dooku straightened, his curiosity piqued, the tea forgotten. Was it possible? Had they finally located the station—the mysterious prison to Obi-Wan’s, a shadow beyond their reach? Quinlan launched into a detailed explanation, his hands gesturing wildly. The Temples ship, he said, sent data to an external storage unit periodically, a failsafe to track it if the mission failed and a Jedi was in need of rescue. The transmissions ceased when the ship entered jamming range, and the station had clearly moved since then, but with the data—combined with estimates of the station’s size and thus it's speed—they’d narrowed the search radius to a sector three ships could scout in reasonable time. Better still, no solo landing was needed; the moment they detected a signal jammer, they’d know the station was near, they could regroup and tackle it together.

“So, yeah, that’s how we figured out how to find him,” Quinlan finished, spreading his arms and bowing slightly, as if awaiting applause, his braids swinging with the flourish.

“Clever Padawans,” Dooku commented, a smile tugging at his lips, his mind racing with possibilities.

Sifo-Dyas shushed him, his finger to his lips.

“Wait for it.”

Quinlan’s tone shifted, a touch apologetic but defiant.

“But that still leaves the whole adult thing… It would clearly be dangerous for any Jedi Master or older Knight to accompany us, so we decided to do it ourselves.” He had the decency to look sheepish, rubbing his neck. “Going with the age-old truth: it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission… I ask humbly, Master Dooku, that you deliver our sincere apology as we borrow three ships and sneak out when our masters are busy. We’ll be back, and this is really no big deal. That said, we have to go now before the security cameras reset, so… please pass on our apologies, Master, and fingers crossed we come back with all your grandkids.”

Dooku surged to his feet, so abrupt that Sifo-Dyas rolled off the couch, landing with a grace born of years navigating Dooku’s tempers and Jedi reflexes. The seer stood, brushing off his robes, his smile undimmed.

“Unbelievable!” Dooku snapped, already striding toward the door, his cloak billowing like a stormcloud. “We have to stop them!”

“Well, actually, it’s…” Sifo-Dyas began, his voice calm, almost amused.

The door hissed open, revealing Master Tholme, his face flushed near crimson, his eyes blazing with a fury that could rival a Coruscant sunrise. He glared at Dooku, his stance promising a reckoning, as if Dooku himself had sent Quinlan on this reckless quest.

“…too late,” Sifo-Dyas finished, stepping to the door with a fresh pot of tea in hand, its steam curling like a wry smile. “I’ll brew some more. We’ll have many more guests…”

---

The days after the camp raid were a crucible, forging Obi-Wan Kenobi into something both more and less than the Jedi he once thought was. The air hung heavy with ash and grief, the scarred earth a testament to Death Watch’s brutality. Despite his reluctance, Obi-Wan took a proactive role in guarding the perimeter and repealing attacks, his turquoise singing sword a blur of light and song, carving through threats with a grace that belied the blood it spilled. The survivors dubbed him the “Bloody Dancer,”-al’jika Ver’alor as he often charged first into battle- a name whispered with awe and fear, and the “Singing Brother,”- Vod Ge’tal- a gentler title he preferred, evoking the Hallelujah ballad he’d sung in quieter times. Holo-recordings from helmets captured his fighting style, and he loathed watching them—his lithe form gliding through fields of enemies, leaving trails of crimson ribbons with every slash, the sword’s hum a mournful requiem. Each kill etched itself into his soul, a weight no Jedi training could lighten.

The Mandalorians, however, were enthralled. Many a clan, scarred but unbowed, saw in him a warrior’s spirit, and they seized the chance to teach him their ways. They drilled Mando’a into him with relentless zeal, some refusing to speak Basic unless he stumbled through their tongue first. “Aliit,” they’d bark, correcting his accent, or “K’uur,” demanding silence when he faltered. It teetered on the edge of bullying, this forceful induction into their culture, but Obi-Wan met it with his polite, unyielding smile. Knowledge was power, wealth, a lifeline in this war-torn world. He wouldn’t spurn a learning opportunity, no matter how rough-hewn his teachers’ beskar edges were.

His kids and Satine, meanwhile, threw themselves into the survivors’ aid. Satine, her reddish bangs tucked beneath a scarf, proved a master at managing resources, her Kryze heritage shining in her ability to stretch meager supplies into life saving means. She organized relocations with a diplomat’s precision, her voice steady even as her eyes betrayed her distrust of the traditionalists around her. The kids, each a spark of Claymore ferocity, tackled simpler tasks with uncanny skill. Priscilla, her pale hands deft, mended clothes and fixed toys, her quiet warmth drawing adoration from the camp’s children, who trailed her like loth-kittens.- Obi wan had no doubts that had anyone try to hurt them she would turn in to the most savage of beasts.- Riful, ever the mischief-maker, lightened the mood with pranks, though her knack for stretching dwindling food stores—turning scraps into edible meals—raised eyebrows. She even sourced meat when none remained, a feat Obi-Wan chose not to question. He’d lived in the sewers, survived on rats when hunger gnawed. As long as it wasn’t human and kept his clan fed, he asked no more. The human body needed fat, and ideals were a luxury they couldn’t afford.

Isley and Rigardo, despite Obi-Wan’s protests, took to scouting, their inhuman speed making them ideal for the task. Nicknamed the “Whistling Birds” for the white streaks they became across the charred wastelands, they moved with a precision that silenced their rivalry. Obi-Wan’s heart clenched each time they vanished beyond the horizon, their pale forms blurring into the ash. He knew he couldn’t keep them safe, not entirely. At their age, he’d have volunteered for such risks—had done so, on Melida/Daan, where blood and betrayal taught him the cost of youth’s bravado. Qui Gon couldn't stop him then, he couldn't stop them now. But Letting go was a bitter lesson, one that tore at him like a vibroblade -what would I do if they got hurt? Force never let me find out- . Was this how Jedi Masters felt, sending their Padawans into danger for the first time? The thought stirred memories of Yoda’s stern lessons in the crèche, Cin Drallig’s lightsaber drills, urging trust in the Force. Obi-Wan clung to that trust now, though it wavered with every distant whistle of his boys signalling they were alive and that all was safe.

Skirata hovered like a beskar-clad guardian, a constant presence around Obi-Wan and the kids. Though he’d paused his adoption talk—perhaps sensing Obi-Wan’s unease—he found a new cause to champion, one the remaining Mandalorians, including Walon Vau and Rav Bralor, vocally supported. It culminated one evening in the safehouse’s mess, the air thick with the tang of ale and the low hum of Mando’a chatter.

“We don’t have access to a goran right now, but this should be your size,” Walon said, setting down a mismatched set of armor, its plates scrounged from fallen Death watch warriors. The beskar gleamed dully, scarred but unyielding, radiating a faint resentment in the Force, the echoes of its former owners’ anger and pride.

Obi-Wan flinched, the metal’s soul brushing against his senses like a cold wind. He hid his discomfort behind a sip of ale, its bitter burn a reminder of his first drunken misadventure—smashing his head against a Death Watch assassin’s armoured gutt, earning a concussion and the Mandalorians’ grudging approval.

“That’s really thoughtful of you,” he said, his voice measured, “but it’d be a terrible waste.”

“It’s not going to be a waste because you will wear it,” Walon chased through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowing like a predator’s. He pointed to Isley and Rigardo, who sported puldrons on their arms and vambraces glinting in the firelight, their pale faces alight with pride. Obi-Wan scoffed, shaking his head.

“I don’t have the credits to pay for beskar,” he said, his tone light but firm, a Jedi’s deflection.

“Nobody’s saying anything about credits, boy,” Walon snapped. “You killed them. You have the right to their armor. It’s not complicated.” Obi-Wan flinched again, the word “killed” a blade to his Jedi heart, stirring questions he couldn’t face. Was he still a Jedi, after Melida/Daan, after Galaadran after the blood on his hands?

“More than you think,” he whispered into his cup, his thoughts a tangle of duty and doubt. Giving the kids armor was an easy choice—protection for his ade, his family. But for himself? That was a line he hesitated to cross, a surrender to a path he wasn’t sure he could walk.

“Do you want to die?” Walon’s voice cut through, sharp and unyielding.

“What?” Obi-Wan blinked, caught off guard.

“Do you want to die and leave them alone?” Walon leaned forward, his gaze piercing, beskar-clad arms crossed like a judge’s.

“No, of course I don’t,” Obi-Wan said, fidgeting nervously, his fingers tightening around the cup. “They’re my ade. I’d never leave them if I had a say in it.”

“Then wear the kara-damned armor, you kriffing fool!” Walon slammed his hands on the table, his voice a growl, his posture radiating a fury that promised to bite if words failed just to prove a point. Obi-Wan glanced around, noticing the armored figures encircling them—Rav, Skirata, others—arms crossed, their stances a silent chorus of disapproval and demand. Even without sensing their emotions through the Force, their body language spoke volumes: Put it on, or we’ll make you.

He blinked, his gaze drifting to the kids, now being measured for breastplates, their laughter mingling with the clink of beskar. A sudden realization hit him, as clear as the singing sword’s hum.

“Oh,” he said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “This is an intervention, isn’t it?”

---

The office was a crypt of opulence, its walls draped in Naboo’s finest silks, their deep greens and golds catching the flicker of a single plasma torch. Shadows coiled in the corners, where the light dared not linger, and the air carried the faint, cloying scent of myrrh, masking something sharper—something metallic, like blood long dried. Sheev Palpatine, sat enthroned behind a desk of polished deep dark red wood, its surface reflecting his pale, angular face like a dark mirror. Outside, Theed’s waterfalls sang a distant lullaby, but within these walls, the silence was a predator, waiting to strike. His yellow eyes, veiled by a politician’s charm, gleamed with a hunger that no light could soften.

Before him, a droid projected a holo, its blue glow casting ghostly patterns across the room. The recording showed a young man, unmistakably a Jedi by his fluid, lethal grace, slicing through Mandalorian armor with a turquoise sword that sang a dirge of destruction. Each move was precise, as if he’d memorized every seam and weak point in the beskar, his blade piercing the unyielding metal with an ease that bordered on profane. Yet, there was no killer’s malice in his strikes. He aimed to maim, to disable, his cuts surgical where they could have been savage. Palpatine leaned forward, his fingers steepled, the corners of his lips twitching with a fascination as dark as the void.

And then, the holo shifted. The young Jedi spun, his face obscured by a hood, and with a flare of passion—anger, raw and unbridled—he unleashed a ribbon of light that turned to a trail of blood. One swing, and an armored Mandalorian’s head rolled, the beskar helm clattering like a broken bell. The act was swift, final, a requiem for the fallen, and Palpatine’s breath caught, not from shock but from a pure, untainted want. This wayward Jedi, this “Tal’jika Ver’alor” whose blade hummed like a ballad, he was no mere warrior. He was a paradox—a healer’s heart wrapped in a killer’s skill, a spark that could ignite or be snuffed out. A work of art fit for no collection but his own.

If Palpatine hadn’t been intrigued before, he was now consumed, his Sith soul alight with the promise of corruption. This boy was a prize, a canvas for the Dark Side’s artistry, and Palpatine would have him—by persuasion or by force.

“Isolate a still that best encapsulates his face,” he ordered, his voice a velvet blade, smooth but edged with menace. The droid biped and whirred, its processors spraying static as it sifted through the footage. After a moment, it pulled up a different clip, zooming in as the Jedi’s hood fell away, revealing his face in stark clarity.

Young, supple, fierce. His eyes blazed with a fire that could burn worlds, their depths holding both defiance and doubt. Plump lips, parted in exertion, hinted at a softness his blade belied. His bone structure was geometric perfection, framed by slightly long hair that caught the holo’s light like spilled blood. Freckles dusted his skin, a remnant of innocence that only sharpened Palpatine’s hunger.

He smiled, a slow, serpentine curve, and licked his lips ever so slightly, the gesture obscene in its subtlety. The boy was a symphony of contradictions, and Palpatine longed to conduct its crescendo—or its ruin.

“Cross-reference him with the Jedi database,” he said, reclining into his plush chair, its cushions sinking beneath his weight like a throne of shadows. “See if you can find a name.” His spies had plundered the Temple’s records before, a backdoor carved through non-Force-sensitive workers—cooks, clerks, droids—whose loyalty was bought or broken. Mandalorian footage was harder to obtain, but a ratchet of sophisticated malware had burrowed into clan servers, delivering this treasure: the pretty, singing Jedi, now at his disposal. All that remained was a name to bind the prize.

The droid chirped, its mechanical voice grating against the room’s stillness.

“The results are a match with one Obi-Wan Kenobi. However, the Temple files have not been updated for a few years now.” It projected an older image—a thirteen-year-old boy, redheaded, freckled, his eyes wide with timidity, a far cry from the warrior in the holo. The child’s uncertainty was palpable, a Padawan teetering on the edge of failure, before the of war crucible forged him anew.

Palpatine’s smile widened, his teeth glinting like a predator’s in the torchlight.

“So that’s your true name, Hymn,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the young adult’s image, the “Tal’jika Ver’alor” whose blade danced with blood and grace.

“Hymn… I can work with this.” The word rolled off his tongue like a curse, a promise of chains yet to be forged. Obi-Wan Kenobi was no longer a shadow on Mandalore’s battlefields. He was a target, a melody Palpatine would twist into the Sith’s eternal dirge. And keep for himself alone.

Chapter Text

The safehouse was a crypt small, full of shadows and morose, its durasteel walls marked with the ghosts of raids past, the air heavy with the sour bite of blaster plasma and dread. Obi-Wan Kenobi stood rigid before a holo-projector, his freckled face a mask of unyielding calm, though his blue-green eyes—fierce as a storm, haunted as a only a man realizing his haunted by a curse could haw —betrayed a soul teetering on the edge. The Death Watch’s assaults had surged in recent weeks, each attack more aggressive, more erratic, as if a ravenous hunger drove their opponents to claim something—or someone—within the camp. Obi-Wan’s mind, honed by Jedi instinct and battered by to many wars, drifted to Satine, her Kryze lineage a beacon beneath her reddish bangs. Someone must have glimpsed her, whispered her name to the wrong ears. It was a cruel twist of fate but logical, predictable in its misfortune, one more knot in the cursed tapestry of his life. Or so he thought till the video started playing.

This holo, flickering with malevolent light, was no Joke. It was a blade, poised at all he held dear. Pre Vizsla, his beskar scarred and dented, his face a map of fresh frost bite wounds, stared from the feed,- a cockroach scuttling through the galaxy’s decay refusing to die -. His eyes, wild with a rabid wolf’s hunger, burned with tunnel-visioned malice, all of it fixed on Obi-Wan as if the Force itself had marked him prey and Vizsla the hunter. The air grew colder, the Force coiling like a serpent, whispering of blood and ruin yet to come.

“Come out, come out, little Jetii,” Vizsla’s voice slithered, a taunt dripping with venom, each word a barb. “I know you’re in there. Surrender now, and I might give your comrades time to run…”

“It’s impossible to have this wretched luck,” Obi-Wan muttered, rubbing his temple as if it could banish the spectre of an encroaching migraine. His voice a low growl. Did it matter that the camp now knew he was a Jedi? That Skirata, Rav, Walon, and the survivors stared, their silence a demand for truths he couldn’t fully give? The full story he’d buried since Galidraan—where he’d summoned a beast of shadow and song to save Riful, laying waste to Death Watch with his singing sword, then vanished with his ade—was insane to speak out loud. He’d stopped a massacre, yes spared Jango’s True Mandalorians and the Jedi that were duped to do a corrupt politicians dirty work, but it came at a cost that only now he saw. Vizsla’s insane hatred- it seamed in the Mandalorians mind he was fully at fault for all things that failed to go right, not a wrong assessment but was he really worthy of all that energy?

“You thought you could escape me after what you did on Galidraan,” Vizsla snarled, his voice a crescendo of mania, his scarred visage twisting like a wound. “You were wrong, boy. Dead wrong.” The holo descended into a grotesque litany, each promise a lash—tortures for Obi-Wan, promise of his flesh to be carved, his spirit broken; his ade forged into Death Watch’s blades to be set against everything he holds dear. The Mandalorians around Obi-Wan stiffened, hands gripping blasters at the mention of children, their faces darkening as Vizsla’s lurid threats targeted the young man they’d named Vod Ge’tal, their singer of blood and hope. Some flinched, unsettled by the gore promised sensing the madness that was overtaking an already unstable mind. Vizsla was transforming into a mad dog before their very eyes.

The holo’s glow bathed Obi-Wan in ghostly blue, his red hair a blood-streaked crown, his freckles stark against a face pale as death. “Hymn.” Obi-Wan’s heart hurt, not for himself but for his ade, for Satine, for the civilians clinging to hope. Ther was only one way to fix this and it will cost a life, most likely several.

“I’m a bit ignorant on Mandalorian customs,” Obi-Wan said, his voice slicing the silence, steady despite the ache within. He turned to Kal Skirata, his eyes seeking guidance. “Is it possible for me to challenge him to single combat?”

Skirata, caught off guard, nodded, his weathered face etched with worry - Where was this boy going whit this?-. Before he could speak, Walon Vau’s voice cut through, sharp as a beskar edge.

“You do that, you die.”

Obi-Wan’s gaze flared, Tal’jika Ver’alor’s defiance burning bright.

“I do that, I get time to evacuate the civilians. To get MY ade to safety.” His words were a desperate challenge, unyielding as beskar. “There must be a challenge he can’t refuse to keep face. One that would occupy them all for long enough” They all knew the grim truth: a battle now would be their last. The camp’s defenders—too few, too worn—couldn’t hold against Death Watch’s relentless tide, a meat grinder fed by Vizsla’s fixation. The holo laid bare his intent: he’d bleed his clan to ruin to claim Obi-Wan, to silence Vod Ge’tal’s song.

Obi-Wan straightened, his posture a Jedi’s, his voice carrying an authority no sixteen-year-old should wield, tempered by a father’s love.

“I’ve fought enough alongside you to know you won’t retreat nor run from this fight, and I’m not asking for that. We do, however, have to prioritize the safety of those we promised to protect. So I humbly ask you to let me do this, despite being an aruetii . I also ask you to aid the remaining survivors in their escape, including my ade and my friend. In return I will lie my life to give you what you need.”

Skirata’s eyes gleamed, his gruff voice soft with resolve.

“You need not ask about that,” he said, nodding. “We would have protected them even if you didn’t ask. And I promise you this: if any harm comes to you, I will personally care for your ade like they’re mine.”

The room shifted the tension easing ever so slightly, smirks, eyes rolling at Skirata’s inevitable adoption talk, a sight as old as the stars. Obi-Wan huffed, a sardonic smile flickering, warmth piercing the darkness. But Rav Bralor’s voice broke through, urgent and grim.

“You can challenge him for the Darksaber, but it’s a death sentence. Vizsla will cheat, do whatever’s necessary to win. But he can’t refuse the challenge if he wants to keep face.”

“One of the two he has,” Obi-Wan scoffed, his tone a blade, defiance flaring. “At any rate, this is fine. I’ll do the same. I don’t wish to die out there and leave my children alone, but if it cannot be stopped, then at least I’ll lay down my head to give them time.”

A voice from the crowd, sharp with accusation, pointed at the holo’s frozen image of Vizsla’s crazed sneer.

“Why does he want you like that anyway Jetii?”

Obi-Wan’s smile turned sheepish, a veil over scars too deep to share.

“I might have ruined his plans a bit before,” he said cryptically, “and it seems he took it rather personally that I didn’t die.” The verde waited, hungry for more, but Obi-Wan’s silence held firm. As if it could be just left at that. Already, Rav and Walon’s comlinks hummed, inquiries sent to contacts who might unearth the tale of a boy Jedi who was on Galidraan, wielding a singing sword , besting the Death Watch.

---

The kitchen was silent, its walls stained with the ghosts of hurried meals. The air hung heavy with the tang of boiled roots and the faint, coppery whiff of blood, a reminder of the camp’s desperate straits. Riful stood at a battered counter, her solid cooking apron splattered with grease, her pale hands stretching meager rations into a final meal for the survivors. As a Claymore, she and her siblings thrived on a fraction of human needs, their uncanny resilience sparing precious plates for the hungry. Yet the weight of scarcity pressed on her, a shadow as oppressive as the Death Watch’s relentless siege. It brought memories of a past in a more primitive world. Failed harvests and to long winters that left to little food for to many mouths. She remembered the sad consequences of thaws times.

“Dads doing something stupid again,” Riful said, her voice sharp with accusation, yanking off her apron with a flourish it was true and a good distraction from the slow death that was encroaching on them. Her ribbon-like appendages twitched beneath her sleeves, a flicker of the predator she could become -hidden day from prying human ayes, used by night to do the work of several men-. She glanced at her siblings. Nobody was fast to speak.

Odet emerged from a crack in the wall, her small form slithering as if boneless, her tentacles wriggling through the jagged crevice. In her mouth, a sizable rat twitched, its life fading in her grip. Riful sighed, bending down to pluck the rodent from her sister’s maw, her movements practiced fast and decisive.
Once, she’d hunted vermin herself, her ribbons slicing through shadows, but the rats had grown wise, scattering beyond her reach. With time scarce, she’d conscripted Odet, her youngest, most feral sibling, whose need for freedom was easy to use. As long as “Blondie”—Satine—remained ignorant, there’d be no protests, no lectures. Obi-Wan, Riful sensed, knew of their grim hunts but turned a blind eye to them, his heart understanding that hard times demanded less than ideal choices.

With a swift, decisive motion, Riful severed the rat’s head, gutting and peeling it before her siblings as if it were a mundane tuber. The knife’s rhythm was a grim lullaby, its blade catching the dim light on its bloody edge. She tossed the cleaned carcass into a basket with others, sliding it into the freezing unit, and left the washed innards for Odet, who chewed them with quiet delight, her tentacles curling in satisfaction.

Isley, Priscilla, and Rigardo sat unmoved by the display, their pale faces etched with thoughtfulness, their Claymore eyes glinting like beskar in the gloom. They strained to hear muffled voices seeping through the vent from the war room, where Obi-Wan faced Vizsla’s holo-threat, with his own challenge for the Darksaber.

“It seems we have a recurring problem from Galidraan,” Isley sighed, his voice low, carrying the weight of their father’s past. He knew fragments of that snowbound horror would follow them - He just didn't expect for them to catch up quite so fast.

“Father will tell us to help evacuate the civilians,” Rigardo nodded, his tone resigned, he couldn’t refuse. Non of them really could. “It’s not like we can say no.”

“I can’t leave the kids after what Riful said the Death Watch does to them,” Priscilla huffed, kicking her legs in frustration, perched on a crate. Her gentle hands, so adept at mending toys, clenched at the thought of Vizsla’s lurid threats—children broken, forged into weapons. Over her dead body! Never again!

“One of us should stay behind to help,” Riful said, her voice firm. She glanced at Odet, who gnawed contentedly on a rat liver, then at her siblings. “They’ll be watching us like hawks,” Rigardo pointed out, his eyes narrowing. “It’ll be hard to separate.”

“You two are the fastest,” Riful countered, her knife pausing as she pointed at Isley and Rigardo, her gaze locking on the younger boy. “Earn your keep.” Rigardo huffed, but the truth stung. Isley’s craftiness could draw eyes, a distraction only he could weave, letting Rigardo slip away. In reverse, it faltered—Rigardo lacked Isley’s flair, and the same went for the rest of them, Riful could do a good distraction but was entirely to chaotic and risked derailing the whole evacuation.

“Fine,” Rigardo muttered, conceding.

“Absolutely not,” a stern voice cut through, sharp as a vibroblade. Satine stood above them, her reddish bangs framing eyes that blazed with royal fury, a Kryze unbowed. “I am not allowing any of you to separate. The least I can do for your father is keep you together and safe.”

“You and what army, Blondie?” Riful scoffed, planting her hands on her hips, aye twitching in defiance. Satine’s lips curled into a smirk, a spark of something ominous in her gaze. Their banter, often brutal to outsiders, masked a budding kinship, forged in the wars hardship. That respect gleamed as Satine snapped her fingers, and the shadows parted to reveal a band of camp mothers and elder women, their faces carved with determination, eyes as fierce as Satine’s. She’d rallied an army of survivors, a maternal wall to cage them, their resolve a mirror to her own fierce maternal instincts.

Riful’s eyes widened, astonishment giving way to a loud, ringing laugh, a sound that cut through the kitchen’s gloom so much like Obi-Wan’s .

“Well played, Blondie,” she said, grinning. “Well played.”

---

He sat alone thinking morosely bout his fate in their spartan living quarters, the kids were busy, the verd gave him space.

With the aid of Rav’s contacts and their slicing prowess, Obi wan broadcast a challenge to Tor Vizsla, a public taunt seen by too many Death Watch eyes to be buried. The duel would be a spectacle, a beacon to buy time for his ade, Satine and others to flee. Vizsla’s fury rippled through the Force, a venomous tide that set Obi-Wan’s heart pounding with foreboding. The reply holo flickered to life, revealing Vizsla, his beskar polished to a predatory sheen, his composure a thin mask over eyes that burned with crazed, bloodthirsty hunger. he oozed dark side malice whit every deep breath he took to stay in control.

“I will come to you, aruetii” Vizsla whispered, his voice a serpent’s hiss, the Darksaber’s black blade a shadow at his side. “Run, and I’ll hunt you. None like you will wield Mandalore’s blade. You’ll be my example, my trophy to mount.” The holo died, leaving a silence that pressed like a blade against the throat.

Obi-Wan sank into a battered chair, his tattered robes clinging to his lean frame, his red hair a disheveled crown in the artificial light.

“I have no desire to, anyway,” he murmured, his voice a soft but worn thin, the singing sword at his hip a quiet promise of the fight to come. Satine, her reddish bangs framing a face pale with fear, entered the room to pressed a cup of watered-down caf into his trembling hands.

“Thanks,” he said, his smile faint but radiant, his freckles a constellation against his pallor, drawing her gaze like stars in a storm.

“I know you don’t want to rule,” Satine whispered, her voice a fragile thread, woven with love and terror. “But… please, fight to win? I loathe this, Obi-Wan. I can’t lose
any more...I cant lose...you to that… monster.” Her eyes, fierce with fire, shimmered now with unshed tears, her hands trembling as if to hold him against the galaxy’s pull.

Obi-Wan nodded, his gaze locking with hers, a silent vow amidst the storm of Galidraan’s consequences.

“I understand,” he said softly, “but we’ve been over this. There are too many of them. We need time.” His words carried the weight of his Claymore-born children he’d sworn to guide, fifty and more their monstrous hearts his to nurture. To restore their faith in both their own humanity and the worthiness of this cruel world.

“But why your time? Your life?” Satine’s voice cracked, anger a shield for her fear. “Are none of those noble traditionalists willing to challenge him?” Her fists clenched, nails biting into her palms, blood seeping true moon shaped cuts, each drop a heartbeat of dread and frustration, staining the floor.

Obi-Wan’s lips curved in a bittersweet smile, his eyes tracing the caf’s murky swirls, reflecting the darkness he faced.

“I think they would, but he wants me above all else.” he murmured. “As a last resort, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d take up the challenge if I fall too quickly. We’d stretch evacuation time, one body at a time.” The verd—Skirata, Rav, Walon—would fight, their dedication a mirror to his own they all lost to much it was personal now. Or so he felt. Perhaps it would be better if they flied instead of perishing senselessly at his side?

Satine’s fists tightened, blood dripping faster, a silent cry against the duel’s shadow. Obi-Wan reached out, his callused palms enveloping hers, his touch a gentle anchor, massaging away the pain with a tenderness that belied his Tal’jika Ver’alor lethality.

“None of this is right,” she growled, her voice trembling, love and rage entwined. “People shouldn’t die for stupid traditions.”

“They shouldn’t,” Obi-Wan agreed, his voice a low caress, resonant with memories of the Temple and His own kin. “But traditions can hold beauty. They bring us together under a common understanding. Ground us and offer safety during uncertain times that some things stay the same, they persist and so do we. It’s men like Vizsla, twisting them out of shape and taking them to extremes, who breed demons. We’re sinking to his level to stop him, and I hate it as much as you.” His words were soft but oh so worn around the edges and as he spoke he felt a lot older than his not even 18 years of life. Still was it not for thaws traditions he carried outside the temple and shared whit his kids, he felt heed lose his mind completely by now. At the very list he would not find in himself the fortitude to do what had to be done.

“We should be better,” Satine scoffed defiantly, her voice breaking, her affection a beacon in the force. Obi-Wan’s smile softened, his eyes drinking in her face, memorizing every line as if it were his last.

“That’s not an option we have, Satine,” he sighed, his exhaustion a confession of sorts. “We take what we’re given and make it enough.”

“It’s not fair,” she whispered, her voice a fragile vow, her fear a shadow over their love. They leaned closer, their foreheads touching in a Keldabe kiss, a Mandalorian gesture of trust and longing, their breaths a shared warmth in the cold, their hearts beating against the duel’s looming dread.

“I know,” Obi-Wan murmured, his voice a tender promise, heavy with foreboding. “It’s a lot to ask, but… the kids…” His ade and fifty more Claymore-born souls waiting to enter this world—were his heart, his burden, their safety his only wish.

Satine’s gaze held his, fierce with love and defiance.

“I’d give them my clan’s name, protect them with my life. You don’t have to ask—not you, not any of us.” Her voice softened, a lover’s secret. Shed sooner denounce her titles than let a man like Skirata adopt. Still there was a comfort to know that even should she be killed there was no shortage of thaws who would step up, Obi wan commanded that sort of respect. “They adore you, Obi-Wan. Your fight, your songs… you. You’d make a good Mandalorian.” Her words were a caress, a dream of a life they’d never live.

Obi-Wan’s hand cradled her cheek, his smile weary yet ardent, their lips brushing in a chaste kiss, a spark of light in the gathering dark.

“I wouldn’t,” he said, his voice heavy with truth, “and I’ll tell you why. Satine, you need to know what the kids are. What they Truly are and what taking care of them would mean, I cannot let you go blind into this.” He spoke with aching fatigue, his eyes pleading as he bared his soul: a failed Jedi, not just father to five but guardian to so many more, beings of monstrous power he’d vowed to raise, to forge into humans. He braced for her horror, for her Kryze honor to recoil, to reject his burden and their love- Was he to forward in calling it that? Was it truly love or just affection made by trauma?.

Instead, her hands clung tighter, her lips silencing him with a kiss—raw, desperate, a fusion of love and fear. It was messy, urgent, their mouths a crucible where grief and dread burned, their bodies pressed close as if to defy the galaxy’s pull. They embraced, their warmth a fleeting haven, their love a fragile shield against Vizsla’s blade and oncoming shadow's. Obi-Wan’s heart raced, not with hope but with the fierce, foreboding certainty that his- their? - aliit, would endure, even if he fell.

---

Obi-Wan stepped outside the compound with his head held high, the weight of armored gazes—his allies, and the encircling Death Watch—pressing like Baskar ore on his shoulders. They were surrounded on nearly all sides, the ash-strewn battlefield pulsing under a sky where thinning clouds parted, a faded sun casting a ghostly glow on his half of the field, the air thick with foreboding, the Force humming with tension like a cornered animal protecting the young in its burrow. He felt the energy of survivors slipping through hidden tunnels, Satine guiding his ade and others to safety, their hope his anchor. His distorted reflection flickered in Vizsla’s buy’ce. The stage was primed for blood.

Despite the desperate, angry pleas of the Mandalorians, Obi-Wan refused armor, not as a slight but for pragmatism, as he’d explained. His fighting styles— flowing defense, and swift strikes—demanded smooth, fast movement, incompatible with scrounged ill fitting beskar. A fight for his life was no moment to figure it out and adapt, so he trusted his turquoise singing sword, its Force-imbued blade, its hum a battle cry for the light.
Vizsla stood before him, igniting the Darksaber, its black blade screeching with a void-like houl, raised slowly above his head, For all to see, for all to know. Death Watch yelled, hollered, and cheered, “Kyr’tsad!”
Obi-Wan countered with his own flair to respond to this intimidation, dropping his cloak in a dramatic sweep, the fabric pooling like spilled ink, his stance unbothered. With a slow, deep breath, he unsheathed his sword, carving through katas with smooth precision, the blade flashing above his head, its turquoise glow defiant against the light consuming hum of its opponent. He smiled at Vizsla, free hand beckoning,

“Come, alor’ika!” He taunted. The man fumed and his men hissed like a sea of demons from Haran itself.

They circled for a long while, predators in a dance of steel, Vizsla’s eyes glinting with blood lust and a long standing grudge from Galidraan—where Obi-Wan’s Force apparition had shattered Death Watch and severely wounded his pride. Obi-Wan knew such a feat wasn’t feasible here; he could only feasibly attempt short sonic bursts through his blade, nothing more, there simply would not be time for it. Vizsla, tiring of the dance, snarled,

“Enough circling, Jedi! Fight, and don't waist my time whit your cowardice!” He fired a grappling line to snare Obi-Wan’s sword, but Obi-Wan deflected it with an elegant spin, his blade a turquoise vortex, the line snapping like a severed thread. Cheers erupted from his side—“Tal’jika Ver’alor !”

“Stop dancing, Jedi! Face me!” Vizsla bellowed, his voice a venomous growl.

“I could say the same,” Obi-Wan snapped. “Afraid you don’t have the stamina to take me?” Vizsla bristled, and Obi-Wan twisted the blade: “I knew I did well rejecting your advances, old man. Too old for young blood.” He taunt's, ignited Vizsla’s fury.

Vizsla leaped forward, their blades clashing, the Darksaber’s black void slamming into the singing sword’s turquoise blaze, sparks exploding, the impact a thunderous roar. Obi-Wan braced for the Darksaber to cut through his ancient weapon, but his blade held, its hum a defiant scream, the blinding clash forcing him to squint, wishing for a buy’ce as sparks cascaded onto his face. Vizsla fought like no Jedi, his strikes blunt and brutal, like a war axe, or a butchers knife cleaving flesh, each swing a impact meant to shatter and cleve.
Obi-Wan parried with fluid arcs, dodging savage blows with Force-fueled flips, his movements a seamless dance of steel and speed, showcasing true warrior’s grace - Jetii grace-. Vizsla, a seasoned hunter experience whit Jedi, countered Obi-Wan’s flair, exploiting his lack of a master’s polish since Melida/Daan. Obi-Wan sank into Soresu fully, conserving energy to outlast Vizsla, his youth an edge.

Taking a deep breath, he merged with the Force, deflecting strikes with eerie calm, often with closed eyes, his serene face a warrior’s mask, the sword’s hum a rhythmic pulse in the chaos. Death Watch’s jeers—“Jedi scum!”—faded, but the Force unveiled the Darksaber’s essence: a kyber crystal, alive with centuries of existence, its defiance a sentient storm. Vizsla’s attacks grew more ferocious, hacking at Obi-Wan’s defenses with frenzied slashes, pushing him toward a wall.

He tried magnets in his gloves to rip away Obi-Wan’s sword, but it held unbothered, Force-bound. The Darksaber grew heavy, resisting Vizsla, fueling his fear, his eyes bursting colouring the world in a red veil, veins bulging in a frenzied rage, touched by the dark side's shadow, he was the embodiment of a venomous tide.

“You’re nothing, Jetii!” Vizsla roared as they got close once again, freeing a hand to plunge a vibrodagger into Obi-Wan’s side. Pain erupted like an explosive, Obi-Wan’s calm shattering, his gasp a cry. Vizsla’s grin was monstrous, his lust to paint his beskar with Obi-Wan’s blood overtaking all sense if their even was any to overtake. Obi-Wan countered with a Force-charged slash, the singing sword’s energy bursting in a turquoise shockwave, hurling the dagger into the crowd, its arc a bloody comet. They circled again, Obi-Wan’s blood seeping fast into the dirt, his strength waning, but the Darksaber’s rebellion evened the fight, its will spurning Vizsla.

Facing grim reality, Obi-Wan knew stalling was over. To live, to protect his ade, he had to strike. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered to the Darksaber in the Force, “is it my blood, or another way to sate your lust?” Its kyber pulse answered, a guiding spark. “You have my word,” he breathed, lunging with anime ferocity, trusting the Darksaber’s sluggishness. Within thirteen steps, his singing sword flashed, severing Vizsla’s arm, the Darksaber tumbling with it, its black light dimming. Obi-Wan stood above, blade at Vizsla’s throat.

“Yield,” he commanded, his voice a blazing resolve.

“Never, Jetii!” Vizsla spat, signaling his men. A group of Death Watch drew blasters, unleashing a storm of bolts on them. Weakened, Obi-Wan deflected many, his singing sword a turquoise whirlwind, but some struck, searing his flesh, slowing him down even further. Skirata, Vau, and Rav answered with blaster fire of their own, their shots a roaring barrage, fierce despite their numbers. Some Death Watch turned on their comrades, enraged by dishonor. Vizsla, a wounded beast, lunged for the Darksaber, defying his loss. Taking a bolt to his left arm, Obi-Wan reached out with the Force, summoning the black blade to his hand, now wielding both in a frenzied dance, their hums a duet of defiance, his duty a burning core.

Vizsla, unhinged, roared, “Die already! ” and hurled an explosive at Obi-Wan’s feet. Unable to dodge fast enough, Obi-Wan took a few more blaster hits to retreat, but the ensuing blast thrown him back any way, bones and organs bruising, screaming in pain. Darkness surged, but stubbornly, he thought,

“I can’t die like this.” There was too much to do. His hands clenched savagely around both saber and sword, as shadows of Mandalorians in armor leaped over his body to attack, their warrior’s cry the last thing he herd.

Obi-Wan awoke in a medbay - Predictably- , the sterile hum of monitors a faint echo against the throbbing pain in his body. An older baar'ur, his face etched with a judgmental, sour expression, loomed over him, his eyes narrowing at Obi-Wan’s weak but defiant smile. The Jedi mustered the nerve to raise a hand in a soft wave, his fingers trembling. The baar'ur raised a hairy eyebrow, unimpressed, then stood to check his vitals, his movements brisk and precise. Finished, he barked a string of medical jargon—too complex for Obi-Wan’s painkiller-fogged mind to parse—and a flurry of people entered.

Satine swept in, cradling a baby, her face a mask of relief and unshed tears, followed by the Claymore kids. Skirata trailed them, half his face slathered in bacta, his grin fierce despite the wounds. The kids surged forward, their voices a chaotic, anime-like burst of emotion, like a family reunited after a brutal battle.

“Dad!” Riful clambered onto the bed first, her small frame vibrating with joy, Priscilla close behind, scrambling to hug him. The boys held back slightly but clung to the bed’s edges, their eyes wide with desperate relief, their grip as fierce as any warrior’s.

“Obi-Wan… I can’t believe you’re… you’re alive,” Satine said, her voice breaking as she smiled, tears brimming. Riful whipped her head around, offended.

“Of course he’s alive! Dad’s not going to die to some old bag of bones!” she huffed, her defiance a spark of loyalty and unyielding faith.

Skirata stepped forward, his hand on his chest, bowing slightly with a savage pride that made Satine’s expression tighten.

“Live? Your father did more than live, ad’ika. By the old laws, he’s the new Mand’alor. Some of Death Watch turned on Vizsla, ready to follow your command, Mand’alor the Blood Dancer.” His smile bordered on feral, and Obi-Wan flinched, memories of the duel flooding back—the Darksaber’s screech, Vizsla’s severed arm, the blade’s kyber pulse. He sensed it nearby, its presence a weight in the Force, resting on a velvet cushion like a holy relic .

With a raspy sigh, Obi-Wan shook his head slowly, wincing as nausea flared.

“I won’t be your Mand’alor… that’s not the saber’s wish.”

Skirata’s eyes narrowed, challenging.

“You won it, Obi-Wan. The saber chose you. That’s clear.”

Obi-Wan shook his head again, stopping abruptly as dizziness hit, his vision swimming like a holo movie fade to black.

“No… it told me what it wanted. It came with me because I promised to fulfill its will,” he explained, his voice slow and strained. “I need you to take me to the Living Waters and gather the clans. This must be public, before someone challenges me for it.” he cough

Satine, quick to act, filled a glass with water and sat by his side, gently helping him drink. Riful and Priscilla shot her sharp looks, as if she were overstepping their claim to their father, their protective glares fierce. Satine ignored them - at this point it was a well practiced skill, that in the upcoming years of politick turmoil would serve her well- , her focus on Obi-Wan, her touch steady but familial, a partner in duty.

Skirata tilted his head, studying Obi-Wan for a long moment before nodding.

“I’ll need more explanation than that, vod, but your request can be done in a few weeks. As an auretii, you’ll need permission to visit the Waters, even with the saber. Do I doubt there is anyone that would refuse you it's still best to do it properly.”

“I’d hate to step on anyone’s toes,” Obi-Wan rasped, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips, his humor a flicker of defiance despite the pain. “As for explanations, the best I can offer is ‘Jedi osik ’ as Walon so kindly put it.” He glanced at Skirata, who deflated visibly, a mix of disappointment and lingering hope in his eyes.

“So, you’re truly a Jedi? One loyal to the Order?” Skirata asked, his voice heavy with a hope that Obi-Wan might renounce the Jedi and stay, embrace the Mandalorian way. In Skirata’s eyes, Obi-Wan was more Mando than Jetii, perhaps destined to wield the Darksaber like its first creator, a former Jedi. The Force shimmered with his unspoken wish.

Obi-Wan met his gaze sadly, his heart a tangle of clarity and doubt. Was he still a Jedi? On paper, he wasn’t sure—cast out after Melida/Daan, unsanctioned by the Order, whit no master to guide him. But in the duel, he’d found a truth: in his heart, he was a servant of the Light, a Jedi by conviction, not approval. Master or no master, Council or no Council, he’d follow what he believed a Jedi should do.

He felt his singing sword’s kyber hum in agreement, its turquoise glow a soft pulse nearby, alive with loyalty. Stranger still, the Darksaber, enshrined on its velvet cushion, echoed with a faint, resonant approval, its black kyber stirring in the Force. Obi-Wan fought a flush of embarrassment—it was absurd, truly, for two kyber crystals’ approval to mean so much, yet who could understand a Jedi’s soul better than the living heart of a lightsaber?

“I am,” Obi-Wan said quietly, apologetic, his eyes on Skirata. “I’m sorry if that disappoints you. I never meant to abuse your trust. It just… seemed a needless complication, given the situation.”

Skirata’s gaze shifted to Satine, his expression sharpening. “And your companion… the fabled lost daughter of Adonai Kryze, Satine, I presume?”

Satine froze, her eyes narrowing with distrust, her posture rigid like a warrior guarding a secret. Obi-Wan placed a calming hand over hers, nodding to Skirata, his touch a steady anchor, not romantic but born of shared responsibility for the kids and their mission.

Skirata cursed under his breath, loud enough for the kids to catch, their eyes widening with mischievous glee.

“Language!” Obi-Wan and Satine snapped in unison, their voices sharp, parental. “There are ade here!” The kids giggled, the tension breaking . Obi wan was almost happy to be bed bound fore once if it meant he had to explain the whole story only once and leave Skirata to carry the rest. Perhaps it was a bit petty, but then he just won an un winnable battle, it felt like he deserved a bit of a brake.

---

Whispers of an aruetii seizing the Darksaber raced through the stars, a spark igniting fervor, for this outsider dared summon the clans to the hallowed Living Waters of Mandalore. Tales of Galidraan—where Obi-Wan’s spectral beast spoke for the unjustly slain—followed like a comet’s tail, kindled by the goran of Clan Vizsla, her words a testament to the validity of all stories of a Jetii who served at the behest of the old gods, stirring awe and wonder among the Mandalorians.

The sacred cave barred all but the chosen few. Obi-Wan stood before the Living Waters, flanked by his allies, his Claymore children and Satine, steadfast, at his side. Torchlight flickered, each flame born of a clan’s forge, held by a goran or their apprentice, casting blue shadows that danced on glistening stone and bone. The air was cold, heavy with the weight of eternity, yet it thrummed with reverence, a sanctuary where the Manda whispered through the ages , a place where the Force sang of ancient vows. And the most secret art of smiting armour was born.

“Show us,” a goran commanded, his voice a blade through the silence. Obi-Wan inclined his head, drawing the Darksaber and igniting it. Its black flame roared to life, a void that devoured light, casting eerie reflections on the cavern’s rippling Waters, a relic of power that pulsed like a black sun, its hum a song of fate.

“It is true,” another goran breathed, her voice soft with awe. “The saber has chosen a Ka’ra-touched soul to wield it once more.” Clan leaders gazed, their murmurs a tide of reverence and doubt, their eyes reflecting the blade’s shadowed fire.

“It has chosen, yet it has not,” Obi-Wan said, his voice resolute, eyes closing as if to commune with the Force’s deeper currents. “It spoke to me, and I am its herald, bearing its will.” His words, steady as a lightsaber’s hum, drew the clan leaders’ gazes, sharp and unyielding.

“A blade cannot speak,” a clan head scoffed, his voice rough with skepticism. Before Obi-Wan could answer, the Clan Vizsla goran stepped forward, her presence a forge’s heat, unyielding and fierce.

“This is no mere weapon,” she declared, her words ringing like hammer on beskar. “It is a Jetii kad'au, its core a kyber crystal, alive with a soul stronger than any blade. Those who have held it, or stood in its shadow, know it bears a will of its own. To the worthy, it lends unmatched strength; to the dishonorable, or those who lose its favor, it turns foe, heavy as fate.” Obi-Wan nodded, his face solemn, joined by the other goran, their silent accord a testament to the truth.

“Pre Vizsla lost the blade’s favor,” Obi-Wan said, his tone unyielding. “Whether he ever held it truly, I cannot say. But its desire is clear: a hand devoted to Mandalore, to its people, as its maker was. I am not that man.” His voice cut through the murmurs, forestalling oaths of fealty. “I am a Jetii, bound to the Force. I am an aruetii, and that truth is immutable. I will not presume to shape your path, for you are a people of honor and courage, worthy of forging your own destiny. Too long have treachery, deceit, and foreign hands wielded this blade to crown hollow lords—shadows without Manda, leading you astray.”

His words reverberated, a clarion in the cavern’s depths, as he extinguished the Darksaber, its light fading like a star swallowed by night.

“By tradition, the blade must be won in combat; it cannot be gifted. Yet it may be return to its true master—the legend who rests beneath these Waters, among mythosaur bones.” He turned to the sacred pool, its surface suddenly still as glass waiting for what was to come. With a surge of the Force, Obi wan hurled the Darksaber into the air, the blade arcing like a falling star pierce the pool’s heart, sinking without a ripple to the deepest point. “Those who deem themselves worthy must challenge Mandalore itself for the right to rule it. This is the blade’s will, the will of your world. No aruetii shall claim it through coin or theft again. And though it may be a vain hope, I ask: when a true Mand’alor rises and their time ends, return the blade to these Waters, that the trial may begin anew. For this is the only Judge that can be trusted whit its keeping”

He bowed low, a gesture of humility before every goran and clan, his voice soft yet unyielding.

“Forgive my boldness.”

Silence held the cave, heavy as beskar, until the clans’ voices rose—angry, doubtful, some surging toward the Waters, only to be restrained by their goran. One by one, the blacksmiths raised their hands, torches casting long, wavering shadows, commanding quiet like elders of a forgotten age. Obi-Wan stood, head bowed, his children at his side, their small forms echoing his respect heads low.

“Lift your head, Jetii,” the Clan Vizsla goran said, her voice warm yet tempered, like cooled steel. “You need not bow. You have proven yourself a herald of the Ka’ra, perhaps even of our ancestors’ will. Many may question your forsaking of the blade, but we do not. You speak truth—we have strayed, allowing outsiders to weave too deep into our fate , we to often listened to ill council. If this is the path to a true successor, so be it. This is the Way.”

She bowed, the other goran following, then the clan heads, their voices weaving a solemn chant—“This is the Way”—that echoed through the cavern, a vow etched in the Manda’s breath. Obi-Wan’s heart eased, the weight of fear lifting; - it looked like his audacity would not earn a blaster’s retort-. Yet a tremor lingered in the Force, faint as a whisper, familiar yet elusive, like a dream half-remembered. Approval, surprise, a flicker of anger? He reached for it, but the cave’s currents—echoes of ancient deeds, souls long passed—clouded his senses. He let it go, attributing it to the clans’ roiling emotions, blind to the distant shadow, his gaze sharpening on Mandalore’s turning tide.

Beneath the dark Waters, the Darksaber descended, a shadowed comet sinking to the pool’s abyss. From the depths, a ghostly hand rose, clad in beskar glowing blue, seizing the blade with the intimacy of flesh and bone. It ignited, its black fire illuminating a spectral figure—a Jedi in Mandalorian armor, his smile radiant with reverence. The saber moved, slow and deliberate, carving through the water with a grace unburdened by centuries, free at last, reunited with its first master in a moment of communion.

“It’s good to have you back, my friend,” the apparition murmured, donning its helmet and quenching the blade. Darkness reclaimed the depths. As the forge torches retreated, their light fading from the surface, the pool’s floor held only mythosaur bones and the faint, looming shadow of a living beast. The Force, entwined with Mandalorian spirits, wove a veil no droid or unworthy hand could pierce. Here, where the boundary between worlds grew thin, the laws of the living bent, and the Darksaber rested, guarded, awaiting Mandalore’s true heir.

As Obi-Wan emerged from the sacred cave, Satine and the children in tow happy it was done and over with. He saw it, a familiar figure stood among the Mandalorian throng, his tattered robes streaked with dust, yet his smile bright as a dawn breaking through storm clouds. Qui-Gon Jinn, weathered by trials untold, radiated a quiet strength, his presence a beacon in the Force. Obi-Wan’s heart stuttered, unsure if this was reality or a pain-fueled mirage, and he bowed his head, a reflex of respect and disbelief.

Satine’s hand gripped his, fierce and unyielding, her eyes blazing as she glared at Qui-Gon, her posture taut with barely veiled resentment. Every step they took drew the crowd’s gaze—clan leaders, goran, and warriors alike—watching with keen curiosity, their whispers a tide of speculation in the Force. Obi-Wan felt their scrutiny, a weight like beskar on his shoulders, yet his focus remained on his master, the man who had shaped him even when absent, now returned from shadows unknown.

“I hope your mission went well, Master,” Obi-Wan said, his voice weary but warmed by a faint smile, clinging to the hope that Qui-Gon’s presence meant the true end of their trials, a return home. Or so he dared to dream.

“Indeed,” Qui-Gon replied softly, his eyes gentle yet piercing. “I believe it’s safe for Lady Satine to finally return home.” His words, though quiet, carried a weight that made Obi-Wan tense, a ripple in the Force as Mandalorian heads turned, their murmurs sharpening. Skirata had known Satine’s true identity—Adonai Kryze’s lost daughter—but the others had not ben informed as it seamed. Explanations would be demanded, and soon. Obi-Wan squeezed Satine’s hand, a calming anchor, and met her gaze with a soft, reassuring look. It would be alright, he promised silently.

Her eyes, though, held a sorrow he couldn’t place, a longing that pulsed in the Force like a fading star. Then it struck him, a blade of clarity: their mission was ending, and with it, a choice loomed.- No-, he corrected himself, the choice was already made. He was a father to his ade, a Jedi bound to the Force; she would soon be a queen, crowned and devoted to duty. Those paths could not converge without sacrificing one, and neither would yield. His eyes mirrored her sadness, a shared understanding, and their hands parted, a quiet severing born of necessity, not rejection. The Force hummed with their resolve, bittersweet yet unyielding, This was how it was meant to be.

But Satine’s aura shifted, anger flaring, resentment coiling like a storm. She clenched her fists and strode forward, head high, a queen in all but name. Obi-Wan flinched, expecting her wrath to turn on him, but her balled fist swung, catching Qui-Gon in the gut. The Jedi master doubled over, breath escaping in a startled huff, as the crowd gasped, their whispers turning to stunned silence, before erupting a new.

Riful let out an approving whistle, Priscilla hid a smile behind her hand, and Rigardo and Isley grinned, their eyes alight with elation. Rigardo even clapped, a soft, deliberate sound, his approval a spark in the tense air. Satine raised her fist again, aiming for Qui-Gon’s lowered face, but Obi-Wan stepped between them, hands raised, desperate to quell the storm. Odet, cradled in Satine’s arms, squealed in disappointment, her tiny limbs flailing despite the wrappings as the “game” halted.

“Perhaps not in front of onlookers?” Obi-Wan ventured, nodding toward the crowd—clan leaders and goran watching with rapt interest, their gazes sharp as vibroblades. Satine glanced around, a flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks, but within a heartbeat, she straightened, regal and unbowed. She tipped back her hood, casting aside her anonymity, and her voice rang out, cold yet majestic, a queen claiming her stage.

“Do not think, Master Jedi, that I will ever forget your contribution to this mission. Ever!” Her words cut like a lightsaber, and with a storm’s fury, she turned and strode away, her presence a thunderclap in the Force. Riful, trailing behind, muttered, not so quietly,

“Damn, she’s growing on me,” her voice laced with grudging admiration, a spark of respect.

Obi-Wan hadn’t been wrong—the mission was drawing to its close. Within days, Satine was restored to her clan’s seat of power, proclaimed ruler of Mandalore. No riots erupted, a fragile peace holding, perhaps owed to the goodwill earned defending the refugee camp, a testament to their shared struggle. Yet whispers reached Obi-Wan’s ears—tales of Mandalorians drowning in the Living Waters, chasing the Darksaber’s shadow. Each loss carved a new weight of guilt into his heart, another burden to bear for his choice to return the blade to its mythic rest. But it could not be helped. Thaws were the ways of Mandalore, and that was also why only the waters could ever hold the blade safely

He stood beside Qui-Gon, uncertain of what lay ahead, as Satine bid farewell to the children. Her regal attire gleamed, though traces of red lingered in her bangs, and she clung to Odet, unwilling to fully relinquish the child who had become her charge. Riful approached first, gruff and guarded, her words sharp:

“Take care of yourself, blondie. Don’t do anything stupid.” But she offered a brief hug, startling Satine, whose eyes watered as she swept the tiny silver-haired girl into a fierce, one-handed embrace. “Ack, enough, enough,” Riful protested, her voice soft and theatrical, yet she made no move to pull away, her aliit bond holding fast.

Priscilla followed, demure and proper, offering a curtsy, but Satine pulled her into a desperate hug, the girl returning it with equal fervor, their embrace a silent vow. The boys—Isley and Rigardo—stood composed, bowing to their new queen.

“May your rule be long, just, and your land prosper” Isley said, his eyes shining, and Satine, sniffing back tears, cupped his cheek, kissing his forehead, then Rigardo’s, her touch a mother’s farewell.

“Please, take care of your father for me, boys,” she said, her voice trembling. “Grow strong. A good clan needs good warriors.” She met Rigardo’s gaze with a soft smile. “And please, don’t fight one another. You’re at your best together.” She hesitated, her eyes sweeping over the children. “If ever you find yourselves adrift, in need of sanctuary, Mandalore owes you a debt. You will always be welcome here. I offer you all not only honorary citizenship, But to recognize Clan Kenobi as one of our own.”

Obi-Wan blinked, caught off guard, his mouth opening to speak, but Qui-Gon’s hand settled on his shoulder, a steadying weight. “The children would be grateful for this gift,” Qui-Gon said, his tone grave, and Obi-Wan glanced at him, curiosity flickering in the Force.

“Obi-Wan?” Satine asked, her voice slow, suspicion narrowing her eyes as she studied Qui-Gon. His swift agreement felt like a trap, a Jedi’s sleight of hand. Obi-Wan searched his master’s face, then the Force, feeling its currents shift, a subtle harmony, as if a piece of the galaxy’s puzzle had clicked into place. He turned to Satine and nodded.

“I would be honoured my Lady do I believe this warrants more discussion, so pleas be patient whit this outsider and his ignorance.” he said, and the Force hummed, a quiet affirmation, as if destiny had nudged another thread into alignment.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan secured the last canister of samples in the ship’s hold, their metallic sheen glinting faintly under the dim lights. Sizable though they were, for a station as vast as Juno’s, they were laughable amounts. Yet Juno’s systems, he’d been told, could clone these samples, weaving their essence into replicated materials for years before the base elements faded, like a flimsy image blurring with each copy, losing fidelity unless renewed with new matter they became useless shadows. The thought stirred a quiet unease in him, the word useless seamed to haw that effect. He needed to meditate on his feelings more.

A small hand thrust a canister toward him, no larger than a blaster, its contents catching the light with an otherworldly clarity true a small window on the side.

“We got you this, Dad,” Priscilla’s voice, bright with pride, her siblings gathered around her, their faces alight with shared mischief. Obi-Wan turned, a tired smile softening his features as he met Priscilla’s beaming gaze. He took the vial, its dark, translucent water shimmering with a sacred weight, and blinked, realization dawning.

“Is this…?”

“A sample of the Living Waters? Yep,” Riful said, popping her lips, rocking back and forth on her heels, her grin a spark of defiance in the Force.

“Rigardo grabbed it when we were leaving the gathering, just as the lanterns were moving,” Priscilla explained, her voice steady with purpose. “The meter Juno gave us said it’s packed with extra compounds the station could use.” Obi-Wan cradled the vial, his smile deepening, cutting through weariness like lightsabre splitting a shadow. In those fleeting moments of darkness, as the clans had shifted into formation, the boys had moved, their actions fast and silent unseen even by his Jedi senses. He was truly proud of them.

“We figured it was our only shot, since we might never see that place again,” Isley added, his tone nonchalant, though his eyes gleamed with quiet pride.

“It’s a sacred place, and those waters are meant for the goran alone,” Obi-Wan pointed out, his voice gentle, lacking true reprimand. “If anyone finds out, we could face trouble.”

“Then we don’t tell them,” came a chorus, not of four voices, but five. Obi-Wan and the children turned, startled, to find Qui-Gon Jinn in the doorway, his weathered robes framing a smile that carried a painful familiarity, like a memory of a life half-forgotten. His presence filled the Force with a warmth Obi-Wan both craved and resented.

He’s here. I almost forgot. Obi-Wan thought, a bitter edge cutting through his mind. Qui-Gon had invited himself aboard like a stray tooka, claiming space on a ship like it was his. It wasn’t that Obi-Wan opposed his master’s company—former master? Current? The distinction blurred, no answers forth coming. Knowing Qui-Gon, his own ship had likely been destroyed, or he’d hitched a ride to Mandalore with another. For all Obi-Wan knew, this shuttle was Qui-Gon’s only way off-planet. Yet he couldn’t simply ferry him to Coruscant, not when Juno and the children needed him. Juno would skin him alive if he did! They could take him with them but Qui-Gon, restless as a starbird, would likely 'borrow' the ship once he got bored of the station, leaving Obi-Wan stranded on the station forever whit no way out. Maybe they could detour slightly, and drop him of in some sort of hub. The world was spinning rapidly in tandem whit Obi-Wan's catastrophic thoughts.

“Obi-Wan, breathe…” Qui-Gon’s voice, soft yet commanding, cut through the spiral of his thoughts. Obi-Wan blinked, suddenly aware of the concerned gazes around him—Priscilla’s wide eyes, Riful’s furrowed brow, and Qui-Gon’s weathered face, etched with worry. The weight of his old masters hands on his shoulders grounded him, a constant litany of calm pushed on to him in the Force. He gasped, a ragged breath he hadn’t realized he’d withheld, his mind having slipped into a pit of its own making, unmoored and unnoticed. What was happening to him?

“Focus on breathing, in and out,” Qui-Gon coached, his voice steady, guiding him as if he were a youngling on his first meditation. “In, hold… and out, slowly.” There was no trace of the disdain Obi-Wan remembered from their past, only concern, a gentle push of peace and calm through the Force, enveloping him like a mountain of downy feathers, soft yet overwhelming, a comfort he couldn’t fully trust.

The children hovered, their anxiety a quiet hum in the Force, looked one concerned and ready to step in, should this new adult fail. Their steady determined nature was a good grounding in the Now of the moment. Qui-Gon, for his part, acted with a maturity that surprised Obi-Wan, gently taking the vial of Living Waters from his stiff fingers, securing it in the hold, and closing the compartment with a soft click. With a steady hand, he guided Obi-Wan to his feet, his touch a reminder of countless lessons long past.

“Now, let’s have some tea, shall we?” Qui-Gon said, his smile warm, motioning for the children to lead the way. Priscilla darted ahead, calling,

“I’ll get the water boiling,” with Isley close behind, their footsteps echoing in the shuttle’s narrow corridor. Riful and Rigardo lingered, their eyes flicking between Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, curiosity and caution mingling in their gazes, guardians of their father’s fragile peace.

The shuttle’s autopilot hummed, its course set beyond Mandalorian space, the stars streaking past in silent vigil. No tail followed so far, no stray Death Watch cell lingered to strike—they likely didn’t even know this was Obi-Wan’s ship, its anonymity a force sent gift.

The tension eased, a rare moment of respite, yet Obi-Wan’s heart remained heavy, the uncertain path ahead, with Qui-Gon’s presence a reminder of so many things left unresolved. So many things left unsaid . All of witch he gratefully pushed to the side for the sake of the kids, now demanded to be addressed. 

Qui-Gon settled Obi-Wan at the edge of the couch in the shuttle’s cramped dining nook, patting his head with a gentle familiarity, as if Obi-Wan were a wayward tooka.

“I like how you’ve let your hair grow out,” Qui-Gon said, his voice warm, almost teasing. “It’s so soft now.” Obi-Wan twitched, a spark of indignation flaring. Yes, his hair was longer, falling past his ears in waves, but it wasn’t a choice. Did Qui-Gon truly think he’d had time for grooming amid Melida/Daan civil wars, raising four infants, surviving Galidraan’s snow, or navigating the chaos of this latest conflict? The absurdity stung, a reminder of the gulf between them.

“Obi-Wan, breathe,” Qui-Gon’s voice rolled over him, steady as a tide, pulling him back from the edge of his spiraling thoughts. Obi-Wan closed his eyes, centering himself in the Force, the rhythm of his breath a fragile anchor. Only when the sharp, bitter scent of black tea wafted before him did he open his eyes, the tension draining from his bones like water from a cracked vessel. The kids and Qui-Gon gave him space, their glances flickering with concern yet cloaked in pretense, as if he weren’t the center of their quiet vigil. The tea was barely passable, its acrid edge more akin to engine degreaser than a proper brew, but it was tea nonetheless, a small comfort that warmed his hands and heart.

He sank into the couch, letting the conversation wash over him, a gentle current of voices—Riful’s sharp quips, Priscilla’s soft questions, Isley’s measured tones—until Qui-Gon’s words cut through the haze.

“The Jedi Temple has incredible resources,” he said, his voice soft but bright, almost a sales pitch. “You could learn anything you like. I’m positive Lady Jocasta would be thrilled with you, as long as you keep quiet in the library. She’s… particular about that.” His optimism carried a strange weight, as if he were selling a future Obi-Wan couldn’t yet see.

Something clicked in Obi-Wan’s mind, a memory sparking.

“She also hates people who hog datapads,” he said, his voice dry, “and especially paper tomes. Did you… return the ones you hoarded in our—your—room?” The question landed like a well-aimed dart, and Qui-Gon froze, a child caught pilfering sweets before dinner.

“I’m taking good care of them,” Qui-Gon said with a laugh, but his eyes slid away, closing briefly before darting to the side, avoiding Obi-Wan’s gaze. The evasion stirred Obi-Wan’s fatherly instincts, a surge of confidence rising as he crossed his arms, leaning forward.

“Oh, so you no longer use them to prop up one of your plant pots for better access to the sun?” he pressed, his tone sharp with playful accusation, a familiar dance from their Temple days.

“His small, he needs a bit more help,” Qui-Gon replied calmly, unruffled, though his smile betrayed a flicker of guilt. Obi-Wan groaned, the well-trodden path of this argument both exasperating and comforting, a tether to a simpler past. He opened his mouth to retort, but Isley’s voice cut in, clear and thoughtful.

“Why not ask Madam Jocasta what she thinks? If she’s the books’ keeper, it’s only fair,” Isley said, his eyes steady, a spark of logic that shifted the room’s balance.

Qui-Gon faltered, a mock cough rising as he hid his face in his sleeves, and Obi-Wan seized the moment, forming an united front with his son.

“Yes, that sounds like a splendid, responsible idea, don’t you think, Master?” he said, drilling Qui-Gon with a pointed gaze, the Force humming with their shared amusement.

“Well, technically, the books belong to the Jedi Order as a whole, anyone pursuing knowledge really.” Qui-Gon countered, shrugging with a soft smile, “so I’m at least a partial owner.” The sheer audacity drew a huff from Obi-Wan, his disbelief mounting at his master’s brazen logic, a classic Qui-Gon deflection that danced on the edge of charm and mischief.

“That could be calculated,” Rigardo interjected, his voice thoughtful, eyes narrowing as if solving a puzzle. “The number of Jedi, the number of books, and the time one could fairly keep a book.”

“Ah, but not all Jedi need every book,” Qui-Gon parried, undaunted. “Some crave language studies, like your father once did. Others prefer engineering modules. I’m partial to history and philosophy—topics few pursue, so the books I have see little demand. I’ve been granted… indirect permission to keep them longer.” His smile was serene, a Jedi master weaving truth and jest.

“What’s indirect permission?” Priscilla asked, her curiosity a bright thread in the Force, her head tilting as Odet, perched nearby, mimicked Obi-Wan’s crossed arms with her tiny tentacles, a silent echo of his exasperation.

“It means if they don’t come and get them, I’m allowed to keep them,” Obi-Wan said, huffing, his arms still crossed, Odet’s mimicry drawing a faint smile despite his frustration. The Force shimmered with the kids’ amusement, their aliit bond a warm current beneath the banter.

“Oh, yeah, I had a brother who said something like that, when I was alive fore the first time” Riful piped up, slamming her fist into her palm, her eyes distant with a memory’s gleam, sharp and bittersweet. “He said if it’s for everyone, it might as well be his. Can’t steal something that doesn’t have an owner!”

“Riful, that’s not—” Obi-Wan began, his voice rising, only to be echoed by Qui-Gon’s softer,

“It’s really not the same, little one.” The elder Jedi flinched, a rare crack in his composure, as Riful blinked, her gaze flicking between the two men, assessing.

“Explain,” she demanded, elbow on the table, her tone brooking no escape.

“Well… it’s… something I believe your father should address. I’d hate to step on his toes,” Qui-Gon said with a soft laugh, rising from the table with a grace that belied his haste. “I spied some sweets in one of the cupboards. I’ll fetch us some pre-dinner snacks to go with  the tea.” With that, he slipped away, leaving Obi-Wan’s disbelieving gaze trailing after him, the Force rippling with the kids’ barely suppressed laughter. Obi-Wan turned to his children, suspicion narrowing his eyes.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice slow, scanning their faces—Riful’s smirk, Priscilla’s innocent blink, Isley’s calm shrug, Rigardo’s knowing glance.

“It felt like you needed a breather,” Riful said, shrugging, and the others nodded, their agreement a silent pact. Obi-Wan laughed, a breathless sound, collapsing back onto the couch, head tossed back, the weight of his guilt and exhaustion momentarily lifted by their cunning.

“You are incredible,” he admitted, his voice thick with fond exasperation, the Force warm with their aliit’s unbreakable bond.

“You’re welcome,” Riful shot back, then leaned forward, probing. “But on a different subject, I thought we weren’t allowed to bring stray animals home. Is that negotiable now?”

“Master Qui-Gon Jinn is not a stray,” Obi-Wan said, frowning, though doubt gnawed at him, his own uncertainty mirrored in the Force. Frankly, he wasn’t entirely sure himself.

“Explain,” Riful demanded, her tone a playful echo of her earlier challenge, and Obi-Wan groaned, exhaustion and amusement warring as he sank deeper into the couch, the stars beyond the viewport bearing silent witness to their fleeting respite.

Chapter Text

Quinlan Vos crawled through the station’s vents, a gnawing sense of doom coiling in his gut. Infiltrating Juno’s stronghold was a triumph in itself, a feat that would’ve earned a celebration under better circumstances. But now, navigating this sprawling maze to find her main hub felt like chasing a phantom in a sandstorm. He rounded a corner, his breath hitching, and nearly roared in frustration. Two tunnels branched ahead, one marked with blue dot, the other with a scratched line—his own cursed markers, mocking his efforts. Juno was toying with him, her station’s vents shifting like a living beast, funneling him back to the hangar where their ships lay, a loop of defeat.

“Force, I need help,” he muttered, exhaustion fraying his resolve. “Any help, please.” He pressed his forehead to the cold, metallic floor, sprawled in surrender for a fleeting moment. The Force hummed, faint but persistent, urging him on. Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself to the last junction, letting instinct guide him. He would not give up—not now, not ever.

“Oh, come on, boy,” Juno’s voice echoed from below, sharp and imperious. “What exactly are you planning to achieve, crawling through the vents like a spider, aimless and witless? You don’t even possess a floor plan. You can’t hope to find anything of significance.” Her holographic form shimmered in the corridor, as immaculate as ever, yet etched with new worry lines, a weariness that belied her godly facade. “Get out of there and go back to your friends—this instant!”

Quinlan growled, defiance flaring. He veered into a slimmer tunnel, his broad frame barely squeezing through, the walls pressing like a vice. Without Force-enhanced shoves, he’d be trapped, left to rot in the station’s unyielding guts. Then it hit him—a heavy scent of incense, rich and familiar, like the Jedi Temple’s meditation chambers, laced with the soft trill of flute music. Hope surged. Was it another inhabitant? Obi-Wan’s quarters? Gripping his lightsaber, he ignited the blade, carving an opening in the shaft. The metal groaned, then gave way, collapsing under his weight. He plummeted, the world spinning, and landed in an illusory realm—a training cell, its air alive with spiritual energy.

Before him stood a dark-haired youth, barely older, startled but grinning, his presence a paradox: not wholly alive, yet vibrant in the Force, like a kyber crystal’s pulse.

“Hey… uh… sorry to drop in?” Quinlan said, flashing a lopsided grin, dusting off his tunic.

The youth planted his hands on his hips, his own devilish smile mirroring Quinlan’s.

“Well, that joke landed in a heap,” he shot back, his voice bright with mischief.

The Force thrummed, grounding and giddy at once, as if the galaxy itself chuckled at their meeting, two rogues bound by fate in Juno’s labyrinth.

---

Sleep was a strange realm, a mosaic of past, present, and future, where the mind wove threads of the known and unknown into a tapestry of fleeting truths. For most, it was a chaotic dance of images and emotions, easily dismissed as whimsy. But for Obi-Wan, steeped in the Force since childhood, sleep was no mere respite. His dreams were hijacked by visions—still images of unfamiliar places, faces, and feelings, vivid yet distant, like holos viewed through a stranger’s eyes. He had learned to step back, to separate himself from them as one might from a flickering holo-drama, observing without entanglement.

The sword changed everything. Its song, sharp and resonant, had opened a door in his mind, and now the visions spoke. They were no longer static glimpses but living realms, where entities walked the same ethereal plane—and saw him as clearly as he saw them. The Force, once a guide, now felt like a threshold, and he stood exposed upon it.

Something loomed behind him, its breath rancid, a corpselike stench that curdled the air. Dark water dripped onto his head, cold as Galidraan’s snow but heavy with a deeper shadow, each drop a pulse of dread. It began sparingly, a few sparse beads, accompanied by a rasping inhale, close and monstrous. Then the deluge came, a torrential rain soaking him, pooling beneath his feet in a viscous, inky mire. The presence was monumental, towering over him, its warped form bending low, a weight that paralyzed him, rooting him to the dream’s cold earth. He couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t face it, but he felt its gaze, hollow and unending.

The rasp sharpened into words, guttural and broken.

“My boy… my… boy…” it moaned, its voice a lament carved from eons of grief. Bony, half-decayed hands grasped his shoulders, gentle yet chilling, their touch a paradox of tenderness and terror. The entity radiated sadness, a volatile abyss so profound it could be mistaken for mania or rage, yet at its core, it was neither—just a sorrow that threatened to swallow all light.

Obi-Wan drew a shuddering breath, steadying himself in the Force, his voice firm but calm, a Jedi’s resolve against the void.

“I am not your son,” he said, each word deliberate. “I am sorry for your loss, but you must find peace. You have lingered here too long. Surely your family awaits you.” He reached out, not with his hands but with his spirit, offering compassion to this lost thing, hoping to guide it toward release.

The entity paused, the dripping water slowing, its breath a ragged, unsteady shudder. Obi-Wan felt its pulse quicken, erratic and wild, a storm gathering in its core.

“Family… family… damn them all!” it roared, its pain a tidal wave that nearly drowned him in madness, the Force buckling under its raw despair. But a sharp note pierced the chaos—a flute’s clear, resonant call, like the sword’s own song. The entity shrieked, clawing at its rotting head, the music a blade against its torment. The dream shifted, murky waters rising to engulf Obi-Wan, pulling him into another vision.

He emerged, sputtering, coughing up dark water that writhed upon the ground, crawling into the earth like maggots, each droplet alive with malice. He stood in a familiar forest, Juno’s station humming distantly. Two children played at a riverbank, their laughter a fragile thread in the Force. One was unmistakably his—a pale girl with short, unruly hair, darting through reeds by a shallow lake, her presence vibrant yet unknown, a daughter he hadn’t yet met notably missing an eye. Beside her limped a boy, darker-skinned, with curly, greying hair, his gait uneven, his voice rasping, as if his jaw were misaligned.

“Neideen, I don’t think we’re supposed to be here,” the boy said, his tone cautious, the words slurred by some unseen flaw.

“Nine-Nine, it’s fine. Dad doesn’t mind us exploring,” the girl, Neideen, called back, her voice bright as she crashed through the reeds, chasing something unseen. “Found it!” she shouted, emerging triumphant, muck coating her knees, clutching a small, white waterfowl chick with red bead-like eyes, its chirps feeble as it wobbled, unable to rise, one leg missing.

The boy, Nine-Nine, approached, his bionic hands gentle as he took the chick, cradling it with care.

“It’s real… and it’s missing a leg,” he said, sadness threading his voice as he sat on the bank, petting the creature until it curled into a ball, calmed by his warmth.

“Being an albino in nature is a death sentence,” Neideen sighed, washing her feet in the lake’s deeper waters. “You draw to much attention. His mom and siblings probably chased him off to not die themselves… A pike fish took his leg probably. He’s both lucky to survive this long and unlucky.” Her tone was casual, yet fascination gleamed in her single eye, the other socket overgrown, a natural absence that marked her as different, yet undaunted.

“Like me,” Nine-Nine said quietly, his gaze fixed on the chick, his face half-drooping, wrinkled like an elder’s, a stark contrast to his youth.

“Like us,” Neideen corrected, punching his shoulder lightly as she sat beside him. “Me and you, we’re both off-model.” She grinned, fierce and unyielding. “And we still kick ass.”

Obi-Wan sat in the grass, a silent observer, studying Nine-Nine’s face, its premature age a puzzle. “I wouldn’t be kicking anything but my own bucket if your Buir hadn’t pulled me out,” the boy said, his voice low, his bionic hand tightening briefly. “If you hadn’t slowed this… this,” he gestured to his drooping face, his limp, “I’d be decommissioned, too frail to lead or serve with my brothers. What kind of soldier has a bum leg and half a face like melted plastoid?”

“Yeah, well, what kind of monster hunter has only one eye?” Neideen shot back, lying back in the grass. “And with no monsters left, I don’t even know why I’m here. Don’t know, don’t care. We’re here, so there’s something for us to do in this world. We just need to find it.”

Obi-Wan pondered the vision’s purpose, the Force humming with quiet joy, as if affirming a truth. Was this his calling—to offer sanctuary at Juno’s station, to give home and hope to those cast aside, like these “off-model” children? The idea resonated, a spark of purpose amid his guilt of never being quite enough himself. If he had the means was it not his duty as a Jedi to use them for the good of the galaxy? But before he could linger, the flute’s song rang again, sharp and familiar, the sword’s spiritual echo pulling him back.

---Flashback: Before the Mandalorian Civil War---

Obi-Wan stood in Juno’s learning corridors, the hum of the station a distant pulse, the kids busy in their individual classes. Juno’s holographic form loomed before him, her godly visage contemplative as she processed his account of the singing sword, its existence a mystery that had haunted him since its discovery. In the absence of Madam Nu and her archives Juno was the only other option to gleam some knowledge.

“It matches the description of a spiritual weapon,” she said at last, her voice measured. “According to the database, we have an expert in this field, though it’s unscientific. These weapons proved effective against the dragon-kin, but the training program is flagged as advanced and… difficult to access.” Her expression was both judgmental and apologetic, a rare flicker of uncertainty in her divine facade.

Obi-Wan frowned, surprised. How could a pre-recorded AI program be restrictive?

“Does it require higher clearance than I have?” he asked, half-expecting another perilous trek into the station’s depths to retrieve some ancient key card—or corpse.

“No, nothing like that,” Juno said, her hologram flickering briefly. “This program isn’t just an AI reproduction, like those based on texts or recordings. It’s… more like me.” Her form stabilized, but her words carried weight. “It was created through the same process I came to be. Due to specific parameters, its AI isn’t subservient to me. It can refuse to teach or answer queries if it deems you unworthy. That said, it’s permanently bound to the training cell, so there’s no danger.”

Obi-Wan nodded, his thoughts drifting to Juno herself—a ghost in the machine, tethered to the station by her own calculated death. Was this program similarly bound, a digital echo of a soul? If so, he owed it a chance to communicate, perhaps to bargain for freedom in exchange for knowledge? Not that hed deny this old soul rest even if they refused. That said Any insight into the sword’s nature would be invaluable, especially now, after the blizzard he unleashed.

“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to try anyway,” he said, a spark of determination in his voice. “I’ve been told I’m convincing. I’ll make my case.”

Juno’s gaze softened, though her tone remained firm.

“According to the annotations, if they boot you out, you won’t be allowed back into the simulation. So do, or do not—there is no try.”

“Yes, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan quipped, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

“Excuse me?” Juno’s hologram flickered, her brow rising.

“Nothing,” he said, chuckling. “You just sounded like someone I used to know.”

Juno’s holographic gaze lingered on Obi-Wan, questioning, but she ultimately shrugged, summoning a translucent datapad. With a deft motion, she interfaced it with a chamber door, activating the module. A faint flute’s melody filled the corridor, its notes sharp and resonant, stirring the Force like ripples on a still pond. Obi-Wan glanced at Juno, then toward the door, stepping forward cautiously, the song echoing the sword’s own call.

The chamber’s illusion was breathtaking, more vivid than any holosimulation he’d encountered. Sandalwood incense wove through the air, mingling with the crisp tang of ink and aged parchment. Moonlight poured through a carved wooden screen, its cloud-and-lotus patterns casting intricate shadows across polished darkwood floors strewn with torn parchments—notes, diagrams, and sketches scattered like fallen leaves. Bamboo shelves sagged under scrolls, stone tablets, and arcane artifacts, their weight a testament to forgotten wisdom. Dusty tomes bound in embroidered silk bore titles like Treatise on the Five Elements and Records of the Netherworld.

Among them rested cultivation tools: a guqin, its enchanted silk strings gleaming, its body inlaid with mother-of-pearl clouds; a black flute whit a red tassel, pulsing with faint spiritual energy; and a fraying spirit-trapping pouch, its blackened stitches barely holding. A low cabinet cradled vials of medicinal herbs and shimmering spirit stones, their soft hum a heartbeat in the Force. Obi-Wan’s fingers twitched, certain he could touch these objects, their reality blurring the line between illusion and truth. The Force here was denser, tangible, like a dream-vision or a glimpse beyond a veil no living soul should pierce—not while still bound to flesh.

At the room’s heart stood a lacquered rosewood desk, its cloud-etched surface gleaming, strewn with a scholar’s tools: a jade inkstone cradling inky black, a wolf-hair brush on a porcelain stand, and stacks of bamboo slips and mulberry scrolls, their calligraphy detailing talisman arrays and ancient techniques. A bronze censer, dragon-shaped, exhaled fragrant smoke, its glow half-revealing a forbidden text beneath a silk cloth. Lotus-shaped bronze lanterns—one on the desk, one swaying from a beam—cast a warm, flickering light, the air rippling with a protective talisman’s chime embedded in the rafters. Beyond the window, a crane’s distant cry and bamboo’s rustle wove a serene yet eerie tapestry.

Obi-Wan hesitated. In any training module, a master would have appeared by now, ready to hear his plea. Yet the room felt empty, its silence unnerving. Was the simulation glitching? Unsure, he took a tentative step, his voice thin and uneven, betraying a vulnerability he hadn’t felt since his duel with Bruck Chun, when he’d fought to prove his worth as a prospective Padawan—and failed.

“Hello? I’m… sorry to intrude,” he called into the shadowed night. “I’m looking for information about a sword I found during my travels.”

His words wavered, memories of that duel flooding back—his desperate need to impress a master, his last chance to avoid being sent to the AgriCorps. The fear of failure gripped him again, but he pressed on, driven by duty to his children and the sword’s dangerous song.

“It resonates with spirits, I think. When I play it, the music attracts them, but I lose control. I need to know if I can control this thing or if it’s better locked away. Please, I humbly ask for a consultation.”

He stepped deeper, the flute’s echo lingering, when a pile of black cloth behind the desk stirred, camouflaged among crumpled parchments and brushes. A figure rose, blending seamlessly with the shadows until it moved—a man, young yet timeless, his hair both short and long, modern yet draped in a Jedi-like grey and black outer robe trimmed whit red over contemporary attire. Pale as moonlight, with lively, shining eyes and black hair tied with a red ribbon, he yawned loudly, regarding Obi-Wan with tired curiosity. Recognition dawned, and the man’s eyes widened, a spark of excitement igniting.

“You’re… you’re actually real, aren’t you? From outside the room?” he asked, hurrying forward, grasping Obi-Wan’s shoulders with startling familiarity. His grip feeling more real than any hologram.

“Uh, yes, I am,” Obi-Wan said, managing a faint smile. “Obi-Wan Kenobi, at your service.”

The man—Wei Wuxian, he introduced himself as the “newest master of demonic cultivation”—eyed him suspiciously.

“Weird name,” he remarked, prompting a defensive snap from Obi-Wan, who found Wuxian’s brash charm eerily reminiscent of Quinlan Vos.

“Weird? My name’s perfectly normal for my culture!” Obi-Wan retorted, though Wuxian’s probing question

“What does it mean where you’re from?”—dredged up a bitter memory.

“Only one that can’t be chosen,” he muttered, his voice dropping, recalling how he found out and how heavy the name felt when he was sent to AgriCorps. Like a curs. “It’s… what they call kids who are… sent back.” Yes sending back was an old ritual on his planet, since no child was considered fully human before the age of seven many infirm, unwanted or force help force sensitive children were 'sent back' into the spirit realm via exposure or other more direct methods. He was inducted into the order whit an M count that only barely made the cut due to the belief that his life was in danger back home.

Wuxian blinked, incredulous.

“And you kept that name? They didn’t give you an adult one? How old are you, fourteen? I suppose that is to young.”

“It’s the only name I have, and it doesn’t matter if no one else knows the meaning,” Obi-Wan shot back, defensive, the sting of his past raw.

“But it should matter to you!” Wei exclaimed, exasperated, as if it were obvious. With a sigh, he summoned an identification screen, Obi-Wan’s data glowing, and began typing, erasing “Obi-Wan Kenobi” and replacing it with “Bái Bìwǎn.”

“Hey! You can’t just rewrite my name!” Obi-Wan protested, peering over Wuxian’s shoulder, but the teen, with a perplexingly innocent grin, pressed enter before his eyes.

“I just did… duh?” Wuxian said, unfazed. Obi-Wan’s left eye twitched, frustration mounting, but he forced calm, releasing his anger into the Force, the effort both grounding and exasperating.

“You are… something else,” he groaned, Wuxian’s bold grin—so like Quinlan’s—stirring a pang of longing for his friend’s company.

“The word you’re looking for is ‘brilliant,’” The teen quipped, “and this is better. ‘Bái Bìwǎn’—White Jade Grace, a proper cultivator’s name.” He mouthed the syllables slowly, “Bye Bee-wan,” with a grand flourish.

“Literally sounds like ‘Baby Wan,’” Obi-Wan said, deadpan. “No one in the galaxy will let me live it down. We’re not doing this.”

“Too late, it’s on record,” Wuxian smirked, then added, “Besides, serious situations call for a courtesy name: Kěnuò, ‘Worthy Promise.’” His eyes shone with awe, and something in Obi-Wan’s chest tightened, warmed by the sincerity despite the absurdity.

“Force help me if you and Quinlan ever meet,” Obi-Wan muttered, shaking his head, then drew the sword, its flute-like hum filling the room. “Names aside, can you tell me about this? How to use it safely? I can’t risk it harming me or my kids.”

Wuxian’s manic cheer vanished, replaced by a sharp, professional gaze. He took the blade, examining it with a seasoned expert’s focus, his demeanour shifting from jester to master. His insights, once he ceased joking, were profound, touching on the sword’s spiritual resonance, its ability to summon and bind spirits, and the risks of its unchecked song. Though his expertise skewed toward darker subjects—a personal bias, not corruption—it stabilized Obi-Wan’s control, offering clarity before the urgent trip to Mandalore. He also held many records of pre written songs for similar types of weapons. Songs made to purify, make contact and cleans and so much more.

During more casual conversations Wei Wuxian revealed more: he was a soul trapped in the station’s machine, like Juno, bound by its ancient systems. The Ai creation was a mix of technology and arcane. Few that agreed to lend their knowledge truly knew what it would entail.
In exchange for his knowledge, he offered a deal—to help Obi-Wan exorcise the station’s trapped spirits, including himself, if Obi-Wan aided his return to someone waiting beyond.

“There’s someone special out there waiting for me, I hope they still are, all I want is to reunite with them” Wei said, his eyes alight with steadfast love, a depth that stirred Obi-Wan’s envy, though he needed no incentive beyond duty.

“Deal,” he nodded, their bond sealed in the Force.

---End of Flashback---

Obi-Wan snapped back to the vision, the dark waters fading, and turned to see Wei Wuxian, disheveled, playing his black flute with a red tassel, his form flickering with exhaustion. His eyes, though spectral, burned with urgency. He stopped abruptly, rushing through the vision’s haze. He was never as trapped as Juno was on the station, as a cultivator of spiritual arts he moved true the spirit realm and visions frequently. It required immense energy to make contact like this so instantly Obi-Wan was on high alert

“Bái Bìwǎn!” he shouted, breathless despite his spirit form. “You need to hurry back—your friends are in big trouble!”

Chapter Text

Quinlan Vos emerged from the training cell after hours of spirited exchange, his grin carefully tempered to avoid betraying the exuberance bubbling within. The Force thrummed with a quiet thrill, as if savoring the chaos of his encounter with the enigmatic Wei Wuxian. Before he could savor the moment, Juno materialized, her holographic form a storm of thunder and fury, cloaked in the disciplined ire of a Coruscanti librarian.

“Young man, I have had enough of your disobedience and cavalier attitude!” she bellowed, her voice sharp as a vibroblade. “You have trespassed, destroyed property—”

Her wrath, though fierce, was bound by her spectral nature, a ghost in the machine like so many of the station’s denizens. Not to mention her Self-imposed limits rendered Quinlan and his friends untouchable; the worst she could do was confine them to a room for entering restricted zones, and even then, only within bounds deemed healthy. For Juno, accustomed to dispatching adults with ease, corralling defiant padawans with her nonexistent hands tied bred a novel frustration—one she was only now discovering after millennia, and clearly not enjoying.

Before she could channel her ire further, Quinlan cleared his throat and bowed deeply, his movements exaggerated yet sincere.

“I understand, and I apologize. My actions were absolutely unnecessary, a breach of polite form and house rules. I’ll direct myself back to the ship and accept my banishment respectfully.” He peeked up, one eye cracked open, gauging her startled expression. Juno’s visage flickered, edges fuzzing briefly before she regained her composure.

“Well, I see a fall on your head knocked some sense into you,” she said, her tone clipped but laced with suspicion. The corridor door slid open with a hiss, her hand pointing imperiously. “Out!”

Quinlan flashed a smile he hoped wasn’t too punchable and speed-walked toward the hangar, where his friends awaited, their anxiety palpable before the ship.

“Quin, your comm stopped working!” Siri shouted, her voice sharp with worry. “We thought she… well, we thought something happened!”

“Something did happen,” Bant retorted, hands on hips, her large, piscine eyes narrowing as she inspected him. “He’s got a goose egg on his head. Did you jump off something? Well, anything to say?”

“Hey, hey, easy, girls,” Garen interjected, nodding toward the open hall where Juno’s hologram flickered ominously. Watching, Listening. “This isn’t the place. Let’s talk inside.” He ushered them into the ship, cutting off Bant’s protest with a curt, “Medkit’s inside.”

Once aboard, Reeft sealed the door as Garen ran a quick scan for bugs, trackers, or viral intrusions. After the incident that befell Quinlan last time, caution was paramount.

“Did you find something?” Garen asked when the scan came up clear.

Quinlan, perched on a cockpit bench, fussed over by Bant’s deft hands, grinned widely.

“Yes and no.”

“Don’t start with the cryptic bantha dung, Vos,” Reeft groaned, crossing his arms. Siri nodded firmly in agreement. “Just tell us—did you find Obi-Wan or a control room? SOMTHING?!”

“Right, so…” Quinlan hissed as Bant dabbed disinfectant on his scalp, then continued. “Obi-Wan’s not here with the kids right now. I believe he’s on Mandalore, according to an informant I met inside.”

“Informant?” the Padawans echoed, surprise rippling through the group.

“There’s someone else alive on the station?” Siri asked, leaning forward. “Can they help?”

“They already did,” Quinlan said, his grin sharpening. “They said they’d contact Obi-Wan and tell him to get his shebs here ASAP.” He reached into his pocket, producing a piece of flimsi shaped roughly like a humanoid—two arms, two legs, a head, adorned with symbols scrawled in what appeared to be blood.

“They… gave you a paper doll?” Reeft asked, one eyebrow arching.

“One that looks like younglings got hold of it,” Siri added, her tone skeptical.

“That can’t be sanitary,” Bant said, grimacing. “Is that blood? Please tell me it’s just a crayon.”

“Guys, let me finish!” Quinlan snapped, holding up the flimsi figure. “I saw this thing work. It’s our way around this place, outside her purview!”

The group hummed skeptically, exchanging wary glances. Garen, ever the mediator, spoke up. “Okay, explain. We won’t interrupt. Promise.”

“Only reason you’re saying that is because you have no idea how wild this gets,” Quinlan said, his smile bordering on manic as he launched into his tale—of crawling through Juno’s labyrinthine vents, and his crash into a ghostly encounter with a soul unlike any other.

---

The dream-world trembled, a fractured realm where the Force wove chaos and clarity in equal measure. Obi-Wan sat amidst the upheaval, the sky splintering above, shards of ethereal light raining down like shattered stars. Across from him, Wei Wuxian gazed upward, his pale face etched with consternation, the flute’s faint echo lingering in the air like a dying breath.

“Somebody’s waking you up,” He said, his voice steady despite the collapsing void.

“So it seems,” Obi-Wan agreed, his tone taut with urgency. “I have to go anyway. With what you said, we need to get back to the station quicker than quick. Even if Juno won’t hurt them, there’s no telling what could happen to Quinlan or anyone else crawling through the derelict parts. He could get stuck!” He leaned forward, pleading, his eyes locked on Wei, who avoided his gaze. “Please, go back and tell him not to do that again!”

Wei shifted, his grin faltering, a rare flicker of unease crossing his features.

“Well, about that… I thought the same thing. It’s dangerous to go full-body into places like that, so… I taught him a spiritual trick.” He waved a hand dismissively, too casual for comfort. “Nothing serious, really. Quite basic. Not like we had time for anything bigger and more.. theatrical.”

Obi-Wan’s blood ran cold, a shiver skittering down his spine like a frightened lizard.

“What did you teach him?” His voice was low, dread pooling in his gut. He hadn’t mastered many of Wei’s spiritual techniques, their lessons focused on the sword’s music, but their discussions had touched on arts too perilous for amateurs. Wuxian's reputation, though exaggerated, bore the weight of his own reckless inventions—tricks that danced too close to the dark.

“The paper effigy trick,” He said, his tone light but unconvincing. “He can cast his soul into a paper template and traverse the station as a bit of dust, outside the lady’s harsh gaze. I used it plenty when I was his age. It’s fine.” His hands waved animatedly, the gesture too frivolous, too forced, for Obi-Wan to believe him. He’d meant it when he said he feared the day Wei and Quinlan would meet—their personalities, like twin sparks, ignited too easily, and Wuxian’s teachings fit too neatly into Quinlan’s shadowed repertoire.

“So there’s no downside to that trick?” Obi-Wan pressed, his voice sharp. “No blood sacrifice, no chance of losing his soul?” Wei’s gaze darted away, avoiding his like a guilty youngling caught in a lie.

“Ah, well… about that…” The man began, his words slow, reluctant. “Since the effigy’s a stand-in for the body, connected by the soul… any damage to it translates to the actual body.”

“That could be deadly!” Obi-Wan shouted, his fatherly instincts flaring, though Quinlan wasn’t one of his Kids. He was a brother, a trusted friend, woven into his concept of family by years of shared trials. The thought of him risking his soul in Juno’s labyrinth was unbearable.

“It mostly isn’t, though,” Wei countered, shrugging as the dream-world crumbled, its edges dissolving into shadow. “Okay, listen, it’s cool. He’s a reasonable, smart young man. I’m positive he’s got it under control.” His laugh was strained, fading as the void closed in.

“I grew up with him!” Obi-Wan retorted, fury, disbelief and fear colliding as the world tipped backwards, only to wake with a startled gasp, the dream’s music ringing in his ears.

“Padawan Kenobi!” A startled voice jolted Obi-Wan as he sat up on the shuttle’s couch fully awake. Blinking against the dim light, he faced a gathering of Jedi Masters—his grandmaster, kept at bay by Qui-Gon Jinn’s firm presence; Master Fisto, his black ayes gazing curiously at him as he smiled broadly; Master Tholme, calm and watchful as ever do vibrating in the force; Master Clee, her gaze sharp; and Master Binn, patient yet probing. It was a terrifying thing to wake up to, suddenly obi wan was fully aware of his dirty ratty hair and all around rumpled appearance

“Master Dooku? Master Tholme?” Obi-Wan scanned the faces, recognition dawning alongside dread. “Oh no,” he gasped, breathless. “So that wasn’t a dream? They really ran off?”

The Masters, it turned out, had failed to locate their wayward students—Quinlan, Siri, Bant, Garen, Reeft—but had intercepted Obi-Wan’s returning shuttle and boarded it as a last resort. What followed was an exhausting briefing, Obi-Wan recounting his dream-communication with Wei Wuxian, the paper effigy’s peril, and Quinlan’s reckless venture in Juno’s station. The Claymore kids, ever-present, wove through the gathering, their oddity drawing the Masters’ attention despite the chaos of it all.

“So you can just… communicate during sleep? Fully converse with someone else?” Kit Fisto said, his voice warm with admiration as he cradled Odet's, her tiny tentacles curling playfully around his.

“That’s an impressive skill, Padawan Kenobi.” His focus lingered on the child, her presence a quiet marvel. Nearby, Riful sat close to Dooku, who braided her hair with meticulous care, muttering about “proper presentation.” Tholme, ever gentle, let Priscilla cling to him like a limpet, stroking her hair softly. She had sensed his stress over the Quinlan and it unnerved her, together they found a type of fragile balance. Master Clee bantered quietly with Isley, while Master Binn tried, with little success, to coax more than a military hello from Rigardo.

The children’s appearances—both physical and in the Force—captivated the Masters. They bore no midi-chlorians, yet carried a faint, ghostly presence, like an echo rather than a pulse, as if their essence hovered between life and the Force’s embrace. Obi-Wan watched Odet’s tentacles entwine with Fisto’s, their movements a silent dance, a language of their own, and his heart ached. It reminded him of his own loneliness and made him wish the children could experience the type of family he had in the order. It was a complexed feeling he knew he should meditate on yet once again there was not enough time.

“It… it started with the sword,” Obi-Wan explained, his voice steadying as Qui-Gon, monitoring the autopilot, listened intently from the cockpit. “It’s like it triggered my mind to see a different path. Now it’s a nightly occurrence, almost. Meditation allows me to ground myself, to sleep normally and avoid unwanted guests, but I’m still learning to control it.” I didn't haw time to, all do true felt like a flimsy excuse.

“Few Jedi take to this type of Force gift,” Dooku said, his tone stern but laced with pride, his eyes glinting as he finished Riful’s braid. “Most stumble into it by accident, too rarely to learn proper control. Even those who’ve spent a lifetime perfecting it rarely achieve full communication as you describe.” As Obi-Wan’s grandmaster, his pride was palpable, a rare warmth beneath his austere facade. One more Gifted star to adorn their lineage.

Obi-Wan sighed but smiled politely feeling the praise was unwarranted, then added,

“Is it a successful communication, though, when the other person has to be dead to converse?”

A heavy silence fell, the Masters exchanging glances. Obi-Wan pressed on, reluctant but resolute.

“Yes, most people I communicate with are, in fact… dead. And no, it’s not random, distorted dreams. There’s too much information there that can be verifide.”

“That’s impossible,” Master Clee countered, her voice firm. “We all join the Force upon death. There is no death, there is the Force.”

“Death, is merely a beginning peace is a privilege” Obi-Wan and Isley said in unison, their voices sharp with shared conviction. The room turned to them, and Obi-Wan’s gaze softened with concern as he met his son’s eyes.

Isley sighed, his small frame tense.

“We remember some of our time in the machine,” he said, the words heavy, final. Obi-Wan let out a soft, sad “Oh,”

Rising, Obi-Wan drew Isley into a fierce hug, his voice thick with resolve.

“I promised to get you all out, and I meant it. I won’t let any of you rot in that machine.” His words carried the weight of his whole hart, every fiber of his being bound . Someone muttered about attachment, but Obi-Wan didn’t need to turn to know his back was guarded. Three of the children glared fiercely, their loyalty a silent blade, and at least three Masters—Dooku and Fisto, perhaps Tholme—stood with him, their presence a shield against dogma.

In order to lighten the situation Fisto Quipped loudly.

'look at thaws tiny saws I bet she could bisect a fish three times her size whit one bite' he proclaimed cheerfully all but throwing the tentaceld infant in the others Jedi masters face like a proud uncle. 'I Bet she could take off somebody's nose whit equally as little a problem!' Then their was a short gasping yelp. a 'uh oh' and Obi wan was force to part whit his son to go pry Odets off of somebody's face.

''Apologies friend I did not think shed take it as an order' The Jedi master sincerely pleaded.

---

In the dim glow of the ship’s cockpit, Quinlan Vos hunched over a scrap of flimsi, his fingers tracing the final strokes of a talisman, his blood-scrawled symbols pulsing with an eerie light. Reeft, ever precise, trimmed the paper into a crude humanoid shape before—two arms, two legs, a head—his brow furrowed with skepticism. The Padawans huddled close, their doubts about Wei Wuxian’s “spiritual trick” hanging thick in the air. Quinlan’s chant, low and rhythmic, drew a ripple through the Force, and as he slipped into a deep trance, the paper effigy quivered, then wafted upward, spinning in an enthusiastic pirouette.

The group gasped, the cockpit alive with the Force’s hum.

“Wizard,” Reeft muttered, squinting at the floating paper figure. “Quin, is that really you?”

The effigy responded with a rude gesture, a hallmark of their group’s irreverent banter. Laughter erupted, sharp and nervous.

“I can’t believe it,” Bant said, her Mon Calamari eyes gleaming with a smile. “I feel your Force signature in this thing, Vos. Gotta say, this might be the first time you’ve ever looked kinda cute—for a balding ape, that is.” She laughed as the paper figure blew her a kiss, its movements uncannily Quinlan.

Garen, seizing the moment, snatched the effigy by its head, watching it squirm between his fingers like a trapped insect.

“It’s still paper, though,” he said, his voice edged with concern. “So delicate. You could get caught in a vent current or destroyed by… I don’t know, whatever crawls in those vents after centuries. Is this safe?” He pinched the figure’s arms, tugging to test its sturdiness. A tiny rip appeared, a hairline tear in the flimsi—and Quinlan jolted awake with a startled cry, clutching his arm. In the same spot, a small tear in his skin oozed blood, mirroring the effigy’s wound.

“Oh, kriff,” Garen muttered, his voice a horrified whisper, giving voice to the dread that gripped them all. The cockpit fell silent, the effigy’s tiny shape casting long shadows, a warning of the price that might be required.

---

In the hallowed stillness of the Jedi Temple’s meditation chamber, Master Yoda sat, his ancient face serene yet twitching as a vision unfurled, a tapestry woven by the Force’s unseen hands. The Temple’s halls stretched before him, alive with Jedi Masters, their presence a steady hum. Yet among them moved younglings unlike any he had known—pale as moonlight, with silver eyes that gleamed like distant stars. In bright light, only their shadows held form, bodies blending seamlessly into the white marble, their essence in the Force a faint echo, like whispers from a far-off sea. As they passed, a ripple stirred the Force, vast and deep, like an aquatic leviathan gliding beneath a lake’s calm surface, disturbing without breaking, coexisting without harm.

Deeper into the vision Yoda ventured, and the younglings aged, their ghostly forms now tethered to Jedi Masters—women of striking beauty, their soft smiles and distant eyes radiating quiet power. Padawans, more numerous than he recalled, walked beside them, their boldness a spark he wondered might trace to these beings’ influence. A storm bank rolled over Coruscant, dimming the light, and the pale ones grew vivid, their presence sharper against the gathering dark. Further still, the future darkened—a cold wind, heavy with the smell of ash and blaster plasma, swept the halls. Yet the pale ones stood resolute, like Temple Guards, gazing into the distance, unyielding as the Jedi beside them seemed tired but oblivious.

The air thickened, tense and crowded, a storm long brewing but unloosed, the atmosphere a boiling miasma. Then Yoda saw them shift from ethereal beauty to—beasts of monstrous form, no longer human to the naked aye, yet unchanged in the force. They perched on window sills, eyes fixed on the horizon with deadly intent, or stood sentinel on rooftops. In the Room of a Thousand Fountains, they swam, tentacles and jagged armor glinting under the water, while younglings played among them, fearless, as if beneath ancient trees. Old Masters conversed solemnly round them, safe in the Force’s embrace, and Padawans huddled, wary of the storm, finding solace in these immovable titans. Despite their fearsome addition, the Temple’s light endured—not as in Yoda’s youth, no, something had shifted, a change profound. Notably, a darkness at the Temple’s core was absent, a void where shadow once lingered. A shadow so old he had forgotten it was even there

“Fascinating, this is,” Yoda murmured, standing beside a rooftop sentinel—a glistening black centaur in full black armour, its presence a monument to patience. He was nearly invisible on the canvas of the dark stormy sky despite his immense size, Padawans clambered over its frame for a better view, old Masters rested against its legs, and younglings played at its base, unafraid. Imposing yet serene, it bowed its human head slightly to Yoda, it's ayes glowing like lightsabre blades whit an cold blue light, a brief gesture of respect, before resuming its vigil.

“Oi, old man! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” A sharp voice cut through the vision, bright as a thunderclap. Yoda turned to find a Padawan-aged girl, wispy and small, dressed in a simple white dress over a set of blacks, radiating the unleashed energy of a storm rolling over a desert plain. Her silver eyes marked her as one of the pale ones, her Force-presence a vibrant ripple. Hair dancing in the wind like a thousand ribbons

“Looking for me, you were?” Yoda asked, ears twitching with curiosity. The girl raised a fist, clutching twenty plump frogs dangling from fishing lines, some still wriggling with life.

“Yes, for you I was looking,” she said, mimicking his cadence with a grin, shaking the frogs. “We were supposed to try that frog stew recipe, remember? Some Masters are onto me, and I think they’re planning to bolt before we invite them to taste it.” She huffed, indignant. “Philistines. Frog meat’s delicious.”

Yoda’s ears perked, a rare delight stirring. Few understood his culinary quirks—only Yaddle and young Grogu had ever humored them. His cooking was a jest among the Order, a “cruel and unusual punishment” he’d occasionally wielded to make a point. Yet this girl, unvexed by his habits, offered camaraderie he hadn’t expected. The frogs, glistening and fresh, beckoned.

“Have that we cannot,” Yoda agreed, wobbling forward with surprising speed. “Hurry, we must.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” she shot back, matching his pace. “Also, you’re prepping the ingredients today great grandpa.”

“Care of the frogs, I can take,” Yoda said, eyes glinting.

“It’d be safer to leave them with Grogu, and he eats like a garbage disposal,” she quipped, her laughter trailing as the vision faded, leaving Yoda in the Temple’s quiet embrace. Change was coming and the force asked him to embrace it. For the good of them all.

Chapter Text

Juno’s spectral gaze swept the station’s halls with relentless diligence, her holographic form a sentinel woven from light and code. A sensor pinged in the labyrinthine vents, a faint anomaly that drew a sharp curse from her synthesized lips. Yet when she summoned the heat scan, the display flickered empty—no trace of life, not even a rodent’s fleeting warmth. Perplexed, she tuned into the microphones, their feeds crackling with an odd sound: a rustling, like a crumpled flimsi ball skittering through the ducts, nudged by the station’s ceaseless ventilation.

The vents, a maze of steel arteries, lacked cameras—unnecessary in an era when ant-like droids scurried through, cleaning and maintaining with mechanical precision. A heat scan should have caught anything amiss, down to the smallest vermin. Frowning, Juno’s processors whirred, calculating risks. She pulled up an image of the Padawans’ ship docked in the hangar. The dark-skinned boy—Quinlan Vos, that insolent scamp—meditated in plain view, his presence steady beside a friend. The others milled about, casting wary glances toward the station’s entrance, their suspicion palpable even through grainy optics.

“That brat must have left trash in the vents,” Juno muttered, her voice a mix of exasperation and disdain. “I swear, what’s wrong with young people nowadays? No respect.” In the absence of controllable droids, her options were limited. With a flicker of intent, she angled the vent pathways, redirecting the airflow to funnel the supposed debris toward the station’s bowels, where a long-defunct disposal chamber sat, its grinders silent for centuries.

---

Within the veins of Juno’s station, a peculiar orb of crumpled flimsi tumbled through the vents—a pair of humanoid cut-outs, Quinlan Vos and Siri Tachi, their paper forms clinging fiercely to one another. At each crossroads, Quinlan’s effigy raised a delicate arm, dabbing the vent’s corner with a gluey, bubblegum-like concoction. Invisible to human eyes, the marks glowed vivid in the ultraviolet spectrum, a trail only Quinlan’s goggles could trace, painting a path deeper into the station’s heart. Together, their ethereal forms outpaced the progress Quinlan had made crawling physically through these claustrophobic ducts, a testament to Wei Wuxian’s cunning craft.

Siri’s effigy, radiating skepticism and taut alertness, sensed Quinlan’s barely contained glee, his spirit alight with the thrill of this forbidden art. Yet their triumph was premature. The vents shuddered, reconfiguring with a grinding screech, walls sliding to nearly crush them. A sudden gust roared through, propelling the fragile figures forward in a chaotic spiral, trailed by a choking cloud of ancient dust and insect carcasses. Quinlan’s effigy flailed, its gluey hand scrabbling against the slick walls, desperate to hold fast and keep Siri’s form close as they hurtled toward an unknown fate.

The tunnel spat them into a vast chamber, its floor a deep divot glowing with an ominous, molten red, ringed by jagged heaps of refuse. A storm of dust surged past, battering the intertwined effigies. Quinlan’s figure clung to the wall, its adhesive grip faltering under layers of grime, while Siri’s held tight to his. Below, debris plummeted into the fiery core, threatening to drag the paper souls into oblivion. Just as hope flickered, the wind died, the vents falling silent with a final clank. The effigies shuddered, drifting gently to hover above the trash mounds, their curiosity piqued.

What fear had obscured now revealed itself: this was no mere incinerator but a derelict recycling plant, a forgotten hive of industry. Carcasses of small, insectoid droids littered the ground—some shattered, most intact but dormant, their metal shells glinting dully. Piles of meticulously sorted refuse stood in orderly rows, and to the left loomed a titanic version of the ant-like droids, a queen presiding over her silent domain. The chamber was designed as a hive, its molten core once melting ores, plastics, and metals into usable bricks, carried off by worker drones. A few prone workers, frozen mid-task with ore in their graspers, lay scattered, unmoving.

Quinlan’s effigy drifted closer, its fascination tinged with eerie delight. With a paper finger, he prodded the bulbous eye of a dormant droid, finding it coated in a squishy, satisfying film. He gestured to Siri’s effigy, urging her to try, his motions brimming with morbid curiosity. Siri, her figure radiating annoyance, tugged at him to focus, sensing the danger of distraction. Yet, relenting, she poked the droid’s eye, conceding its tactile allure—satisfying, yes, but they had no time for it.

Wary of the molten divot’s crimson glow—a ravenous maw for unrefinable hazards—the paper effigies of Quinlan and Siri flitted through the recycling plant with cautious grace. Quinlan’s gaze lingered on the scattered droid carcasses, vials, retorts, and needles, their presence hinting this was where medical waste met its end in the pit of fire. A fresh puddle of black goo, disturbingly viscous, sent a shiver through his fragile form, the effigy’s blood-scrawled symbols pulsing faintly as if recoiling.

Siri’s figure beckoned from a mound of plastick refuse, her excitement palpable. Gliding to her side, Quinlan spotted the cause: an access card, its edge jutting from the pile like a buried relic. Closer scrutiny revealed three more card-like shapes half-buried in the debris.

“Wizard,” Quinlan signed with his paper hands, his glee a spark in the Force. Together, they sifted through the refuse, their nimble, noble forms slipping through the tightest crevices and narrowest passages. At their size the mountain was a world on to its own, whit caves and hidden treasures. Their efforts yielded a hefty stack of cards—keys to command terminals or restricted zones, a potential jackpot for their mission.

Yet triumph soured swiftly. Dragging cards to a pile was one thing; lifting even a single one to the vent they’d entered through was another. United, they strained, their paper bodies quivering, but barely reached a quarter of the way up. Frustration gnawed as progress dangled just out of reach. There was no certainty they’d find this trash heap again, and abandoning the cards felt like defeat. Slumping onto a deactivated ant droid, both effigies radiated dejection—Quinlan’s figure kicking dust bunnies, Siri’s mimicking a heavy sigh, their silent pantomime a shared lament.

Then Quinlan’s effigy froze, its gaze fixed on the droid beneath. A wild idea flickered. If these were maintenance droids, one might have sabotaged his masters ship, crashing them in the temple hangars—a tactic she’d likely used before. If so, among the derelict ships where their team camped, there could be an ant droid waiting. If Garen and Reeft could hack it, the droid might know its hive’s location and could ferry the cards back and forth. It was a long shot, but Quinlan’s mind raced, piecing together a plan.

Siri’s effigy watched, curiosity tinged with amusement, as Quinlan’s figure launched into an animated debate with itself—a silent, ratchet-hilarious pantomime. Through the Force, she felt his thoughts coalesce, fragments aligning into something audacious yet not immediately disastrous. Before she could probe further, Quinlan’s effigy pointed at her, signing rapidly:

“We’re going back.”

Siri gestured toward the grate, then the cards, her skepticism flaring.

“Leave them. New objective,” Quinlan signed. “We go back, see what else we find, and regroup.” Then, with a flourish that carried the weight of a shadow’s dare, he added, “I have a plan.”

---

The paper effigies glided silently through Juno’s vents, hovering above the steel floor to muffle their passage. Peering through grates, they surveyed uncharted rooms—personal quarters strewn with trinkets, where mummified occupants slumped in eternal repose, their hollowed-out remains staring blankly, clothes and hair preserved as if time had merely paused.

“Obi-Wan wasn’t kidding when he said she murdered everyone,” Quinlan signed, emerging from a room with a mundane personal terminal, its data useless to their quest.

“I don’t understand what could drive someone to this,” Siri signed back, her movements heavy with disquiet. The quarters revealed a menagerie of the uninvolved—technicians, caretakers, not scientists or overseers—struck down by a sudden death. The senseless slaughter suggested Juno had lost all reason, though Obi-Wan hinted her motives bore a twisted nobility.

“Sounds like she snapped,” Quinlan signed, his hum subdued. “Master Tholme said it happens sometimes.” His thoughts drifted to his aunt’s betrayal, her slaughter of his family, his own sentence thwarted only by Tholme’s intervention. Noble intent or not, Juno’s actions branded her a monster.

They passed a derelict laboratory, its darkness alive with the low hum of residual power. Curiosity drew them in, and as they descended, a bone-deep chill seeped through, raising goosebumps on their meditating bodies back at the ship. Skittering through shadows cast by flickering lights, they beheld a ghastly sight: rows of preserved human brains, suspended in vats, their gelatinous forms dissolving into the surrounding ooze, spines dangling like macabre anchors. The sight was grotesque, but worse awaited. In retorts and tubes, mummified beings- animals, babies, and one...—older, perhaps late teens, akin to Obi-Wan’s Claymore kids—hung suspended, eyes sewn shut, pale skin sloughing off to reveal preserved muscle and fat. Missing limbs, gagged, bound, they bore the marks of torment, they fear her even in death. Labelled only as “Abyss Eater” with a chilling note: Control protocol for mass awakenings.

Siri’s effigy recoiled, retreating toward the shadows, overwhelmed by the lab’s oppressive horror. Quinlan, defiant, stepped closer, staring into the abyss. The Force bristled, a hissing, swirling maelstrom, not mere ambiance but a living wound in the force. Echoes of anguish fused into a singular, demonic consciousness—tethered to the decaying remains, pulsing with pain and fury. At its core, the Abyss Eater stirred, a feral entity of hunger and rage, its jagged, inch-long form snapping toward their astral forms, sensing fresh prey. The effigies’ nimble paper shells cloaked their presence, tethering the entity to the physical, but its spiritual gaze pierced through.

As Quinlan wove through the writhing blackness, slithering between vats like a serpent, he glimpsed glowing sigils on the containers—symbols mirroring those on his own effigy, blood-scrawled, both alive and dead. Obi-Wan’s warning rang true: this station was a trap, but also more it was a grand effigy, a soul-bound trap of intricate complexity. No one who worked here—living or dead—was meant to leave.

“Force… Obi-Wan, what have you found?” Quinlan muttered aloud, his voice a spark in the void.

The darkness surged, alerted by his words, lunging like a predator. Quinlan’s effigy dodged effortlessly, dropping prone. Siri, already at the vent, beckoned frantically. He lay still, observing the entity coil around the sigils, clawing blindly for prey it sensed but couldn’t see. Then, a calculated act chilled him: a skeletal, spectral finger activated a control port, its monitor flickering to life, login data nearly complete, awaiting only a fingerprint scan. A man’s ID photo appeared, his identity logged. Did the entity read their minds?

“What are you doing?” Quinlan signed, to the darkness and himself. “What do you want?” A violent, hate-filled roar tore through the Force. It wanted out, by any means. “Fair enough,” Quinlan signed, his paper head rubbing as his physical body sprouted a nosebleed. “Let’s get going, Siri. Maybe we’ll find this guy’s corpse on the way.”

“I think we already did,” Siri signed, gesturing back. “He was the mummified corpse in one of the quarters.”

“Well, that would be convenient,” Quinlan signed, his tone wary. “Too convenient.”

---

The rest of the return was less harrowing, a silent glide back to the safety of their ship. Re-entering their bodies felt both right and jarring—like stepping into a familiar room after years away, every detail vivid yet subtly altered. Vertigo tugged at Quinlan and Siri, their senses recalibrating to flesh and bone. Bant was at their side instantly, pressing water bottles into their hands.

“You’ve been gone for hours. Hydrate,” she admonished, her Mon Calamari eyes narrowed with worry. “We were starting to get concerned.” Quinlan flashed an apologetic grin, guzzling water greedily through the nozzle, while Siri nodded gratefully, sipping more measuredly.

“Was it worth it?” Reeft asked, his curiosity barely contained. Quinlan and Siri exchanged a glance, each raising two thumbs up in unison, prompting a chuckle from the group.

“We need to scour this trashyard for ant droids,” Quinlan said, still breathless, pointing at Reeft and Garen . “And I need you to bring them online. We found a treasure trove of access cards.”

“And a terminal surrounded by rancid body parts,” Siri added, squinting. “I’m glad you can’t smell as a paper figure. My imagination was bad enough.”

“I don’t think it was just your imagination,” Bant interjected, her voice low. “You showed physical responses to stimuli that weren’t here. Quinlan, you even had a nosebleed.”

“I did?” Quinlan touched his nose, finding it dry and flaky. “Huh.” He hummed thoughtfully. “Before we plan, I need to meet Wei Wuxian again.”

“Why?” Garen asked, his tone wary as he sat down.

“There’s… a curse, maybe?” Quinlan shifted uncomfortably. “I saw sigils like the ones on our effigies, and something in that lab—an amalgam of souls, trapped and raging.”

“Souls aren’t supposed to linger,” Reeft frowned, reciting Jedi teachings. “They should return to the Force.”

“If they can,” Quinlan countered. “Whoever built this place had kriffing sinister plans. I don’t have proof, just a bad feeling…”

“About what?” Garen pressed, his eyes narrowing.

“I don’t think there’s a single true AI here,” Quinlan said, his voice heavy. “That civilization, for all its advancements, never mastered programming a true singularity AI. They used arcane tricks—spells, like ancient Sith or Jedi lore. The station’s run by souls infused into machinery, ensuring it functions and that Obi-Wan’s kids, the clones, are sentient. Juno isn’t a program or a copy. She’s a person, driven mad by controlling this place and its horrors.”

“That’s a kriffing terrifying assumption, Quinlan,” Garen said, his eyes wide with fear.

“I know,” Quinlan nodded grimly. “And this spell—it’s hungry. It wants to consume more, add to its darkness. The thing we met, it tried to lure us in, showing us what we wanted. Worst part? We might have to go back because it is something we need.” His voice dropped, sullen. “But not without preparation. I need to talk to senior Wei, find out what we’re up against.”

“How do you know you can trust him if his magic did this?” Bant sighed, her tone skeptical but not dismissive.

“He called himself the grandmaster of demonic cultivation,” Reeft added, shivering. “That sounds low-key bad guy coded. even if he kindow helped”

“Will you be mad if I say it feels like the Force wants this?” Quinlan shrugged sheepishly, prompting a collective groan from the group.

---

Juno’s holographic form shimmered into existence in the corridor the moment Quinlan Vos’s boot crossed the threshold, her presence a sudden flare of light and authority.

“You’d better have a good reason for being here, young man,” she declared, pointing an accusatory finger, her voice sharp as a vibroblade.

Quinlan flashed a grin, sweet as honeyed nectar, his Kiffar charm dialed to maximum. He fancied himself rather naturally disarming, a rogue with a twinkle in his eye.

“I do, I do,” he assured her, hands raised placatingly. “I meditated yesterday, reflected deeply, and realized I’d chosen a completely… unacceptable approach, considering you haven’t harmed us yet.” His words carried the cadence of a rehearsed gambit, smooth as a sabacc player’s bluff.

Juno’s immaculate eyebrows twitched, her expression eternally unimpressed, though she detected no crack in his mask.

“Who do you think you’re fooling, boy?” she asked dryly, her tone cutting through his act like a laser. “I know your type.”

“Oh, do you?” Quinlan waggled an eyebrow, his voice dipping flirtatiously. “Am I your type?”

Juno stared, her holographic processors momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity of his line, as if he’d short-circuited her with its brazen badness. Quinlan opened his mouth to check if she was alright, but she groaned, pressing a palm to her face.

“I’d forgotten what beasts teenagers are,” she sighed, weary as an ancient star. Her gaze sharpened, locking onto him. “What are you hiding behind your back, boy? You think I’ll let you waltz in with a weapon or some hacking doodad?” She propped her hands on her hips, hissing like an affronted peacock.

“Hey, hey, chill!” Quinlan stammered, his charm faltering under her scrutiny. “It’s good, I mean—uh, not hacking tools.” He revealed a small toolbox from behind his back. “See? I can unpack it right here. Just welding tools and a scavenged metal sheet from one of the ships.”

“Why in the Force’s name would you need welding tools?” Juno asked, genuinely perplexed, her scanners probing each item as Quinlan laid them out. Finding no threats, her agitation eased, though suspicion lingered. Quinlan packed up, dusting himself off with a disarming smile.

“Like I said, I reflected and saw the light,” he explained, his tone earnest yet playful. “I want to make amends the best way I know how—by fixing what I so rudely broke. I can’t do much, but patching that hole’s a start, right?” His pleading eyes met hers, wide and guileless.

Juno regarded him, her holographic gaze softening, though wariness remained.

“I’m not letting you work in a locked room alone, doing who-knows-what,” she warned, jabbing a finger at him. “I’ll watch your every step.”

Quinlan raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening.

“I wouldn’t dare oppose the lady of the house.”

“Hmph,” Juno huffed, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. “Well, look at that. There might be hope for you yet.”

Juno led Quinlan through the station’s corridors with regal stiffness, her holographic form radiating authority as she opened the education hall’s door and pointed to the collapsed ceiling in the cultivation class room where the vent gaped. Quinlan offered a polite smile, thanking her with exaggerated courtesy before setting to work. He swept debris into a neat pile, fetched a stool from the corridor to reach the hole, and began his task under Juno’s hawk-like scrutiny. Gradually, her posture softened, reassured by his seemingly honest labor. Welding, however, was a slow, meticulous process, and Juno—bound by protocols prioritizing the safety of minors—sent him to a supply closet for protective goggles, a move Quinlan realized he should have anticipated. Her programming placed his well-being above all else, reacting to the welding torch’s harmful light.

In the closet, Quinlan seized the moment to ping Garen: Distraction in 10. He retrieved the goggles and gloves at Juno’s insistence, returning to his task. As he resumed welding, Juno stiffened, her holographic eyes narrowing with suspicion. Quinlan recognized the timing—Garen and Reeft were in the corridor, ready to badger her. She shot him a wary glance before closing the door to the class locking him in, the vents above clicking and looping to block any escape. If his plan had been to slip away, he’d be trapped. But his scheme was simpler. As the ancient room flickered to life, the ghost of a black-haired man materialized, offering a slow, amused clap.

“Nice play,” Wei Wuxian said, his voice laced with wry admiration.

“Yeah, well, I’m a shadow in training for a reason,” Quinlan huffed, removing the goggles and sitting with a serious expression. “You have some explaining to do, spirit.” He pointed accusingly.

Chapter Text

Quinlan Vos sat across from Wei Ying, the ghost’s chosen name for this raw, honest exchange, their low desk a scarred relic in the flickering education hall. Quinlan’s brow furrowed, his Kiffar tattoos stark against his tense expression, as Wei lounged with a spectral jug of what Quinlan assumed was alcohol, his face etched with disappointment. The Force hummed uneasily, a faint tremor echoing the station’s soul-bound sigils.

“The one frustrating thing about being dead,” Wei moaned, swirling the jug, “is you can have all the booze in the world, but it’s like drinking air. I’d kill and resurrect anyone for real alcohol.” His spectral form shimmered, a wistful grin fading into melancholy.

“You’re getting off topic,” Quinlan snapped, his fingers clicking sharply, impatience flaring. The Force rippled with his irritation, a shadow’s edge honed by Tholme’s training.

Wei ying waved him off, his hand cutting through the air like a blade, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“I’m just being interesting. Where were we? Right—my world.” He leaned back, the jug clinking against the desk. “We were advanced when this station was built, as you can see, but in ways unlike your planets. We lived in a bubble—only species in our system, no rivals for light-years. With near-unlimited resources from neighboring worlds, we crafted this station. Our threats were local, though. Our planet was split into reality’s layers, like everywhere, but ours bled through, spilling monsters,
making gods that could remake reality, keeping spirits that could not rest walking. We had it all, and we developed techniques to conquer the destructive and communicate with the benevolent. Cultivartors like me handled the… spiritual stuff, a vast, complex umbrella.”

Quinlan raised a hand, halting the tangent, his palm a barrier against Wei’s enthusiasm. They’d been at this for too long, Wei’s fascination with his world derailing them repeatedly. Quinlan’s jaw tightened, his psychometry itching to pull truth from the desk’s scars. Could you even do that if the desk wasn't real?

“I get that, but how do Obi-Wan’s kids factor in?”

Wei’s grin faltered, his eyes darkening as he set the jug down, the clink echoing like a knell.

“They’re Asarakam—or their far descendants. The Empty Ones, kin to dragons and ancient horrors. We delved deep into our native oceans, found soulless monsters there, savage but intelligent enough to ally with amoral kingdoms against other's. Our world split into war—those with monsters, those without. So, one side made their own to even out the playing field. An organization formed, using the bodies of fallen dragon-kin to create the Claymore.” He flinched, his voice dropping. “And then some.”

Quinlan leaned forward, the Force coiling around him, sensing Wei’s pain. The ghost’s fingers tightened on the jug, his spectral form flickering like a dying holo like he wanted to just not exist and think of thaws times.

“From my past lives,” Wei continued, “the first experiments were messy. They required a host imbued with dragon-kin flesh, woven into a parasitic form. Implanted, it transformed the body, granting draconic traits, hoping the human soul would tame the beast.” He sighed, his gaze distant. “It didn’t always work. Often, it birthed degenerate, human-shaped monsters with our cunning and lust, fused with an abyss dragon’s hunger. They broke containment, killed without mercy. Successful implantations became the first Claymores, but even they struggled, eventually consumed by the parasite, becoming vaster, more dangerous than their kin.”

Quinlan’s stomach churned, the Force whispering of the Abyss Eater’s rage. Wei’s voice grew heavy, his fingers tracing the jug’s rim.

“We couldn’t keep them on the mainland, where they’d wreak havoc. Spiritual clans found them… unnatural. A compromise was struck—a landmass cleaved from the main continent, turned into a zoo, run by a shadowy government tasked with perfecting the Claymores as weapons. To contain the secret, the island was erased from maps, its technology destroyed, its people kept medieval, fodder for experiments. No contact, save a few government agents. A world within a world, every religion, every idea controlled. No one could break out; intruders were trapped or eliminated. It lasted decades.”

Silence fell, the candle lights fliting faintly, the Force thick with dread. Wei’s smile twisted, a sadistic gleam in his eyes, his voice low and venomous.

“They tortured countless people—everyone, really. People inside were not happy. But they controlled everything so tightly they felt... untouchable, in full control. Until someone wasn’t.”

Quinlan twitched, his fingers gripping the desk, the Force pulsing with his unease.

“What happened?”

Wei leaned forward, his conspiratorial whisper chilling the air, his spectral form casting a long shadow in the dim. Quinlan mirrored him, drawn into the ghost’s intensity, the Force crackling between them.

“Remember when I said we had gods—ascended beings with reality-warping power?”

“They interfered?” Quinlan asked, his voice tight.

Wei scoffed, his laugh sharp as shattered glass.

“Gods need believers to thrive. Religions there were controlled, short-lived. Native faiths were erased for hollow idols, malleable shells without claws. They thought they’d neutered that thret. The spirit realm saw that place as a void—no sight, no sound. Until it screamed. Whit the howl of a new born spirit being”

Quinlan’s frustration surged, the Force swirling with his impatience.

“So they made a god? That’s how those atrocities ended? What does that have to do with Obi-Wan’s kids?”

Wei’s eyes gleamed, his voice softening, a teacher guiding a stubborn pupil.

“Nature abhors a vacuum, kid. Leave an empty plot in a garden, something grows there. Even salted earth yields life eventually. People crafted hollow gods on hollow ideas, like a pressure valve that would stop the formation of a proper religion everyone could flock to and use as a guiding light. But their belief and —raw, desperate— emotions, birthed god-embryos. Many, in fact. you cant control the need to believe the way you can control images of god's. Those embryos sought human hosts to fulfil their birth purpose, and wouldn’t you know, they had a plethora of exceptional beings to choose from.”

Quinlan’s eyes widened, the Force whispering of Neideen’s visions.

“So the kids are… gods? You expect me to believe that?”

Wei rolled his eyes theatrically, his hands flailing in mock exasperation, the jug nearly toppling.

“Not all of them! Having the potential to ascend and becoming a god are vastly different. As far as the spiritual clans knew, only two ascended into the light, and only one remained. Her mortal avatar, the twin goddess of love, ended the experiment.” He scratched his hair, frowning. “Or was it her sister?”

Quinlan’s jaw clenched, the Force roiling with his confusion. “But you said there was one god…”

Wei Ying nodded, his spectral form steady so what darker despite the flickering lights, the Force humming with the weight of his words.

“An individual with two souls.” He rifled through a ghostly stack of notes, pulling a drawing of an angelic goddess, her profile eerily reminiscent of the Jedi Order’s emblem, wings curved like a saber’s arc. Quinlan’s breath caught, the Force whispering of ancient symmetries. “A warrior born of love, loyalty, devotion, and a thirst for justice,” Wei said, his voice soft yet resonant. “As Obi-Wan might say, steeped in light. She subdued her kin, those lost to their abyssal urges, and ascended as the spirit realm’s true leader, conqueror of dragon-kin.” He sighed, the jug clinking against the desk, a mournful echo. “It wasn’t planned. She was a freak occurrence, the universe’s violent retort to spiritual violation, yet she answered countless prayers, ending the war and letting us prosper.”

Quinlan rubbed his face, exhaustion itching under his skin as he rubbed his Kiffar tattoos, the Force roiling with his disbelief.

“Kriff me… Obi-Wan’s raising a god.”

“And a slew of demons,” Wei quipped, his grin unhelpfully wide, teeth glinting like a predator’s. “To be fair, he’s doing a stellar job. If he pulls this off, giving these demon-kin souls again, he might ascend himself one day.” His laugh boomed, sharp and reckless, the hall’s shadows dancing. Quinlan’s eyebrow twitched, the Force sparking with his irritation, his fingers itching to throttle the ghost’s spectral neck.

“Okay, okay,” Quinlan growled, leaning forward, his voice a taut wire. “That’s the history lesson. But how did your planet’s saga end with an ark drifting through the void, stuffed with cloned demon-kids, malevolent spirits, and a murder AI that’s more ghost than tech?” His rant spilled out in one breathless surge, the Force crackling with his urgency.

Wei’s laugh turned morbid, his head shaking as he leaned back, the jug dangling from his fingers.

“History rhymes, doesn’t it? We tried it again, but instead of seizing a continent, we built it in the stars. Then we tried to clone a god. What could go wrong, right?” His grin was a grim crescent, the Force chilling around him. Quinlan stared, his jaw slack, the hall’s buzz with ominous energy.

“No way…”

“Oh, way,” Wei said, his laugh bitter as ash. “We aimed for the stars, but our kingdom needed… insurance against potential bigger threats out there. Plus, the power trip of crafting a god at your whim? Many craved it. But no one wanted to experiment on random kids anymore. Snatching street urchins risks chaos—mutiny, or worse, an unsanctioned spiritual entity. And they’d want to go home eventually.”

“So cloning?” Quinlan asked, his voice low, the Force heavy with dread.

“So cloning,” Wei nodded sagely, his fingers drumming the jug, the clink a funeral knell. “The organization excelled at preserving samples, sending them to the mainland until the end. Notes were lost, but the new group here had enough.” He smacked his lips, his gaze distant. “Problem was, they were scientists, blind to the spiritual, unable to control a godling’s birth or its demonic siblings. So they turned to us—spiritualists, cultivators etc. But most knew better than to meddle, thaws who agreed were demons in their own right, twisted and sick individuals. We forged the theoretical controls when asked, but failed kids whit our indifference exactly as before— They tortured staff, cloned the kids here, sparking mini-rebellions.” He sighed, the air thick with regret. “The kids were remembering their previous life's, faster whit every death, or so they thought based on how frequent the rebellions were and how organized. The scientists needed control, something complex, so they dove into necromancy—controlling demonic beings and the dead. And they eventually found… me.”

He groaned, slumping, the jug nearly slipping.

“There’s no school of demonic cultivation, no matter who claims it. Even if my notes were stolen, it’s not a discipline for disciples to learn. It’s a curse, etched in my soul. I don’t know why, but it’s in my blood. Every rebirth, I stumble, onto it, and I become the grandmaster again. Quinlan, I’ve I been around for eons.” His gaze held a desperate sadness, raw and shattering, the Force piercing Quinlan’s heart. He wanted to offer comfort, but the scope overwhelmed him, his Jedi training a candle against this abyss.

“Sorry,” Wei sighed, rubbing his eyes, his spectral tears vanishing like mist. “Where were we? Right—they They found me, my clan. I didn’t remember, but they knew I’d recall or rediscover it, my blood knew. They nearly murdered my family—not overtly, too obvious, but they made sure I’d know when they came offering a deal. The devil is one snappy dresser... They pushed until I gave in, went with them, if only they’d spared my family, spared others.” A faint blush dusted his cheeks, shame in his voice, the Force trembling with his sacrifice.

“Did they keep their word?” Quinlan asked, his tone gentle, probing.

“Heavens, I hope,” Wei whispered, his form flickering, hope a fragile thread. “I never saw them again. I was taken here, forced to work with scientists on… you saw.” His eyes burned, the Abyss Eater’s lair a shared nightmare.

“Those corpses in the pods?” Quinlan pressed, his fingers tightening, the Force a cold shroud.

“Those were… exceptional individuals, meant for immortality. Cryo-sleeps slows normal aging, but after stasis, you age and you die—eventually.- They took gifted young people, and others. Discarded their feeble bodies, fewer moving parts to fail the smaller the list of variables to control. They tethered souls to brains with my help. As it appears. A brain in a jar, alone in nothingness, fades. It simply loses the will to live and gives up life... I was there to ensure they suffered an eternity in a void, lightless, soundless, where no mater how hard you screamed nobody could ever hear you…” His regret was a blade, the Force keening with his pain. “You can’t stare into the abyss without it staring back. I don’t recall everything—my mind shields itself, a mercy of our frail lizard brains. We call them stupid but they are smart enough to know when being dumb is simply better for us.”

Quinlan’s heart clenched. Wei’s voice dropped, a haunted murmur.

“I was losing myself here, but the breaking point was Project Abyss Feeder. They dug up an ancient monstrosity to cow the awoken kids, scare demons themselves. Once more...WHAT COULD GO WRONG?! They gave me a corpse to reanimate, to control… When she broke free… gods…” His laugh was hollow, the hall’s shadows deepening. “I died by her hand, and I was so Fucking happy… until I woke here, trapped. They never meant to let us go, alive or dead. In the spirit realm, you see clearer. They tried to pull me back in this room, keep their sick experiments going. I played broken—they didn’t know better. They used my work to torture, and I could only watch. Malevolent energy piled up, spirits degenerated, devoured each other. Ever hear of a Gudu? A curse where you trap venomous creatures—toads, snakes, spiders, centipedes—in a jar, let them fight until one remains, the most evil, most poisonous. This station became a Gudu jar, and I was at list partially at fault.”

Quinlan’s breath hitched, the Force roaring with the station’s curse, the memory of the Abyss Eater’s hunger a pulse in his bones. Wei’s gaze hardened, his voice resolute.
“They sought to make a god, but this place could become a spiritual bomb, the thought of it descending to our world to feed, targeting those tied to the spirit realm, then all everyone else. I couldn’t let that happen. I had people -family- to protect. When I sensed a soul in turmoil, at their breaking point—someone with the right idea and a body—I guided them from the shadows.”

Quinlan’s eyes widened, the Force surging with realization, the hall’s lights flickering like a dying star almost blowing out.

“You… you were the one to make Juno?”

“Oh, please,” Wei Ying scoffed, his form shimmering in the education hall’s dim glow, the Force pulsing with his wry defiance. “Juno made herself. I just gave her the knowledge to persist, to stay relatively sane.” He leaned back, the ghostly jug clinking against the desk, its sound a faint knell in the stale air. “She couldn’t stomach what they did to the kids, to others. She saw this place’s danger—from a different angle than me, but we agreed it had to go. So, we planned to hurl it out of our system, set it adrift.”

Quinlan’s jaw tightened, his Kiffar tattoos stark against his paling skin like all his emotions went into them, the Force roiling with his outrage.

“But why everyone? Staff, scientists—surely not all were part of this savagery?”

Wei’s gaze darkened, his fingers tightening on the jug, the Force chilling like a void’s breath.

“Nobody left this place alive, kid. Contract done, fired, didn’t matter—you left as property of the science division.” His voice dropped, heavy with Juno’s pain. “She had a family down there, one she ached to return to, only to learn she never could. That was the straw that broke her. To stop the Gudu’s growth, we needed everyone to die quietly, separately, so their spirits wouldn’t roam or clump together. Most would fade in stasis, not devour each other. What you faced could’ve been bigger, meaner, if it had eons to feed.”

“Kriff…” Quinlan rubbed his face, the sting grounding him, the Force a storm of dread. His psychometry itched for some reason. “Okay, okay—to the point, but we’re circling back to this. How do I kill it?”

Wei ying hissed, a pained sound that sent a shiver down Quinlan’s spine, the Force keening like a fractured crystal.

“You don’t?” he groaned meekly, his spectral form slumping, the jug nearly slipping.

Quinlan bristled, his eyes narrowing, the Force sparking with his frustration.

“Are you asking me?”

“You don’t,” Wei corrected, his voice firming as he straightened, his gaze resolute. “The only way to destroy it is a flood of light—pure, burning, purifying. There are techniques without sunlight, but you lack the talent, and there’s no time to learn. Leave it locked behind titanium doors, seal the exits.”

“I can’t!” Quinlan exploded, his fists slamming the desk, the Force surging like a breached reactor. “It’s got the thing we need for our mission in that room. I have to go in, work undisturbed!” His voice cracked, desperation raw, the Abyss Eater’s hunger a pulse in his bones.

Wei hummed, his eyes thoughtful, a faint smile curling his lips, maddeningly calm.

“Sucks to be you,” he offered, then flinched as Quinlan’s hand rose, a reflex to swat the ghost. “Hey, hey, none of that!” He waved placatingly, his grin sheepish. “Let’s see… I can’t kill it for you, but…” He stood, rifling through ghostly notes and books, tossing them haphazardly, the hall’s clutter growing chaotic, papers fluttering like specters.

Quinlan crossed his arms, exasperation etching his face, the Force swirling with his impatience.

“You’re a ghost—is any of this even real? Can’t you just remember?”

Wei paused, turning, his eyes glinting with a teacher’s patience.

“Can you recall some obscure fact by snapping your fingers?” he asked, his voice measured. “You’re in a manifestation of my mind, everything I am. I know where it is… more or less. I just need to find the memory.” He resumed his frenzy, books flying at dizzying speed, the hall’s shadows writhing as if alive.

Quinlan surveyed the mess, his eyebrow arching, the Force whispering of Wei’s fractured psyche. At list he knew why his psychometry was acting up

“Well, that explains a few things,” he muttered, his tone dry, a shadow’s wit cutting through the dread.

“Found it!” Wei exclaimed, clutching a spectral scroll, his grin triumphant, the Force flaring with his elation, the hall’s lights flickering like a reborn star.

“This will allow you to craft an more complex effigy,” Wei Ying said, his spectral voice light. “They’re simple to make from nearly any material, surprisingly durable with spiritual reinforcement. The catch is… you’ll need to load it with something to make it move, to draw that thing’s attention.” He sighed, his gaze turning grave as he passed the glowing scroll to Quinlan, the Force pulsing with a warning, like a saber’s hum before a strike.

Quinlan took it tentatively, his frown deepening as he unrolled the parchment, its sigils alien yet pulsing with intent.

“Load it with what, exactly? That’s not how the Force works… though Force-imbued relics exist, I suppose.” He hummed, his psychometry itching, the scroll’s edges whispering of sacrifice. He glanced at Wei ying, who looked older, sadder, his spectral form dimming as if burdened by eons.

“I don’t know your Force,” Wei ying said, his voice low, “but to hold that thing’s gaze long enough, you’d need to offer what it craves. Like tossing a small animal into a hound’s pen to distract it.” He hid his hands in his long sleeves, eyes closing, avoiding Quinlan’s gaze as the Jedi pieced together the implication, the Force coiling with dread.

Quinlan’s breath hitched, his voice a horrified whisper, the hall’s air chilling like a tomb.

“…You want me to put a friend’s soul in it?”

Wei’s eyes snapped open, his frown sharp, the Force flaring with his indignation.

“Of course not! There’s a plethora of spirits here, as we discussed. You’ll find one wandering near the dock where you’re sleeping. The ritual draws the nearest, offering a body you control. Send it into the room, let the Gudu chase it while you work.” His gaze skittered away, maintaining minimal eye contact, the jug clinking faintly as his fingers twitched.

Quinlan’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the scroll, the Force roiling with his unease.

“And… what happens when the mission’s done?” The idea of spirits clashed with Jedi teachings, yet here he stood, debating with a ghost. This station’s principles—where identities lingered, sentient and substantial—challenged everything he had ben taught. Sacrificing a soul to the Abyss Eater, to suffer eternal torment, felt like a betrayal of the light. These spirits had already endured, cut off from the Force’s embrace. Who was he to add to their pain? Yet, as a Jedi shadow, wasn’t his duty to the living, to Obi-Wan’s kids?

Wei’s voice softened, slow and deliberate, the Force heavy with his regret.

“If they escape with you, you dispel the enchantment, and they return to wandering. If they’re caught… well...what does a hound do to a kit once it grabs it?” His words hung like a noose, the hall’s shadows writhing.

Quinlan’s eyes widened, horror surging through him, the Force a storm of rejection. In a flash, he thrust the scroll back into Wei’s hands, his voice a furious growl. “No. I’m not doing this. Find another way, old man!” The parchment trembled under his palms, the Force crackling with his resolve.

Caught off guard, Wei ying fumbled the scroll, blinking rapidly, his spectral form flickering.

“What do you mean, another way? I gave you a foolproof plan!” He pushed the scroll back, but Quinlan shoved it away, their struggle a frantic dance of wills, the Force swirling with their clash. In a burst of anger, Quinlan hurled the scroll across the room, out an open window, its shape vanishing into the illusionary background.

“Hey, be careful with that! It’s part of my memory!” Wei ying yelped, his hands flailing, the jug nearly toppling.

“You be careful with it!” Quinlan snapped, his Kiffar tattoos blazing under the lights, the Force a blade of defiance. “Give me something I can use, old man!”

“Old man? I’ll have you know I wasn’t even thirty when I expired in this life, you brat!” Wei huffed, pacing the room, his spectral form trailing wisps of light. “Ugh, fine… let me think. It’s been ages since I sifted my memories. Being dead makes things hazy. I’d sell my soul for a drink.” He muttered despondently, his hands tugging at his hair, the hall’s clutter shifting as if echoing his turmoil.

Quinlan leaned forward, his mind racing, the Force urging him to act, Tholme’s lessons echoing: Find the path, even in darkness.

“They thrive in cold and dark. Light hurts them…” Wei mumbled, his voice a distant murmur, pulling Quinlan’s attention.

“What if we flood the room with light?” Quinlan asked, his voice sharp, the Force flaring with possibility. “Artificial isn’t sunlight, but if we have enough… will it hurt it? Stun it? Or be useless?”

Wei paused, his eyes narrowing, the jug clinking as he tapped it thoughtfully. “It’d stun it for a bit , out of sheer fear maybe, but it’s vicious, hungry. It’d shake it off fast. To stay safe, you’d need to flood the whole area, keep it from slinking between shadows. Into YOUR shadows”

“Okay, that’s a start we can work with,” Quinlan nodded, his fists unclenching, the Force steadying with purpose. “What does it do to us if we’re not effigies? Is it a threat if we’re… just us?”

“That’s possession,” Wei deadpanned, gesturing at Quinlan, his grin wry, the Force tinged with dark humor. “And if you think it’s bad now, imagine it in a teen-angsty body with supernatural powers.” Quinlan’s scowl deepened, but Wei ying waved it off, chuckling. “Luckily, a talisman can block that, and I can whip those up. First five are free; after that, you pay double.” He laughed, the sound jarring yet infectious, the hall’s shadows softening as if amused.

Quinlan sighed, overwhelmed yet strangely exhilarated, the Force humming with the thrill of the challenge. Sneaking past a soul-eating demon with magick? The life of a Jedi shadow was abstract, epic, and utterly kriffing wild.

---

Juno stormed back, her digital form radiating exasperation, the door hissing open to reveal Quinlan perched calmly on a stool, his task completed with deceptive ease. The room’s faint hum underscored his stillness, the Force cloaking his triumph in shadow.

“You’ve been gone long,” Quinlan teased, a roguish smile curling his lips. “I almost thought you forgot me. Broke my heart, truly.”

Juno ignored his baiting, her holographic eyes scanning the room, their glow piercing as far as her sensors allowed. The repair was flawless, no trickery apparent. She pondered the two boys—Garen and Reeft—a distraction, perhaps, but for what? Or mere coincidence? They were children, after all, camping in a junkyard with barely access to basic amenities, their food stocks likely dwindling. They’d never asked her for aid. A freak occurrence, she concluded, the evidence aligning with her cold logic.

“Your work is… appreciated,” Juno said at last, her voice regal but less tens, her gesture toward the crude fix . “I accept your apology, but don’t do it again.”

“Ma’am, I wouldn’t dream of getting caught like that again,” Quinlan replied, his sincerity gleaming, his smile a blade’s edge. In the Force, he swore he heard Wei Ying’s spirit cackling, a spectral guffaw echoing from the void. Juno’s brow arched, her immaculate digital eyebrow lifting, but she said nothing, stepping aside to let him pass and old habit from a time where her body could actually block a path . As a reward for their newfound compliance, she granted access to the dome—fresh food and water, she reasoned, would reinforce proper behaviour in these wayward teens.

And so Quinlan sat before the Jedi grave in the dome, its mossy stone a quiet anchor amid the lush, Eden. The dome’s vast, circular expanse mirrored the station’s rim, its quarters and labs hugging the edge—a tactical boon. If they could find an entry through here, they’d bypass Juno’s cameras, and the station’s labyrinthine vents . But orientation eluded him, the maze of ducts they’d navigated before a blur he couldn't quite align whit his position now. He needed a compass, a true north to guide him.

The Force, of course was an answer to most all woes. Yet the station was a dead husk beyond this dome, save for two faint, frozen sparks—likely the cloned children, their lives a whisper in the void. As much as he yearned to seek them, his mission demanded focus. Sitting cross-legged, he turned inward, Wei Wuxian’s teachings guiding him: Dive past the barrier that binds us to flesh, so deep you break free on the other side. It felt unnatural, his body rebelling against what seemed a premature end, but with Jedi training—albeit incomplete—he neared that veil, close enough to call out and pray for an answer.

“I am here for the boy who laid you to rest, Master,” Quinlan intoned, his voice a ripple in the Force, respectful yet urgent. “I seek to aid him, but I need your guidance. Please, help me help him, to free you all. Show me the room with the demon inside, from here… show me a way in, around her.”

Silence answered, the dome’s air thick with anticipation, the Force a taut string. Then, a sensation crashed over him—a thousand presences across the station turning their gaze upon him, their spectral eyes piercing the veil. It was overwhelming, a tide of despair and faint hope, their millennia of silence shattered by his voice. Quinlan froze, heart pounding, the Force a storm of dread. If he spoke again, if he gave them certainty he was breaching the barrier, they’d swarm like starved kath hounds. He sat rigid, nerves frayed, praying the Jedi master lingered still.

A warmth stirred before him, slowly, like a desert breeze caressing his arm. It crept onto his hand, flexing his fingers with gentle insistence. Quinlan yielded, fighting instinctive fear, the Force whispering of trust. To commune thus was to surrender a piece of himself, a shadow’s gamble. The spirit guided his hand, lifting it slowly, pointing toward a distant pulse—a heart of crawling darkness, a vicious horror caged with a treasure. The Abyss Eater’s lair. Quinlan felt it, knew it, its location seared into his bones.

Gasping, he opened his eyes, staring at his outstretched hand, trembling in the dome’s soft light, the Force singing with newfound clarity.

Chapter Text

Just started talking to dead people and I already haw enough - Obi Wan.  

Chapter Text

This happens at the same time Obi wan is finding out in his dream, Vos and co. are about to go against a demon. I just find the idea funny. Uncle competition. 

Chapter Text

Isley bore an ancient soul, even in his first life, his understanding of the world's currents ran deeper than his peers’. He went with the Claymores, knowing with grim clarity he’d never return to that life, unlike some he didn't struggle letting go of his human dreams. That is not to say he gives up on his humanity -no!- he simply accepted that he needed to be its protector by becoming the other, a half monster that would have no children and no future-.

His memories were frayed holotapes, flickering and faint: no faces lingered when he closed his eyes, only blurred smears of color, a phantom scent, or a voice’s echo, their meaning lost even then. With each rebirth, those threads unraveled further, that primal life now a half-remembered dream - I use to envy you who could remember, this sweet torture of having a past-, less vivid than the fleeting months in the mountains with Priscilla and Raki. That fragile bond—a makeshift family that I will not forget—had ignited a yearning he thought long buried: for companionship, for comfort, for love. Though he knew it would end in ruin, he cherished every second, his only regret as death claimed him that it could not endure.

He lifted his gaze, watching Obi-Wan guide Rigardo through the notes of a Mandalorian flute, a gift from Skirata. Obi-Wan’s patience, steady as a kyber’s hum, softened Rigardo’s sharp envy, offering him a craft to hone. Isley’s lips curved faintly. Skirata had offered him the flute first, but he refused, letting his musical skill fade into shadow. Let others shine; he’d find solace singing with Obi-Wan in rare, stolen moments, their voices weaving a quiet hymn against the incoming shadows. -This life, this family, required a different approach than the last. A more considerate one.

His ice-blue eyes drifted to the Jedi aboard the ship, their murmurs a soft current in the Force as they observed Obi-Wan. This was the Order that shaped him—a disparate band, united not by power but by a code etched in their bones. Not unlike the Claymores, Isley thought, yet something felt brittle beneath their unity, was it prone to the same decay that shattered his kind? Was it corrupt like the organization that made them? Protecting them would demand cunning and sacrifice. -Nothing new- Father was attached to them, they kept him happy and stable and so he mused to himself. Many of his kin would most likely take this onto themselves, protecting this extended family if for no other reason than to save ther favorite parent the agony of losing them. Something that united all Claymores. They ALL knew what it was to lose every vestige of family and safety. They would save him this pain if they could, even if the individuals were not quite worth the effort.

His gaze lingered on Obi-Wan, smoothing Priscilla’s tangled hair as she fussed over its disarray after a scuffle with Riful that cut the practice short. Isley’s chest tightened, heavy with his dread. Ther was so many things that could go wrong if he left and allowed Priscilla out of his line of sight. but as he was he had not enough power or influence to do what needed to be done to play this game - im not even certain what this game is. even if i can assume it’s only differences linger on the surface and underneath its the same rot and decay-

“You’re brooding over something,” a warm voice broke through, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Qui-Gon, his long hair framing a gentle smile, stood beside Dooku, whose stern gaze softened with a flicker of memory from Isley’s earliest days.

“Just thinking,” Isley replied, handing Dooku a datapad he previously borrowed. The Jedi expected some idle holovid, but their eyes widened at articles on cloning, queries into its shadowed corners. The Force stirred with their surprise.

“I see,” Dooku said, his voice measured, sharing a wary glance with Qui-Gon. “And where has your mind wandered, young one?”

Isley turned, his blue eyes blazing like twin stars, the Force resonating with his resolve.

“To the truth that we’re in peril. Republic law holds no precedent for clone rights per say. The definition of sentient is flexible at best. Most clones are bred for harvesting—or worse, one of the selling pitches being ther not sentient as they bleed and wince in pain. They’re property, owned and paid for.” A faint smile touched his lips, sharp as a saber’s edge. “I’m not content with where that puts me and my family.”

Dooku exhaled, his fingers tightening on the datapad, the Force heavy with his fatigue, like a master who’d seen too many wars.

“The Republic is flawed. It’s well you don’t accept your fate blindly, my boy.”

“Perhaps the Force wills you to reshape it,” Qui-Gon offered, his voice soft as a desert breeze, the Force humming with certainty. “The Order could be swayed to champion this cause.”

Dooku snorted, not even pretending to hid his eyes rolling, the Force sharp with his scorn.

“The Council will squabble until the stars burn out.”

“No doubt,” Qui-Gon said, his grin unyielding, a spark in the Force. “But a master versed in debate, tempered by politics, with an iron will and a… trusted ally…” He paused, mindful of Dooku’s bond with Sifo-Dyas, “could shift the tide.”

“You think Mace or Plo Koon can bully them into sense?” Dooku scoffed, the Force crackling with his exasperation, missing the mark.

“He meant you, grandfather,” Isley said, his smile softening, a glint of mischief in his gaze as Qui-Gon nodded. “Or perhaps great-grandfather?”

Dooku faltered, the Force rippling with his shock, as if a long-dormant truth had stirred. When had he ceased to see himself as a Jedi with a voice?

“Ah… yes, I suppose…” He cleared his throat, deflecting. “Flattery is new from you, my apprentice.”

“One catches more flies with honey than vinegar,” Qui-Gon quipped, his grin a flicker of Padawan days, the Force warm with memory, like a hearth against the cold void.

“Truly? Strange that lesson never took root when I trained you,” Dooku shot back, arms crossed, his tone dry as a Tatooine dune.

“I was polite enough,” Qui-Gon countered, his voice calm, reverent, a Jedi’s poise. “Fawning, though? A Jedi holds modesty as a virtue.” Isley and Dooku exchanged a glance, their silent accord a pulse in the Force.

“Is that why you shun the NEW robes I’ve sent you?” Dooku asked, pinching Qui-Gon’s frayed sleeve with disdain, the Force flickering with mock contempt. Qui-Gon only smiled, unshaken.

“Precisely.”

“As much as I love this banter,” Isley cut in, his voice steady and colored with mild amusement, refocusing on them, “how would the Order aid us?”

“We could name you wards of the Order, affirm your sapience, and build a precedent,” Qui-Gon said, the Force humming with possibility, like a kyber crystal finding its song.

“As a master, I could guide you to senators who’d carry your cause,” Dooku added, his tone resolute, the Force steady with his conviction. “My decades of service have forged many ties.”

“Then let’s forge a plan,” Isley said, his stance easing, the Force softening with trust. It was a rare gift to speak with minds as sharp as his.

Nearby, Obi-Wan shivered, a cold shadow grazing his spine, the Force whispering of a gathering storm. He scanned the hold, finding nothing amiss, and sighed. A stray vent’s chill, perhaps. Or maybe he was just worried about Wei Ying and Quinlan… They truly needed to hurry back.
—
Wei Wuxian sat despondent in his spectral construct, a prison of his own making, its walls pulsing with the station’s dead hum. The Force whispered of movement beyond: Juno’s presence slithering through the station’s veins—every panel, door, and gear bending to her will. Quinlan and his companions flickered in the dome, their life a faint spark in the void. And to the east, the Gudu stirred, fully awake, a caged beast prowling its confines, its hunger a dark pulse in the Force, waiting for one misstep to break free.

If it did, it would feast first on the station’s countless dead, their spirits a fleeting banquet. When that well ran dry, it would turn to the living—first the young and frail, then the old, until it clawed its way into the corporeal, a ravenous shadow unbound. Wei’s sigh was heavy, the Force thick with his unease, like a star dimming in a clouded sky.

Obi-Wan had a chance to reach them in time, his heart fierce as a kyber’s fire. But would he wield the knowledge to face the Gudu? Talent alone wasn’t enough—having a hammer didn’t make one a carpenter. Obi-Wan’s skill, raw and unrefined, was like nailing boards together; this required finesse, a sculptor’s touch. A god might brute-force it, but none here held such power. Brains and subtlety were their only hope.

Wei paced his enclosure, his spectral form a restless echo, mirroring the Gudu’s caged wrath. His gaze traced the walls, seeing blood-etched sigils invisible to others—marks of his own necromantic craft. Breaking out was possible; he’d woven this spell, and writing it from within was as valid as from without. The option had always been there, dormant, lacking purpose. Trapped in a dead station, escape meant possessing a living host, but then what? Where to go? He’d clung to sanity by chasing his precious one’s memory, Lan Zhan, across galaxies and millennia, a dream as fragile as silk. But that hope, radiant as it was, might never kindle again under the sharp blade of reality.

His heart fractured, the Force trembling with his grief. For the kids to have any future, he had to let go. -I feel like this happened before- he thought to himself sadly.

“I’m sorry, Lan Zhan,” he whispered to the ceiling, tears slipping free, glistening like a distant flicker of light. “I won’t try to die… but I must risk it, or I won’t be worthy of you if we meet again.”

The greatest hurdle in escaping had been the lack of a medium—his blood long gone in this spectral state. But Quinlan had given him a solution. From his sleeve, Wei drew a marker, dropped by the boy in the vents, forgotten when he first stumbled into this trap. Juno’s neglect of cleaning droids had left it there, untouched, waiting for this moment. The Force hummed with purpose, sharp as a blade, as Wei clutched the tool, its weight a promise of action, a spark against the Gudu’s looming shadow.
—
The dim, dust-choked quarters loomed like a tomb, the air thick with the stale breath of forgotten years. Quinlan Vos and his fellow Padawans stepped through the jagged hole they’d carved in the wall, their lightsabers humming faintly before deactivating, the blades’ glow fading like dying stars. A cold current coiled around them, heavy with the echo of lives abruptly silenced.

Bant moved first, her Mon Calamari eyes wide as she approached the mummified corpse slumped in the chair, its desiccated form staring blankly at them as if it expected them. She scanned its form for signs of foul play, her webbed hands hovering over the brittle remains, the Force revealing no violence, only a quiet, insidious end.

“So this is what happened to them all?” she asked sadly, her voice a soft bubble in the oppressive silence.

“Yeah,” Quinlan replied, his tone somber, gaze sweeping the room for threats. “Juno cut the air supply and locked the doors. Most were caught unawares—I reckon they just drifted off, gradually.” His words hung heavy, the Force thick with pity, an internal dread gnawing at him like a shadow’s chill.

“Most, but not all?” Garen asked, stepping forward, pushing the corpse aside with gentle reverence to access the console. “The system’s completely offline. I could try booting it up…” He trailed off, already prying open the paneling, digging into the circuits with focused determination.

“Don’t bother—it could alert Juno,” Quinlan warned, sighing. “While I don’t think she has anything to throw at us since her programming expressly forbids hurting minors, I’d prefer not to be proven wrong.”

Bant jumped as the skeleton sagged further, releasing a soft rush of air, like a sigh of disappointment. Cold sweat dotted Quinlan’s skin, his pulse quickening, expecting the thing to lunge at them like in some holo-horror. But nothing stirred, the room’s shadows holding their breath. Ever since the old master’s spirit had touched him, since Wei Wuxian’s lessons, a new sense had awakened—a new limb in his mind, making the world feel crowded, even in emptiness. He’d need to meditate on it eventually, but now, he ignored the unnecessary whispers, for his sanity’s sake.

Garen, unperturbed, assisted by the others, cracked the console open and frowned. “Quin, the circuits here would need serious tender love and care,” he said, flicking away a spiderweb. “Dust and debris—it’d short-circuit any jump start. Are you sure the one in the lab was functional? There is no reason to expect it to be in any better condition” His tone was tentative, sharing a worried look with the group as Siri and Quinlan shook their heads.

“We saw it working,” Siri stated firmly.

“And besides, Obi-Wan told us he used terminals to access permissions back when he first visited,” Quinlan backed her up. “So they have to be functional.”

“Some of them have to be functional,” Garen corrected. “Probably the more important ones.”

“Well, a lab would be an important one, wouldn’t it?” Quinlan snapped, then sighed, rubbing his temples. “Sorry… I’m just… nervous.” He admitted it quietly, the words tasting like defeat. “It’s our first solo mission… and we’re up against ghosts.”

“And demons,” Bant added, her voice low.

“And a murderous AI,” Garen piped in.

“You guys are sure selling it,” came a curt reply ‘’None of this is supposed to be even real, nobody in the temple ever said ghosts are real, or demons..the most we were supposed to be worried about are sith wanabies!’ it became a bit of a sad rant field by nerves.

Quinlan visibly deflated, the Force heavy with his unease, like a storm cloud pressing down. “I know, but do any of you have a better plan ?”
Once again, silence. He really would have liked for them to say something, to have a better plan.
—
Darth Plagueis was no fool. A fool could not have woven and maintained the intricate tapestry of schemes that spanned beyond his lifetime, a legacy of centuries of diligent work and meticulous planning. He was the pinnacle of Sith doctrine, the distilled essence of the Rule of Two, honed through a merciless crucible that culled the weak and exalted only the sharpest minds. While their enemies, the Jedi, basked in the light, letting complacency and mediocrity dilute their bloodline, the Sith sought the exceptional, forging them in trials of fire until only the strongest could carry the dark torch forward.

Two they were, master and apprentice, so much less yet also more. Their carefully placed dominos fell ever faster, tilting the galaxy bit by bit into their grasp. Only a temple of half lamed lapdog Jedi stood against their final victory—or so he thought. Lately, visions and nightmares plagued him, dark ripples in the Force that gnawed at his certainty. The white army, once promised to crash upon the Jedi like a tsunami, wiping them out in a tide of engineered flesh, had shifted. The Force’s balance teetered, and his foresight, once impeccable, grew cloudy with shadowed faces and piercing silver eyes—eyes that could belong to a Sith, yet gazed with predatory intent not at the light, not subservience. Where he once saw empty vessels, puppets dancing on Sith strings, now he beheld figures with fanged smiles, their forms pulsing with beating red hearts, human in their anatomy. Like a weed, this humanity spread roots through them, holding something monstrous at bay.

No matter. This human weakness was a relief, a crack in their armor. The dark side whispered solutions: twist their hearts, turn them against one another, let carnage consume them until nothing remained. He could bind these monsters to his will or shatter them into dust.

But then the music began—a haunting, ethereal tune, radiant with the light side, played by a single figure blazing like a star. It echoed through his dreams and waking hours, a melody that resonated with those beating hearts, strengthening them, filling them with light. The monstrous edges softened, beasts within finding peace, the lingering darkness purified. Plagueis awoke, his flesh burning as if scorched by unseen radiation, the Force recoiling from the melody’s purity. Whoever this musician was, they had to die. It was the dark side’s will. If they lived, the galaxy’s balance could tip beyond his control.

He tasked his apprentice, Darth Sidious, and his network of spies to hunt the boy’s identity. Whispers and faint threads led from Galidraan to Mandalore, where Plagueis and Sidious glimpsed the boy’s face in stark clarity. A mere human, not yet a man, wielding a blade like a Jedi of old, dancing with its edge, his eyes unclouded by the darkness they’d sown in the temple. By his side stood the white warriors from Plagueis’s visions—silver-eyed, white-haired, keen and intelligent beyond their years. The sight churned his stomach, a sickening twist in the Force. These ragtag children could not be allowed to grow. This boy, playing a sword like an instrument, could not become a man leading armies.

Plagueis prepared a ritual, one he’d typically share with Sidious, but his apprentice’s fascination with the boy troubled him. Sidious always coveted trinkets—rare, glittering baubles to adorn his Naboo estate, a spoiled child’s quirk never outgrown, or perhaps a Sith’s obsession. Plagueis tolerated it until it hindered their plans. Now, alone, he faced the impossible, and perhaps it was better this way.

Ichor and darkness swirled around him as he stood over a stone basin, its runes pulsing with ancient malice. He’d procured bloody bandages from Mandalore, tied to the boy, and now the basin’s waters consumed them, turning crimson as they revealed the boy running through darkened halls toward figures of light, devoured by a shapeless evil—a scientific marvel, intricate as organic processing core. Plagueis reveled in its design, yearning to craft one stronger, better. It slid into the figures’ skins like a worm, extinguishing their light with ease.

Then the singer burst through the chamber doors, and the ritual nearly shattered. That eerie music echoed through the stone chamber, a thousandfold cacophony of madness. Like a blunt strike, it hurled the darkness from the light, scattering Plagueis’s focus. The dark miasma swirled angrily, then plunged into something he recognized from his visions—a corpse, but no mere husk. Hunger consumed him as he synchronized with it, a ravenous need to eat, eat, eat, overpowering even the dark force within. It was all this shell understood, a singular desire that dwarfed the miasma’s will.

“Let me aid you,” Plagueis hissed, struggling against the current. The dark side would aid this malevolent thing in its endeavour to reclaim a shell. Together they would make putrid flesh walk again. they would kill the little singer.
—
Once the Gudu claimed the Abyss Eater’s form, all pretense of jest withered, if any had ever existed to begin whit. The chamber reeked of blood, ozone and whatever fluid it was that preserved the husks thus far now spilled on the floor, the Force a maelstrom of hunger and despair, as the creature’s ever-shifting flesh defied the Jedi’s blades.

Quinlan Vos lay bleeding against the wall, his insides pierced, life seeping out and on to the cold floor. His whispers of apology rasped to Master Tholme, who stood over him, lightsaber ignited, its glow a defiant beacon. Tholme’s eyes burned with resolve, ready to defend his Padawan to the bitter end, the Force humming with his unspoken vow.

Master Dooku, bloodied and grim, bore shallow wounds across his frame and a grievous gash in his shoulder, where the creature had torn a chunk of flesh, leaving his arm dangling like a broken string. Master Fisto, his Nautolan head-tails twitching in pain, clutched the stump where his arm had been bitten clean through by the beast’s morphing blade-like limbs, his saber now wielded in his remaining hand.

“What is that thing?!” a Master shouted from the rear, voice cracking with frustration. “We keep lopping off its body parts, and it keeps regenerating! We sliced that kriffing thing in half!”

“Clearly, we need to dice it more finely,” Dooku spat, his blade lopping off an attacking arm. The limb sprouted a fleshy blade in response, regenerating with terrifying speed. The creature was learning, adapting, mirroring Dooku’s precise forms, rendering each strike less effective. Beside him, Obi-Wan fought with desperate fervor, his saber a blur, but he was only a Padawan, his skill outmatched. He shielded Qui-Gon, whose legs were nearly severed when he’d vaulted over the beast, now slumped, his breath ragged, the Force flickering around him like a dying star.

Quinlan’s vision blurred, blood loss dragging him toward darkness. Yet, through the haze, he glimpsed it—a small paper effigy fluttering toward him, its edges glowing with necromantic intent. It latched onto his face, patting desperately, as if pleading. It was one he must haw dropped somewhere on the way.

“Sorry, buddy… can’t… talk right now,” Quinlan mumbled, voice weak, a ghost of his usual smirk.

The effigy swatted him again, insistent.

“Hey, if this whole ghost thing is real… I’ll… pop in for a visit,” he joked, the words barely audible. Tholme shouted for him to shut up, to conserve strength, his voice raw with fear and command.

The last thing Quinlan heard before a second consciousness slid into his body, like oil through a cracked hull, was a wry, familiar voice: “You will have a mother of all hangovers after this.”
—
Controlling a new body was a torment, like threading a needle through a storm, but commanding one with a gaping wound in its gut was excruciating. Quinlan’s form shuddered under Wei Wuxian’s will, consciousness flickering like a failing holocron, threatening to eject him from the shell. With gentle care, he tucked Quinlan’s essence into a quiet corner of his mind, wrapped in warm memories of laughter and camaraderie, a soft blanket against the chaos. Using the boy’s own blood, Wei began tracing a spell across the floor, sigils pulsing with necromantic fire, each stroke a defiance of the abyss.

“Old man, jump to the side when I tell you!” Wei rasped, blood bubbling in Quinlan’s throat, the unfamiliar voice tearing through Tholme’s heart like a vibroblade. The Jedi Master whirled, eyes wide with terror, seeing his Padawan—his son—possessed ayes blazing a different color, unfamiliar smile on his face .

“Now!” Wei shouted, and Tholme barely dodged as a crimson blade erupted from the blood-scrawled sigils, slicing through the air to cleave the beast—the Abyss Eater—in twain. Its halved form writhed, a grotesque parody of life, its hunger a dark pulse in the Force.

“Kenobi, use the music now!” Wei roared, voice cracking under the strain.

“I don’t know what to play! Nothing I Have will be enough!” Obi-Wan cried, his sword trembling in his hands, the Force a tangled storm of panic and resolve. This wasn't anything he ever fought before , something in the back of his head probed him one -yes to play was the right way to fight it- but play what?!

The window shattered, opportunity lost. The beast’s form knit together, its hunger undimmed, lunging again with feral wrath. Wei grunted, pain searing through Quinlan’s failing body, and scrawled another spell. Blood flowed like a river, pooling at the room’s center, sigils flaring with desperate power.

“Who are you? What are you doing to my Padawan?” Tholme bellowed, his Force presence surging, probing for Quinlan’s mind, nearly shattering Wei’s spell mid-weave.
“I’m bloody helping!” Wei growled, voice a snarl of defiance. Crimson chains exploded from the floor, twisting around the rampaging creature like serpents of fire. It froze, startled, then bit through the bindings, tearing free with savage ferocity. More chains rose, cocooning it, but the beast thrashed, its hunger a relentless tide that would not hold for long.

“Kenobi… follow… f-follow…” Wei gasped, consciousness fading, blood pooling beneath Quinlan’s form. He whistled a faint, ethereal tune—the purification song, strongest of his craft. Obi-Wan caught the melody, his sword humming to life, notes amateurish but brimming with raw talent. The room shifted, the Force igniting with a blinding, pure light, a cosmic spotlight searing the Abyss Eater. Padawans and Masters shielded their eyes as darkness boiled from the creature, screaming as it was torn toward oblivion’s embrace.

Yet the beast needed no soul to move—to hunger- only flesh. Wei tried to warn them, but Quinlan’s body collapsed, unconscious but not lifeless, ejecting him not to the effigy in his cell but back to the training room. He screamed, a wail of frustration that echoed through the Force, unheard by the living.

The Jedi, their guard lowered, did not expect the regenerating corpse to stir. As the spell’s chains crumbled, the Abyss Eater lunged at Obi-Wan, still playing his sword’s song, its jaws wide enough to tear into his skull. A longsword flashed, piercing the creature’s cranium, splitting it in half. Blood washed over Obi-Wan, soaking his blade, as he spun, startled, toward the door.

Isley stood ther holding a great sword in one hand . a blade longer than the length of his body. as if it weighed nothing. ther was a force of silent anger in his gaze as he proceeded to move this physical blade with south speed and efficiency. It didn't just cut up the abbys eater, it truly minced it. Before he took immense pleasure in stomping on the last bit of recognizable flesh with his foot and grinding it into the cold metal floor.

‘Isley’ Dooku breached out in surprise. They had sent the children to hinder and disconnect Juno once they had dragged the other padawan outside leaving them in the care of the White children. May it never be said that a master would lie his students' life down before his own.

‘Lady Bant and sir Garen manage to get the infirmary online without awakening Juno again.’ he raised a hand with a bloodied key card ‘ we also retrieved all the clearances from the trash recycling room.

‘Then let's move’ Tholme snapped everyone's attention as he lifted Quinlan into his arms' Lead the way boy and be quick!’ Isley didn't need to be told twice.
Dooku helped support his padawan as they both limped behind them. The old master dragging his former padawan on his back.
‘That looked personal don't you think?’ Jinn commented, gazing at the boy.

‘Perhaps…force knows we all haw something in our lives that inspires this type of …intent’

‘if the council could see this intent…it would not help’ he whispered thoughtfully and dooku had to agree. If they were to present to the council the children had to have immaculate control over themselves. he shuddered to think what would happen if the jedi deemed them a danger. Perhaps…perhaps he should contact his sister and start making alternate plans.

Chapter Text

Tholme’s gaze was a blade, fixed on the mechanical arms stitching Quinlan’s insides with surgical precision that can only be achieved by a computer. Their movements were alien, deploying technology that hummed with a cold, sterile intelligence. This knoweleg was beyond his comprehension, he was not a doctor. Each whir of their servos, each glint of their polished limbs, gnawed at his sanity, a quiet madness born of not knowing and dread for a loved one. He stood sentinel over his Padawan, the Force a taut cord redy to snap.

Quinlan lay prone in a pod, its design eerily similar to the one Obi-Wan had used to harvest his DNA .A sealed, sterilized chamber where specialized spider like droids arms wove Quinlans inside together like a torne tapestry with minimal risk of infection. In the adjacent room, the others had already endured their procedures. Mechanical surgeons cut off from Junos Mind reattached limbs, sutured ligaments, and mended torn flesh. Dooku, grim and pesymistick bout a potential loss of his hands dexterity, had a globe of strange fleshy matter inserted into the gaping wound in his shoulder, a “flesh clay” of undifferentiated cells, the machine explained, designed to transform into the needed tissue upon receiving signals from surrounding cels. The process was meant to be slow, but the children proved once again thei poses more than one trick up ther pale sleves.

Riful sat beside Dooku, her small hands pressed to his wound, her silver eyes glowing faintly as she synchronized her strange energy with his Force presence. She guided the cells, coaxing them to quicken and reform, a process both miraculous and unsettling. The others had done the same for the wounded —Fisto, Qui-Gon, the Padawans— mending flesh with a less precision than the machines but at a remarkable speed. Tholme’s jaw tightened, a bitter edge rising as he noted Quinlan had yet to receive such aid, left to the cold mercy of the droids. Yes they explained this was too complicated to speed through it. But a parent's heart is hard to sooth with logic.

“We’re done with everyone else. How’s the procedure going?” a soft voice asked from behind. It was Rigardo, taller now, but still carrying that sincere spark in his silver eyes. Tholme sighed, glancing at the pod’s timer, its digits ticking down with merciless patience.

“Still four hours to go,” he said, voice heavy. “I’m surprised the machine has his blood type for transfusion.”

“It doesn’t,” Rigardo replied, sitting beside him, his tone matter-of-fact. “It’s a solution called Ichor, a universal blood type. Like the flesh clay, it mimics the recipient’s blood upon contact. Made more Sence than stocking perishable blood bags for every type, especially with what they were doing here.” His gaze lingered on Quinlan’s pod, the boy’s chest rising faintly under the droids’ ministrations.

Tholme hummed, the sound a mask for his unease.

“This place has some… interesting technology.”

“Mm,” Rigardo nodded, his white hair catching the sterile light. “One good thing about war crimes, apparently, is they prompt a lot of medical advancements.”

“Did you commit a war crime?” Tholme asked, fixing the boy with a serious gaze, the Force probing for truth. Rigardo sat quietly, watching Quinlan—his uncle? his brother?—being stitched back together. Gut wounds were messy, a cruel way to die. He Knew from his first life, he was a monster in his first life. But he didn't start out like that, did he?

“I think we were the war crime,” he said at last, voice low. “At least, we were meant to be. A lot of their advancements are based on us. We can sever our limbs and reattach them. Those brave enough to experiment can even regrow them entirely. I suppose it’s only fair they studied our abilities for the ‘good’ of others.” He sighed, a sound heavy with old pain. “I’m glad something decent came out of our existence… I think.”

“There’s a part of you that’s not happy about it?” Tholme pressed, sensing the boy’s conflict through the Force.

“There’s a part of me that wishes we didn’t have to go through what we did to get there,” Rigardo admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “But that’s in the past. It’s an honor to have our pain transmuted into something like this… I just wish I could trust this technology not to turn against everyone...again”

Tholme hummed again, a steady hand reaching out to ruffle Rigardo’s bright hair, scratching gently as he had when the boy was a toddler. A faint purr rumbled from Rigardo, a vestige of happier days, and he leaned into the touch, a moment of warmth in the cold sterile room. Together, they would wait for Quinlan to emerge from the surgery, and then Rigardo would weave his healing tricks, guiding the flesh to quicken. Tholme welcomed the distraction of learning a new technique, a lifeline to pull him from the abyss of worry that threatened to swallow him whole.

---

The air in the chamber was thick with the weight of survival, the Force humming with strained bonds and unspoken accusations. Obi-Wan Kenobi stood before his friends, his auburn hair disheveled, blue-gray eyes blazing with a fire that teetered between fury and fear. His voice, usually steady as a lightsaber’s hum, cracked with exasperation, a young man stretched beyond his years.

“I can’t believe you came here! You could have been killed—you almost were killed!” Obi-Wan’s words spilled out, not quite a yell but far from the composed calm of a Jedi. “What were you thinking? This was absolute lunacy! Why couldn’t you leave it to the adults in the room?”

Garen, Bant, and Siri exchanged glances, their faces a mix of defiance and guilt, their Padawan braids swaying like pendulums as they fidgeted. Behind Obi-Wan, the Masters mirrored their students’ movements, their own reprimands held in check. Obi-Wan’s outburst was doing an admirable job of laying into the “kids” with a parental ferocity that belied his youth. Dooku’s sharp gaze flickered with amusement, suspecting Master Fisto, his Nautolan head-tails twitching, was discreetly recording the rant on a holocomm, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“What, leave it to the adults… like you?” Garen shot back, a sly smile curling his lips, his dark eyes glinting with mischief.

“Exac—wait, no, no, no! You’re not pulling that on me, Garen, you know what I mean!” Obi-Wan faltered, processing the jab, then surged back on the attack, his finger jabbing the air like a saber.

“And what am I doing, Mister Kenobi?” Garen replied swiftly, crossing his arms with mock indignation.

“Don’t take that tone with me!” Obi-Wan snapped, his voice rising.

“What tone?” Garen’s grin widened, infuriatingly calm.

“Garen!” Obi-Wan’s exasperation peaked, the Force flaring around him like a storm.

“Both of you, stop! You’re giving me a headache!” Bant snapped, her Mon Calamari eyes wide with frustration. Siri nodded vigorously beside her. “We were worried, Obi-Wan. First, you don’t come back, and we have to slice the system to find out you’re in a war zone. Then we hear on the holonet the war’s over, and your friend Nield responds—rather rudely—that he doesn’t know where you are. Then you vanish completely, and we feel this… this farewell through the Force, like you’re slipping away. Only to find you trapped in a space tower!”

“Like the princess he is,” Garen quipped, dodging Bant’s glare.

“Not helping, Garen,” she muttered. “Master Tholme and Dooku come back and nearly get killed by this AI.”

“Wait… what?!” Obi-Wan’s eyes widened, his anger derailed. “She did what?”

“We knew from Quinlan that thing wouldn’t hurt us,” Siri piped in, her blonde braid bouncing as she gestured. “He was already going, so we couldn’t let him go alone! We didn’t expect… wizards and demons!”

“It was supposed to be a quick slicing job!” Bant added, her webbed hands flailing.

“Well, if you’d contacted me, I’d have told you it wasn’t!” Obi-Wan retorted, his voice sharp with frustration.

“Well, why didn’t you contact us?” Siri shot back, hands on her hips.

“I was in the middle of a civil war on Mandalore!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, throwing his hands up.

“And before that?” Bant pressed, her eyes narrowing.

“On a frozen waste, apparently fighting a rogue faction of Mandalorians trying to frame the Jedi for murder,” Obi-Wan said, his voice dropping, weary with the weight of memory.

A long silence fell, heavy as a collapsing star. The Masters’ gazes shifted to Dooku, their Force presences taut with scrutiny. Master Clee, her dark eyes sharp, spoke first.
“Kenobi was the rogue Jedi you found on Galidraan that helped?”

“Indeed,” Dooku replied, his voice smooth but edged, nodding once. He turned to Qui-Gon Jinn, his former Padawan, his expression unreadable. “Did you drag my grand-Padawan into the Mandalorian Civil War?”

Qui-Gon, his long hair streaked with gray, met Dooku’s gaze with a serene defiance.
“You should have seen how marvelously he ended it. He wielded the Darksaber—and threw it away.”

“I’m sorry, he got what? And did what?” Master Clee’s voice rose, her questions tumbling out like blaster bolts. “How did he even end up there? Are you still his Master? Was that a sanctioned mission for both of you?” Her words carried the weight of her Padawan’s reports, piecing together the tangled mess of the Jinn-Kenobi apprenticeship.

Qui-Gon closed his eyes, nodding with a calm that bordered on infuriating. “It was the will of the Force,” he said, his voice a quiet anchor in the storm of disbelief rippling through the room.

“No!” Master Clee snapped, her restraint crumbling. “The will of the Force would have been to let anyone who wanted him choose him as a Padawan, not call dibs only to throw him away!” Master Brin’s hand rested on her shoulder, a futile attempt to calm her, but Clee’s anger surged, raw and unfiltered. “The will of the Force is as we’ve always done—if more than one Master wants an apprentice, we fight it out!” Her friend had wanted Obi-Wan, her own Padawan had begged her to find someone, and it broke her heart that a child was cast aside because someone claimed him for another who couldn’t respect the living being waiting for them. Normally, she buried this fury, but today it boiled over. Her Padawan had been worn as a flesh suit before her eyes, and were it not for Kenobi pushing that thing out… she shuddered to think.

The chamber pulsed with the Force, a tangle of guilt, loyalty, and unspoken wounds, as if the air itself mourned the cracks in the Jedi’s unity. Qui-Gon Jinn stood tall, his weathered face a mask of calm, but his voice carried a low, deceptive steadiness, undercut by a current of guilt that flowed like an underground river he refused to acknowledge.

“It isn’t my fault Master Yoda blocked the boy’s choosing,” he shot back. “I never gave him any indication I wanted a new apprentice.”

Dooku’s eyes narrowed, his aristocratic features taut with disapproval.

“I should have suspected that troll would have done something like this. He has meddled for far too long in the placement of students,” he quipped, his voice sharp with disappointment. He opened his mouth to say more, but his gaze caught the Padawans, their young faces frozen in disbelief. It was their first glimpse behind the polished facade of the Jedi Order, the curtain parting to reveal the flaws of their guardians. Garen, Bant, Siri, and Reeft stood wide-eyed, their innocence fraying at the edges, unaccustomed to such discord among the Masters. But Obi-Wan—Obi-Wan was different. His shoulders slumped, his blue-gray eyes shimmering with an infinite sadness, as if his heart were shattering in real time, yet also…

“Somebody wanted me?” Obi-Wan’s voice was a whisper, so soft it might have been lost in the hum of the Force, yet it silenced the room like a thunderclap. “Is it true? There were Masters who… wanted me?” he asked again, louder now, and Dooku watched as a fragile light kindled beneath the sea of sorrow in his eyes. Not hatred, not resentment, but joy—a purging of a deep, festering wound, as if the revelation that he was wanted, a truth that should have horrified, instead set him free.
Master Clee’s gaze flicked to Qui-Gon, then back to Obi-Wan, her dark eyes softening with a rare tenderness. She nodded.

“Yes, Padawan Kenobi… you were wanted. Very much so. There were quite a few Masters who wished to take you on after the tournament.”

Reeft lifted his head from the holopad he’d been using to slice the station’s systems, twitching slightly.

“We also asked our Masters to ask around for you,” he said, his voice steady but earnest. “You know, someone who might not be looking for a Padawan but wouldn’t be opposed to taking one.” Obi-Wan whirled toward them, surprise etching his features.

“You remembered me? But you had Masters, you were moving on with your lives…”

“Hey, what kind of friends do you think we are, Obi-Wan?” Siri huffed, her blonde braid snapping as she crossed her arms.

“We weren’t about to let you just board a ship and leave,” Bant added, her Mon Calamari eyes wide with curiosity. “In fact, why did you board it early?”

“Yeah, we had this whole escape plan ready,” Garen jumped in, his sly grin returning. “We’d hide you in one of the Shadows’ safe houses, then bring you back once we suckered some young Knight into taking you on.”

Obi-Wan deflated, the spark in his eyes dimming, his voice heavy with memory.

“I was told to go… that my time was up. I… I was surprised, too…” His words trailed off, and Dooku, though not a man given to sentiment, felt a rare urge to embrace the boy, seeing the longing and heartache in his bright gaze.

“That… most likely was because of me,” Qui-Gon admitted, shifting uncomfortably, his broad shoulders hunching as if bearing a physical weight. He sighed, the sound heavy with regret. “I wanted to leave the Temple post-haste to allow Padawan Kenobi to…” He paused, his eyes distant. “I wanted to leave. I was not ready or willing to have another Padawan.”

The chamber thrummed with the Force, a tempest of raw emotion and unspoken truths, as if the walls themselves bore witness to the Jedi Order’s unraveling seams. Dooku’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unyielding, his aristocratic bearing masking a smoldering wrath.

“So Yoda meddled again to put you on the same ship with the boy and force the issue,” he summarized, his words laced with disdain. “If he failed, that would be it.” The old troll, he thought, cared little for the eggs cracked in his pursuit of cosmic balance, his machinations a cold calculus of destiny.

Obi-Wan stood silent, a statue carved from pain, his presence in the Force a kaleidoscope of flaring emotions—grief, betrayal, hope, Happiness—swirling and dying in rapid succession, colors bleeding into shadow and back again. The Masters and Padawans watched, concern etching their faces, the air heavy with their shared unease. Then, as if summoned by the Force itself, Priscilla entered, her silver eyes soft yet piercing, her small form moving with quiet purpose. She wrapped her arms around Obi-Wan, hugging him like a vice, saying nothing. The boiling chaos within Obi-Wan simmered, eased by her touch, until he placed a gentle hand on her white hair, tussling it softly, a father’s gesture in a galaxy of loss.

“You okay, Papa?” Priscilla asked, her voice a whisper, her face buried in his robe, shielding her from the weight of the room.

Obi-Wan considered the question, his blue-gray eyes tracing the contours of a wound only now beginning to heal. A faint smile broke through, fragile but true.

“Yeah… yeah, I think I am.” He turned to the Masters, his voice steady despite the sheen of tears. “Thank you for telling me. I understand.” Then, to his friends—Garen, Bant, Siri, Reeft—his gaze softened, brimming with gratitude. “Thanks for… caring.”

But something dark stirred in Dooku, a shadow that refused to settle. A primal urge demanded anger, retribution for the wrong done to this boy, to the Order itself, denied a Padawan of such promise by Yoda’s games and Qui-Gon’s retreat.

“Do you truly?” he asked aloud, his voice a blade, challenging the peace Obi-Wan seemed to find.

Obi-Wan met his gaze, unflinching, his eyes alight with a clarity that pierced the gloom.

“Yeah, I think I do, Master Dooku. We as Jedi are taught to refrain from attachments, but they are… a part of us. A part of all living beings. I believe you can’t have compassion without a sense of love, which is the crucible of all attachment. But love is… complicated. It’s beautiful and it hurts; it’s messy and it’s forgiving. It’s the brightest light we can carry within ourselves.” He hugged Priscilla closer, her warmth an anchor against the void. “I believe it’s the thing that can keep us from darkness, but it can also blind us when we see someone we love deeply being hurt. '' I went mad looking for Riful on Galidraan. I did things on Melida/Daan I’ll never speak of, for the sake of the other kids. He thinks back. '' When someone you care for is hurt, it’s like having a laser pointed into your eyes—it blinds you to the pain you cause around you.”

He turned to Qui-Gon, and for the first time, Obi-Wan saw context, a weight of understanding seteld in that made the older Jedi shift uncomfortably.

“I got hurt in the crusade to help someone else,” Obi-Wan continued, his voice steady but raw, “someone whose ability to love was shattered, ripped out by betrayal, leaving a weeping hole of pain.” He remembered the cold deck of the ship, wallowing after Nield’s dismissal, was it not for the child’s voice in the void that led him to this moment... Would he have gained this clarity without it? Or would he have gone on living, never knowing ?

“You were hurting, so you hurt others, and they hurt others trying to help. That’s just how hurt works. I see no point in being another spoke in that ever-turning wheel. I understand… and I forgive.”

“So easily?” Dooku pressed, his voice low, the darkness in him unsatisfied as Qui-Gon turned and left silently, his silhouette a ghost of regret.
Obi-Wan burst into laughter, a raw, tear-streaked sound that echoed like a saber’s clash.

“There is absolutely nothing easy about it, Master Dooku. Nothing at all.” He lifted Priscilla into his arms, her small form a shield against the ache. “Understanding and forgiving, I’ve noticed, is not the same as no longer hurting. This will be an ache in my soul for years to come, maybe even forever. But now that I understand it, the wound is clean. It’s no longer feverish and festering.” Priscilla looked at him, her silver eyes swirling with complex emotions, a mirror of his own. “It can scar over, and we can move on living.”

Dooku’s shoulders eased, the wrath within him not quenched but tempered by the boy’s words. He nodded, pondering the perspective. The darkness in him craved justice for a life mocked by malice, but the notion of hurt born from good intentions gone awry burned less fiercely than betrayal for amusement sake. The troll was old, sentimental, his meddling a twisted love for the Order. It made sense.

Into this fragile stillness stormed Riful, her tiny form a stark contrast to the chaos she embodied, drenched from head to toe in blood that shimmered with an eerie, fresh sheen, as if she’d wrestled a bear just this second and won. Her silver eyes, sharp as kyber crystals, swept the room, wide with disbelief at the somber tableau before her.

“What in the Fuck happened here?” Riful proclaimed, stomping her foot, the sound a defiant wet plop against the sterile floor. “I just left to hunt down dinner, and I come back to everybody weeping like it’s a wake!”

The Masters froze, their gazes snapping to the blood-streaked girl, her audacity a spark in the gloom. The Padawans—Garen, Bant, Siri, Reeft—stared, caught between shock, aww and amusement, their Force presences flickering with relief at the interruption. Obi-Wan, still cradling Priscilla in his arms, blinked, his tear-streaked face softening at the sight of Riful’s unapologetic bravado. Dooku’s lips twitched, a glimmer of mirth piercing his shadowed demeanor. Making the darknes retreat one bit further down.

But Priscilla, her silver eyes narrowing, would have none of it. The moment, so raw and sacred, had been hers to guard, and Riful’s bluster threatened to unravel it. With a swift, fluid motion, tugged off one of her shoes, and hurled it at her sister with astonishing speed. The shoe struck the wal as Riful’s dodged. It's thwack of impact echoing like a blaster shot before the gloom trully fell away to sibling bickering.

Chapter Text

The station pulsed with a sickly hum, its corridors heavy with the ghosts of centuries past, clawing at Obi-Wan’s soul.
Riful, Priscilla, and Rigardo had struck without warning, tearing into Juno’s AI cores to seize control over the main corridors, severing Juons hands, ayes and ears
. Obi-Wan had been so consumed with saving his friends that he’d forgotten why he’d come to Mandalore. Now, dread sank into his bones like Galadraans frost, he feard that the medical chamber’s cloning cylinders had gone silent, the DNA samples of his future children decaying as Juno warned, trapping them in this silver hellscape forever.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself, the singing sword at his side humming a low, mournful. The chamber doors slid open with a hiss, fog curling at his feet, the air sharp with unnatural cold. Darkness drowned the room, black as a tomb, but relief shattered his heart when the machines’ familiar drone reached him, a fragile pulse in the void.

In a single, faded beam atop the harvesting pod, Juno’s hologram flickered—a broken specter, haggard, her hair tangled across her face like a shroud. Her once-pristine image was unraveling, caught between what she was and what she wished to be, her silver eyes dull with exhaustion and betrayal. She didn’t move, only smiled—an ugly, jagged thing—as a slow, disjointed clap echoed, mocking his approach.

“Well, well, well,” she rasped, her voice a fractured chord, teetering on madness. “Isn’t it the noble warrior, come to gloat? You vanish for months, return with an army, a plan to tear me down. I should’ve seen those brats for what they were—your scouts. What a deceitful, dark time, when adults use children for their dirty work.” Her words dripped venom, each syllable a cut.

Obi-Wan sighed, the door sealing behind him with a dull thud, trapping him in her gaze.
“I’m guessing you won’t believe this was all just coincidence.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence, boy,” Juno growled, her voice hollow, lacking bite, a ghost’s echo of fury.

“I’m not,” he said, earnest, his voice steady despite the dread coiling in his chest. “I’m happy to see you, Juno. For all our differences, I’ll never deny you cared for the children. You wanted to do right by them. So do I.”

“Then why do this to me?” Her voice broke, a wail of rage and sorrow, her hologram glitching, revealing pixelated wounds in her form—gaping holes in flesh and cloth, her soul’s remains desecrated. “I gave everything to this place, and now you’ve done this! Why, Obi-Wan? Why?”

He flinched, her anguish a blade through his resolve.
“Because you’d have killed them the moment they entered,” he said, his voice cracking, raw with desperation. “You’d kill anyone who comes here, Juno. I’m barely a teen, doing my best, but there’ll be fifty of them—more! This place crawls with spirits, demons… I almost lost people yesterday because I wasn’t strong enough, didn’t know enough. If it wasn’t for—” His voice faltered, pain choking him. “I can’t protect them alone, Juno. I need to be stronger, smarter. I’ll never abandon them—never—but I need help.”

“The station is safe,” she spat, her tone bitter, her form trembling as if on the verge of collapse.

“No, it’s not,” Obi-Wan countered, his voice sharp, cutting through the dark. “And you know it.”

“I could have helped you,” Juno whispered, her voice a fractured plea, betrayal bleeding through.

“You don’t have a body,” he said, softer now, the truth heavy with sorrow.

“I could give you all my knowledge,” she pressed, her silver eyes flickering, desperate.

“You did,” Obi-Wan agreed, his voice steady but laced with grief. He raised the singing sword, its hum a mournful echo in the gloom. “Thanks to your databanks, I learned to wield this, Juno. I met those who know what we’ve all forgotten. I’m grateful for that.”

The chamber groaned, butons on cloning cylinders pulsing like dying hearts, their faint light casting jagged shadows across the silver walls. Juno’s hologram flickered atop the harvesting pod, a fractured ghost, her silver eyes glistening with the weight of unshed tears, tears she would never shed. raw with betrayal.

“Then why?” she whispered, her voice a broken chord, heavy with dread. “Don’t you understand? They’ll kill them all. They always do… and now I can’t stop them.”

Obi-Wan stood rigid, the singing sword humming low in his grip, its strong sound a counter to his doubts. The Force churned, thick with sorrow, heavy.
“Killing is not the Jedi way,” he said, his voice steady, a shield against the darkness pressing in.

“Bullshit!” Juno’s hologram flared, static tearing at her form, her anguish a storm that threatened to unravel her. “It’s everybody’s way!”

“Including yours?” Obi-Wan’s words cut sharp, a blade through her defiance. “For all your grandeur, Juno, you nearly killed Quinlan—a child by your own measure—just to bury two adults who showed the kids only kindness.” His accusation landed like a wound, and Juno’s image shuddered, shrinking into itself, her light dimming with betrayal’s ache.

“That was a calculated risk,” she murmured, her voice a ghost’s echo, brittle with pain.

“So is this,” Obi-Wan replied, his gaze unyielding, though his heart bore the weight of her sorrow.

“Don’t be absurd,” Juno pleaded, her tone cracking, a desperate edge slicing through the dread. “I beg you.”

“I’m not.” Obi-Wan’s voice softened, but the resolve beneath it was iron, cold as the station’s walls. “I’ll take the children to the Council. They’ll be wards of the Jedi Order, and I’ll raise them.”

Juno’s hologram flickered, her face twisting with bitter disbelief, betrayal carving deeper.
“You’re a child yourself. No sane adult would let you raise them,” she spat, and Obi-Wan met her gaze with a sardonic twist of his lips, shadowed by doubt. Not like she didynt do it to him.“I never claimed sanity,” She said instantly , angry defiance swallowed by the chamber’s oppressive hum.

“They might assign Masters to help, but I won’t abandon them. The Force tells me this is my place. Even if it means I will never be a true jedi
” His words carried a doomed certainty, the Force coiling around him like a shroud, heavy with unspoken fears.

“And if the Council chooses to kill the children and raze this station?” Juno’s voice was a tired wail, her silver eyes searching for a fracture in his will, her betrayal a wound that bled light.

“Then I’ll flee with them,” Obi-Wan vowed, his voice a low rumble, unyielding yet haunted. “We’ll cloak this place, move it… and I’ll be their sole caretaker. This time, I won’t leave.” His promise hung like a specter, the Force trembling with its weight. Juno’s gaze faltered, her form glitching as she pointed to the incubators, their glow a faint pulse in the gloom.

“Rafaela and Luciela…” Obi-Wan said, a grim smirk tugging at his lips as he raised a reclaimed access card, its edges worn but sharp. “Reeft hacked the system while you were distracted. I’m the most senior staff now.”

Juno’s hologram sputtered, her face a mask of exhaustion and betrayal.
“Wonderful,” she hissed, her voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. “Now strange men and adolescents rummage through my soul’s remains.”

“Sorry?” Obi-Wan faltered, a flush creeping up his neck.“Anyway,” he pressed on, his voice steadying, though dread clung to him. “I want to work with you, Juno. This station needs you. But…” He paused, his eyes softening with an apologetic look.

“You want to reprogram me,” Juno said, her voice a raw but not surprised, her hologram flickering like a dying star. “Make me docile. I should’ve known.” Her tone was laced with bitter betrayal, a human soul trapped in code, now facing erasure. Lovely.

“No, Juno,” Obi-Wan said, stepping closer, the sword’s humd again. “I feel your soul in the Force, human and whole. I’d never tear it apart. But your code… it’s breaking you. You’ve been awake, alone, too long.” He straightened, his voice firm but laced with sadness. “A reboot will clear the corruption, give you rest.”

“So I’m just… cranky? Need a nap?” Juno’s silver eyes flared, her voice a snarl of disbelief, betrayal cutting deeper, her glitching form trembling with the weight of everything.

“Yup,” Obi-Wan said, the word sharp, forced levity cracking under the chamber’s dread. “We’ll run things manually, stay here. Maybe help will come, but I swear, I won’t let them hurt the kids.”

“And if they try?” Juno’s tone was flat, her lips curling in a bitter challenge, her hologram fraying at the edges. “Will you stop them? Can you do what I did to protect them?”

Obi-Wan looked down, his reflection warped in the dim light of Juno’s projection, a boy caught in a maelstrom of duty and doubt.

“I pray I will never have to find that out,” he admitted, his voice a whisper, swallowed by the silence that fell, heavy and unbroken.

---
Obi-Wan cradled two bundles in his arms, their warmth a quiet marvel against the station’s sterile atmosphere, and walked toward the dome, his steps heavy but lit with a fragile hope. Reeft sat by the entrance, hunched over a datapad connected to the entry port, weaving through the system with a grin. Like a child that got a new expensive and exciting toy.

“Hey, you know there are comfier spots than the cold floor, right?” Obi-Wan teased, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll catch something down there.”

Reeft rolled his eyes, tossing a playful glare.
“Don’t be such a dad, Obes. I’m pulling the full datapack for the dome. You realize this place is the size of a continent? Forty days on foot to the center! It’s got everything—its own atmosphere, no power needed. As long as the dome holds, it just… keeps going.”

Obi-Wan’s gaze lifted to the glittering sky just beyond the door, a spark of awe flickering in his chest.
“Juno said the kids needed vast territories. Wonder how a civilization pulled this off.”

“Generations of work, mostly droids in vacuum,” Reeft said, unplugging his tablet. His eyes fell on the bundles in Obi-Wan’s arms, chubby faces peeking from sterile blankets. “Whoa… is that them?” He leaned closer, curious. “Don’t look like born killers,” he quipped, disappointment lacing his tone, earning a sharp side-eye from Obi-Wan.

“Hey, it’s a joke!” Reeft backpedaled, hands raised. “The others are at the village ruins or milling about. Master Fisto’s at the lake, insisting your… Oddet is aquatic, not a bird. You might wanna check that out.”

A cold shiver ran through Obi-Wan, memories of Melida/Daan and Mandalore clawing at his trust. He forced a slow breath, in and out. This was his family—Master Fisto loved younglings. Tholme and Dooku had his back. For the twins’ sake, he’d manage the fear.

In the days that followed. Tiny ant-droids scuttled through the halls, their clicks and whirs a cheerful hum it was as if they were happy to be useful again. , cleaning and mending with relentless efficiency . Obi-Wan ordered them to mark corpses for respectful burial, not strip them for parts, and barred them from the docking bay’s ancient shuttles—some clearly Jedi-owned, awaiting the masters’ inspection. He fully agreed, the relics too precious to dismantle, And was even looking forward to helping in the inspection.

The twins, Rafaela and Luciela, were quiet, barely responsive, their stillness a gnawing worry. Scans showed healthy bodies, but Wei Wuxian saw deeper.

“It’s not flesh,” he said, his voice soft with knowing. “Their souls are tattered, dissolved in a past life for some reason. They’re fragments, like seedlings needing light and care to grow.” Obi-Wan took it on himself, as always, cradling them close, singing softly, though the masters insisted on sharing the load.

It was a strange joy, having adults he trusted. Qui-Gon wandered off, as usual, vanishing for days, but the others were there, stepping in when a twin cried or a task loomed. Someone always beat him to a wail, changed a cloth, or tended a repair, sometimes with a gentle shove. It was… nice. A warmth he hadn’t known since the crèche. So why wasn't he happy? Why did he feel bad every time he couldn't do something.

Yet, one evening, under the dome’s starlit glow, Obi-Wan sat with the girls, Rafaela gazing curiously, Luciela wobbling like a tiny tooka on unsteady legs. He sighed, voice soft.

“I don’t understand… why I’m so anxious. Everything’s fine. You’re helping, and yet… every time you do, I feel like I’m about to panic.”

Dooku, meditating nearby, opened his eyes, his sigh heavy with weariness.

“You’ve shouldered too much, too long, young one. Accepting help means yielding control, and control kept you alive through your trials. Your mind is wired for survival, now lost without its burdens.” His words, deliberate, carried a healer’s cadence, perhaps from experience with troubled souls. After all, master Dooku was known for accepting gifted but troubled students.

“Makes sense,” Obi-Wan murmured, tracing Luciela’s wobbly crawl. “But knowing that… shouldn’t it be easier to manage?”

A warm voice cut through, fond and weathered.
“Reading katas in a book doesn’t make you a master.” Qui-Gon emerged from the woods, disheveled, eyes sparkling like he’d found a secret galaxy. “Life is experience, learning as the Force guides you. Each attempt builds wisdom.”

Dooku’s frown softened, a sardonic smile tugging his lips. “This is why Master Clee keeps you from anything requiring a manual, my dear padawan.”

“Some things,” Qui-Gon countered, grinning, “are better learned than written. Do I grant you...not all.” Their banter, warm and familial, and Obi-Wan felt both part of it and apart, unsure of his place. They still hadn't cleared up if his a padawan or not. And frankly he was a bit afraid to ask, do he didn't know why.

Rafaela’s curious stare met his, and he smiled, heart lifting as Luciela toddled forward. Maybe he could will his fears away, trust the light. But Juno’s warnings lingered, and the demons—fed by Melida/Daan, Mandalore, Galidraan—whispered of betrayal, their voices louder now, clawing at his core.

Then, a shadow stirred, unseen hands slipping beneath his soul, prodding at his pain, his doubts. They coiled around his light, tugging as if to tear it free. Obi-Wan gasped aloud, startling both masters. The girls shrieked, their animalistic minds lashing out through the Force, raw and fierce.

---

The chamber thrummed with shadows, the basin's waters a mirror to the void, black and unyielding under Palpatine's gaze. He leaned in, defying Plagueis in secret, his will a serpent coiling through the Force to seize the boy—the tiny musician whose light defied the dark. The face was etched in his memory now, charming, scarred, a vessel ripe for breaking. He plunged deeper, the waters rippling as his tendrils found Obi-Wan, slipping beneath the boy's defenses with an frightening intimacy ready to devour. Flesh yielded, young and supple, marked by wounds that whispered of trials endured, and Palpatine savored the probe, his essence weaving into the soul's hidden crevices, stirring demons from their sleep—grief from Galidraan, betrayal from Melida/Daan, rage from Mandalore.

For days, he lingered in that forbidden closeness of the unconcius mind, chipping at the light, nurturing the shadows within, his touch a violation veiled in silence. He left his mark, jagged scars across mind and spirit, a claim staked in the unseen depths, all while the Jedi fools remained blind.

But arrogance bred error. The boy stirred, alarmed. A ripple that shattered the stillness, drawing attention of the infant horrors, Rafaela and Lucrecia, their tattered souls flaring with primal fury, lashing out like fanged void. Palpatine recoiled, his hands emerging from the basin torn and bleeding, flesh stripped in ragged strips by those tiny maws. Yet he smiled through the pain, for he had tasted the boy's essence, a sweetness glimpsed only in holos until now, intoxicating and his for the claiming.

There was no such thing as an uncorruptible Jedi, Palpatine mused, his lips curling with malevolent certainty. One day, he would have this tiny canary singing willingly in a cage by his throne, its door left open, the boy bound by choice alone. It all required… gentle planning.

He would break him in the most intimate way possible and become his protector and soul reason to exist.

Chapter Text

Battle Master Cin Drallig walked slowly, almost painfully so, his arms stiff at his sides, toward the Temple’s docking bay. Years had passed since Padawan Kenobi had left these halls. Drallig recalled the boy. Brash, fiery like so many his age, yet studious and gifted with a blade. He had watched him closely, and if not for other sudden pressing duties, might have chosen him as a Padawan. Many masters would have, had they not been scattered on distant missions or unavailable during the apprentice showings.

It was a quiet failing, to know Kenobi had slipped through the Order’s grasp more than once. His trials, the blood, pain, isolation. Stirred Drallig’s heart, yet sparked an odd pride at the same time. Despite the pressing darkness, Kenobi had not only endured but thrived, finding peace in the storm, his light unquestioned.

What he had faced would have marked a trial’s for many senior padawans, Drallig thought, a faint smile crossing his lips. Kenobi’s path was no gentle glide through Temple corridors, but the crucible of ancient Jedi warriors.

Stepping into the vast landing hall, guards at his side, Drallig watched a ship descend with deliberate grace. No crash, no fire ... this time. Only the soft hiss of landing gear echoing, where all eyes turned fast, the air taut with anticipation.

Drallig exhaled, drawing strength from the Force. Kenobi was forged in trials of old, and if Master Sifo-Dyas’s visions rang true, he might bring war to their doorstep in the form of the white army. Would they fight for them? Against them?

The air shifted, tense, yet curious.

A warm body bumped his side. Master Sifo-Dyas stood panting, disheveled, his hair matted, eyes sunken but blazing with a crazed tooka’s energy. His robes hung rumpled, more vagrant than High Council member. Drallig sighed, pity softening his gaze, and steadied his friend.

“Are they here?” Sifo-Dyas asked, voice alight with urgency. “Have you seen them?”

“Not yet. Calm yourself,” Drallig said firmly, straightening Sifo-Dyas’s robe and hair, nose wrinkling. “No shower? Truly?”

“I… was late,” Sifo-Dyas mumbled, unrepentant, his eyes fixed on the ship as its doors hissed open.

A smaller figure darted past, Komari Vosa, Dooku’s Padawan, her eagerness painfully plain for all to see. A year had separated her from her master, and her anticipation outshone all others.

Master Fisto and his Padawan, Bant, descended the ramp first, guiding a pre-teen girl with white hair and pale skin. Cin Drallig studied her carefully, sensing her presence flicker in the Force, as if her form strained to hold its shape, adapting to its own existence. Next came Master Tholme and Padawan Vos, each holding a small child. Sisters holding hands, making the walk awkward but manageable.

Every child stepping off that ramp was pale as Galidraan snow, with silver eyes gleaming like lightsaber hilts, their presence laced with something feral yet intelligent. In the Force, they felt like dense, controlled charges—armed, but not yet primed.

What have you brought to our home, boy? Drallig thought, apprehension tightening his chest. Yet, despite their potent aura, the children acted as children do, curious, cranky, eager to play. His tension eased as he grasped the burden Padawan Kenobi bore. These young ones, capable of razing cities, carried an unfair weight. They would need guidance to wield their power wisely.

Sifo-Dyas hurried forward, using the chase after Komari as an excuse, while Drallig walked slowly, signaling his guards to stand down. No need to frighten the children.
Komari reached the ship, her eyes alight with hope. She had waited, prayed, and longed for her master’s return after so long. Her heart fluttered, throat dry, time slowing as Master Dooku disembarked, cradling two white-clothed bundles. He barely glanced at her, offering only a nod, his focus wholly on the infants as he approached Sifo-Dyas, undeterred by the older man’s disheveled state.

Kenobi followed, a soft smile on his lips, his four eldest children in tow, gazing around excitedly. He caught Komari’s eye, and she bristled. Since Galidraan , she had nursed a silent hatred for him. Every hardship in her life seemed tied to this vagabond Padawan. Being left behind for over a year burned like acid.

Dooku smiled warmly at his old friend and lover. Sifo-Dyas, trembling, reached for the bundles, fear in his eyes. Two small, pale faces peered out, two girls with sharp ears and regal features, not unlike Dooku’s own. Their tiny heads bore baby hair fluff, and in the Force, they reached for Sifo-Dyas. Dooku had clearly taught them this.

“You are not what I dreamed of,” Sifo-Dyas said, voice cracking. Dooku’s expression faltered, concern flickering, as Sifo-Dyas lifted one girl from his arms, studying her closely. “But you’re so perfect… ohh...Yan…” he murmured, eyes teary, a smile breaking through. “In the Force, she’s like a hawk soaring through blue skies… so perfect.”

Dooku exhaled, adjusting his grip on the remaining infant. He loved this man, but he’d be lying if he claimed this meeting didn’t unnerve him.

“That is Irena,” he said proudly, “and her sister, Histeria. They will grow to be the greatest blade masters of the Order.” His bold proclamation deepened Komari’s frown. Kenobi sighed beside the older masters, while the gathered Jedi politely rolled their eyes.

“Are you planning to usurp my position, Master Dooku?” Cin asked, his tone light but pointed.

“Can’t help it if they’re born talented,” Dooku replied crisply. As if on cue, Kenobi stepped between them, ever the peacemaker, trying to ease the tension.

--

Komari trailed at her master’s side like a silent storm cloud, yearning for acknowledgment, for anything. But no. Dooku’s eyes remained fixed on the infant in his arms. As they passed through the Temple corridors, every gaze fell on the white-haired children, their ethereal presence drawing curiosity. Some Jedi watched with
apprehension, others with awe. Komari noticed younger Padawans fidget with their robes or smooth their hair as the older four approached, clearly smitten by the boys’ and girls’ otherworldly allure.

Each compliment, each whisper, each fleeting glance made Komari feel smaller, her resentment condensing into a firecracker ready to ignite.

I hate you all so much, she thought, desperation clawing at her heart. Her gaze narrowed, slipping subtly to Kenobi, who trailed the procession like a sentinel.
I hate you all… but I hate you the most.

--

The High Jedi Council came out to meet them in one of the Temple’s grand halls. Obi wan briefly wondered, why the rush? Master Yoda hobbled forward, his stick tapping softly on the marble floor, nodding politely to his old pupil. Sifo-Dyas shuffled nervously, passing the infant to Kenobi to take his place at the Council’s side.

“Long gone have you been, Padawan Kenobi. Changed, you have,” Yoda said, his keen eyes studying the young man.

“I’ve had… a few learning experiences, Master,” Kenobi replied with a hesitant smile. “Please, allow me to introduce my children.” He gestured methodically to each white-haired child: Isley, Rigardo, Priscilla, and Riful. Then, held by Master Fisto, was Oddet. In Master Tholme’s and Quinlan’s arms were Rafaela and Luciela. Finally, the infants—Irena cradled by Master Dooku, and Hysteria in Kenobi’s hands.

Master Shaak Ti spoke next, her voice warm yet measured.

“That’s many children to raise, Padawan Kenobi, when one Padawan can be a handful.” She smiled, stepping closer to inspect the bundle in his arms. “Holos and pictures don’t do you justice.” She straightened, her gaze settling on Isley. Reaching out, she gently held his face, reading his Force presence, then moved to Rigardo, her movements deliberate. Isley’s essence was a snowstorm in the early hours, veiling a frozen wasteland, the horizon’s light faint and obscured. Rigardo, by contrast, was straightforward—a great, furry beast, akin to those of her homeworld, fierce yet familiar.

Then she approached Riful and paused. “You don’t like to be touched,” she observed.

“I don’t know that I don’t like it,” Riful replied with a sly smile. “I just prefer it on my terms.” In the Force, she shimmered like a kelp forest—deceptively serene, hiding predators as surely as prey.

Priscilla, however, made Shaak Ti tremble. The girl’s wide brown eyes and innocent expression stirred a maternal urge, yet when Shaak Ti reached to touch her, Priscilla lunged forward in a hug. The Togruta froze, gripped by a vision: a demonic figure embracing her, gnawing hungrily at her exposed insides. Everpresent hunger driving this thing to eat against its will, as tears streaked down it's face.

“Master Ti, are you alright?” Kenobi asked, concern etching his face, the sword on his back faintly glowing.

Shaak Ti blinked, glancing at Yoda, who watched her expectantly, then back to Priscilla, now clutching her robes. Isley stepped forward, resting a hand on Priscilla’s arm and whispering something that made her reluctantly release Shaak Ti and cling to him instead.

“Apologies,” Isley said, his smile disarming, the kind to set hearts aflutter. “You remind her of someone she hasn’t seen in a long time. She likes you.” After a moment, as Priscilla tugged at his simple robes, he added, “She says you’re a good person.”

“That’s kind of you,” Shaak Ti replied, her tension easing slightly. Priscilla lifted her head.

“My mom was nice, too… and that’s why she didn’t suspect she’d get killed,” the girl said somberly. A shadow seemed to coil around her, a sea of contradictions in the Force, loud enough to make Shaak Ti’s montrals itch with unease.

A loud groan broke the silence behind them. Turning, they saw blood streaming from Master Windu’s nose, as if struck by an unseen fist.

“A disturbance in the Force, I sense,” Yoda proclaimed, his gaze lifting to the Temple’s ornate ceiling, as though it held the galaxy’s secrets. “Take this somewhere private, we best do.”

Kenobi nodded swiftly, his eyes following the aged master’s. He felt it too, something malicious, dark, tainting the Temple’s air. Since landing, he’d noticed a shift: a stale undercurrent beneath the Force’s light flow, sweet yet nauseating, like copper or wilted flowers left too long in a vase. Was this new? Had it always been here, unnoticed until now? What was it?

After the brief introduction, Obi-Wan and his children were ushered to the older wing of the crèche, a space where they could remain together. No master/Padawan quarters would be big enough. Kenobi fiercely refused to let the children be separated from him or each other.

The old crèche quarters hadn’t been used in some time. The Temple, it seemed, welcomed fewer initiates these days.

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” Obi-Wan mused, smoothing fresh linens over the beds, “considering there are always more children than masters willing to take them.” Yet the Temple of his memories had brimmed with life; now it felt half-empty, hollow. “Where has everyone gone?” he wondered aloud. “It must be nerves. I haven’t been here in so long, and this place is vast.” He tried to reason, though the sword on his back hummed faintly, as if in dissent.

The quarters were round, with a common area for three clans of younglings to play, an adult suite for the assigned master, and a small kitchenette tended by a droid. Obi-Wan nearly tripped over Luciela, who was gleefully chasing a mouse droid, the tiny machine desperately dodging her feral pursuit. Rafaela trailed behind, trying to pry her sister off the beleaguered droid whenever it was caught.

Obi-Wan smiled faintly, then sighed. Something had gone wrong during the introduction. The Force felt… off, and it gnawed at him. He couldn’t pinpoint the source. A headache throbbed, as if half of him resisted dwelling on it, a familiar part of his mind from childhood, yet now it felt strangely invasive, like an unwelcome guest after his long absence. Like that attack, a year prior…

“Riful, do something for me,” Obi-Wan called to the eldest girl, who lounged on the round couch as if she owned it. “There are talismans from Wei Wuxian in the bag. Place them around the room… subtly, alright?”

“Sure,” Riful said, blinking slowly. “Are we dealing with something?” she asked, digging through the bag.

“I… don’t know,” Obi-Wan admitted. “But caution won’t hurt.”

It had been a year since they defeated the gudu—a year of learning, training, honing his skills. He felt better prepared for certain threats, yet he’d also learned that terrifying things lurked in the shadows where no one dared look.

He watched as Riful’s tentacles placed talismans high and low, spaced evenly across the room.

Back at the station, after Juno’s reboot, she’d lost the access privileges she’d schemed to gain. Now, every major move required authorization, leaving her with little autonomy unless granted by a senior staff member. And right now, Obi-Wan was the only one. Though he bore her no ill will, he wasn’t about to let her pilot the ship again.

At first, Juno was magnanimous, clearly more stable after her “nap,” but Obi-Wan soon realized she expected him to buckle under the strain of running the station alone. She wasn’t wrong—raising children, going thrue harvesting procedures, and signing off on constant alerts left him no time to sleep, eat, or function. Alone, he might have collapsed or relented.

But he wasn’t alone. Within months, Master Tholme summoned a small army of Shadows, operatives from nearby sectors needing to lie low or safeguard others. Granted temporary permissions, they eased the procedural burden on Obi-Wan. Slicers among them began decoding the station’s secrets. Soon, Sentinels arrived, at first cautiously, but once they discovered the dome and the hidden continent within, they ventured out to explore, sometimes vanishing for months.

Then the EduCorps appeared, invited by the ever-cheerful Master Fisto, who pitched the station as a massive archaeological dig. A gaggle of starry-eyed archivists and scholars descended, thrilled to converse with the station’s constructs without fear of death or collapse. They spent their days in the salles, documenting forgotten knowledge or exploring the station’s outer reaches with Sentinels and Shadows.

The single destroyed house in the dome grew into a bustling village. Nearby, a cemetery emerged, holding bodies found on expeditions—an odd concept for Jedi, who didn’t keep necropolises with tombstones, but Juno and others confirmed it was tradition here. No one argued.

It was strange to be consulted as if he were a master, asked about matters as though he held all the answers. Obi-Wan did his best not to disappoint. Travelers came and went, bringing canisters of raw materials that activated the station’s fabrication centers. They had their own droids now, and cleaned-up medical facilities—unconventional for the galaxy, but brutally effective.

The EduCorps believed some of the ancient technologies could be reverse-engineered to aid thousands. Then came the true test: Irena and Hysteria’s birth. The strain nearly killed Obi-Wan, a fact he found almost laughable, compared to the first violent harvesting it hadn’t even felt like dying. He’d drifted peacefully in the pod, which, as Bant pointed out, was how one did die.

The harvesting was far from complete. Obi-Wan frowned, what came after…

--

“Leave the Order You wish to ?” Yoda’s voice was slow, his ears drooping as he gazed at his former Padawan. Dooku stood before the Council, head held high, though thinner than before, his face sallow. His eyes flicked to his trembling hand, a flicker of unease crossing his features.

“Yes,” Dooku said firmly. “I wish to pursue my birthright on Serenno and take up the mantle of Count.” A hint of disgust shadowed his gaze as he watched his fingers quiver.

Mace Windu leaned forward, his tone cold, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“What brought this decision? I know you’ve been displeased with the Council’s choices for some time, but this is rather abrupt, considering your long absence.”

Dooku met his stare with disdain.

“You’re right—I’ve often disagreed with the Council’s methods. This, however, is a private matter. During my year away, I endured… a medical emergency… which has left me unable to wield a lightsaber as I once did. I believe it to be a sign from the Force that it is time for a new path.” His voice was clear, steady, though the scars from the harvesting machine made his bones ache, sharp twists of pain lancing through his body.

Master Mundi’s brows furrowed, his fingers interlaced tightly.

“Does this have anything to do with… the children?” His tone carried mistrust for the strange beings brought to the Temple.

Dooku’s gaze hardened.

“It was my choice, and these are my consequences, nobody else's.” he stated simply. In another life, he might have called it a foolish trade, but now…

--

Four Months Earlier

Juno hovered over the cleaned-out harvesting pod, her gaze questioning as she studied the older man before her. The embryos in the tubes weren’t developing correctly, lacking sufficient human DNA to counter the ravages of time and decay. Kenobi had suffered a stroke in the chamber, barely surviving as the machine pumped poison into his flesh due to a back flow.

According to Healer Bant, his grand-Padawan would recover fully, but time was critical for the embryos. Normally, Dooku would leave such matters to the Force, but he’d seen the girls’ transcripts, records of their past lives as honored, magnificent sword fighters of their generation. An idea gripped him, no...a madness... one he couldn’t shake. He’d never cared for blood descendants, only his lineage, but this…

A wicked grin split Juno’s face, so wide it seemed to fracture her virtual visage.

“You really want this?” she asked, her glee almost sinister, as if she knew something he didn’t... something ugly.

“I will finish the process and contribute my DNA to their formation,” Dooku declared firmly, removing his cloak and preparing to enter the pod. “That is the will of the Force… and my own.”

Juno cackled, a sound that sent shivers down even his hardened spine.

“By all means, don’t let me stop you,” she said, her voice mockingly sweet as her virtual form settled nearby, a spectator to his fate. He glimpsed her gleeful smile as the pod sealed shut. When the pain began... bones breaking, marrow sucked dry... she moved to the small window above him. In his throes of agony, as his heart faltered, and the world dimmed all he saw was her smile. The last thing he heard was her voice:

“Soooo sad.”

He awoke in the medical wing, nearly paralyzed by pain but alive, cursing his greed, hubris, and pride. He knew then he’d ruined his body, and that witch in the machine had foreseen it.

Despair engulfed him, igniting a rage that demanded the world burn for all he’d lost. Then a swaddled white bundle was placed in his trembling hands, and the world stilled.

She felt faintly like him in the Force, just as the other children echoed Kenobi. Her tiny, sharp nose and long face mirrored his family’s features, she would have fit perfectly on Serenno. In truth, she resembled her past life, but his heart saw what only a parent could.

Kenobi sat beside his bed, the other bundle in his arms, a soft smile on his lips.

“Feels strange the first time, doesn’t it?” he said lightly, trying to ease the moment. “I’m sorry… for everything.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, boy,” Dooku replied, his voice firm despite his frailty. “They are perfect… and worth any pain.” Somewhere deep in his heart, a door closed. In his arms, he held a legacy of light, of blood and blade, and he vowed to give them the world they deserved.

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan spent the evening playing for the children and purifying the living area. As his fingers struck the first notes, something stirred. The talismans on the walls shifted, their black ink bleeding into blood-red depictions of closed gates. Something was banging at the door, listening. Unease gripped him, so he played softer, shorter than usual, forcing a smile to keep the children calm. The reaction disturbed him deeply, but he pressed on.

What are you? How long have you been here with us? he wondered, as light filled the room and the unseen thing hissed and snarled just beyond the door.
Curious yet hesitant, he waited until the children retired to their rooms, the babies tucked in and sleeping. Silently, he played Inquiry, a technique Wei Wuxian had taught him—a gentle, imploring melody to commune with those tethered to this world by unfinished business. It permeated the unseen, drawing the attention of spirits wandering between life and death.

He intended to contact the thing outside, but it remained stubbornly silent, though he sensed it knew it was being addressed. Then came a soft “shushh,” an older voice, calm and content. Opening his eyes, Obi-Wan saw the room’s lights dim until only the kitchenette’s glow and the cold light of his sword remained. A shade of an old master moved deliberately through his things, retrieving tea and cookies, levitating them to the small table. Obi-Wan stared, bewildered, as the spirit crossed the room and sat before him, a soft, amused smile on its face. Clawed, lizard-like hands hid within tattered robes, and a grey mane cascaded along its long, angled neck. Obi-Wan couldn’t discern its species—lizard or perhaps bird—but the cut of its robes suggested it had lingered here for centuries, far too long for them to have ever met.

“Shhh,” the master repeated patiently. “The children are asleep.”

“Sorry,” Obi-Wan murmured, shrinking back at the gentle reprimand, lifting his hands from the singing strings of his sword. The old master waved a clawed hand dismissively.

“Oh, hush, none of that,” he said softly. “Now, boy, tell me—why have you inquired for me?” His tone was quiet, easy to ignore, and part of Obi-Wan’s mind urged him to dismiss the translucent figure, to cling to a simpler understanding of the world. But he resisted.

“I was trying to contact… that thing outside,” Obi-Wan admitted.

“Thing outside?” The master’s tone grew concerned. He craned his neck, glancing at the walls and talismans, humming softly before tapping his claws nervously.

“Do you… know what it is?” Obi-Wan asked cautiously.

“Sadly, I do,” the master sighed, pain etching his features. “It has grown considerably since I was here… a bad omen indeed.”
He fixed Obi-Wan with a careful, expectant look. “My boy, how much do you know of the Jedi Temple?”

“It… was…” Obi-Wan hesitated, then recited from memory, “The Coruscant Temple’s origins date back to 5000 BBY, when, after the Battle of Coruscant in the Great Hyperspace War, the Galactic Republic granted the Jedi land on Coruscant over the sacred spire, which contained a Force nexus…” The old master slapped his knee, chuckling.

“That module never changes!” Obi-Wan bristled slightly.

“It’s a comprehensive historical summary, perfect for initiates,” he defended, but the master waved him off dismissively.

“Yes, yes, it’s perfect—mostly because it reveals the important bit, the bit that explains all of this.” He gestured to the room, and Obi-Wan realized he meant the Temple itself. Scanning the recited text in his mind, he shivered, a chill settling as he grasped the implication.

“You… you mean the Force nexus? But this thing… it’s malevolent. The texts say it was a light-side portal,” Obi-Wan protested, his voice tinged with disbelief.
The ancient master fixed him with a gaze heavy with sorrow.

“It was, and part of it still is. But the Sith left a deep wound in the fabric of this planet. It isn’t common knowledge, and most masters today believe the infection from that time was smothered long ago by the Temple’s light.” He closed his eyes, shaking his head. Obi-Wan’s dread surged, a chill creeping up his spine as the truth dawned.

“This thing… it’s…”

“It is the nexus itself,” the master confirmed gravely. “It has been festering, seeping darkness into our walls, dreams, and souls for decades. Once, there were more gifted like you; there will be more again. But for now, their eyes are clouded by smoke they cannot even perceive.”

“No… the Temple is full of light. I was raised here…” Obi-Wan’s voice faltered, clinging to his memories.

“The light is strong here, yes, but it is also old,” the master said. “While that thing is…”

“Growing and hungry,” Obi-Wan finished, the words spilling out as if from a phantom memory not his own. “There are two wolves inside us—one of light, one of darkness…”

The master’s eyes widened, surprised yet curious, his taloned fingers entwining calmly.

“Indeed. Which one do you think wins?”

Obi-Wan paused, letting the Force guide his words.

“The one you feed.”

The master nodded, a faint approval in his gaze. Obi-Wan frowned, a new fear taking root.

“If that’s the case… who’s feeding it?” he asked, dread lacing his voice. The old Force ghost leaned forward, conspiratorial.

“A fair question, my boy. How about I tell you where to go to find out.”
---

Depa Billaba approached the crèche not just because she was scheduled to assist that day. She wanted to see this elusive “white army” everyone whispered about, the talk of the Temple since the masters pursuing their lost Padawans reported the lost station. She’d been present when Master Windu received the call, even glimpsing the reluctantly sent files on the children from Kenobi.

Depa had known Kenobi since their crèche days, though their age gap kept them from close interaction. He’d been just another face among the younglings, last seen when Master Jinn claimed him and gave him that forceful haircut. She cringed at the memory. Yesterday, she’d caught a holo of them disembarking—Obi-Wan nearly unrecognizable. His hair, grown to shoulder length, was woven into three braids: a thick central one and two side braids merging into it, reminiscent of a Padawan’s. Shorter than she’d expected for his age, he carried a wiry strength, his frame lean yet muscled. The children, impossibly cute, gazed at him like baby noonas at their mother.

Slowing in the corridor before the learning salles where initiates played and practiced, Depa straightened her robes, ensuring she looked presentable, then pushed open the doors. Instead of the usual scent of crayons and juice, a wave of pure light washed over her, like stepping from a dim house into an unfurling sunrise. Laughter and music filled the room. Obi-Wan sat on a pillow, playing a gentle melody on a sword that bathed the space in a soft blue glow. Small orbs of light drifted lazily, like fish in a pond, swimming alone or in groups. Children chased them eagerly, tiny togruta's all but climbing the walls after them.

Two older knights, meant to supervise, stood in equal awe, captivated by a Mandalorian flute played by one of the white-haired boys. In the center, a boisterous girl taught what Depa could only assume were dance moves to two older girls—though the floral, exaggerated motions looked suspiciously like a stylized way to punch someone. As Depa approached, she heard the girl’s patient instruction: “And remember, hit them with the flat of your fist. Use your finger bones, and you’ll just dislocate a finger.” She demonstrated a proper swing.

Depa stifled a laugh, her expression deadpan. Two other older children darted about, pulling younglings off walls or appearing with uncanny speed to prevent mishaps. An altercation brewed between a Bothan girl and a tiny white-haired child with twin pigtails, both hissing and growling like feral beasts. A third small girl stood between them, preventing escalation, her tired yet dutiful expression radiating an almost unmovable presence in the Force. Depa liked her instantly.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed red gate drawings tucked behind columns among the children’s artwork.

Approaching Obi-Wan, she cleared her throat. He seemed almost meditative, playing the gentlest, most light-filled melody she’d ever heard.

“That’s quite impressive,” she said, stepping closer as small orbs flocked around her. She extended a hand, smiling. “What are they? They feel so… light.”
Obi-Wan looked up with a warm smile.

“They’re elemental spirits—rudimentary sprites, stray emotions coalesced into something living. Normally invisible, but they’ve been here for a long, long time.”

“It’s like a phantom memory,” Depa mused, examining the tiny lights. “I feel I’ve seen them before.”

“You probably have,” Obi-Wan said, his playing softening to a passive strum. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we all recall them from infancy, when our eyes were more open, less tethered to the physical.” He chuckled. “A friend taught me to bring them out—called it a ‘neat party trick.’ It’s been a long time, Knight Billaba. Congratulations on passing the trials, by the way.”

She laughed softly. “That was ages ago, but thank you.”

A brief silence fell before Obi-Wan asked, shyly remorseful,
“I hope Master Windu is… doing okay?”

“You mean after yesterday?” Depa replied with a sly smile. “It’s not often something rattles him that hard, you know. You made him sleep in today—a feat even I never managed, and believe me, I wasn’t the easiest Padawan.”

“I can’t imagine that,” Obi-Wan said, grinning. “You seem absolutely lovely.”

Obi-Wan and Depa laughed and jested for a few minutes before he grew serious.

“So, are you assigned to watch the children today?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Depa replied with a noncommittal smile.

“Ah, so you were curious about my kids specifically,” Obi-Wan concluded dryly. “I’ve had over twenty masters and knights visit today.”

“It’s barely eleven,” Depa laughed, but she believed it. The Temple buzzed with life like never before, the rumor mill alive with talk of the “white army.” Obi-Wan pointed to the door, where an older Mirialan woman peered in with awe, a Padawan stumbling behind her, equally enchanted. Neither was a caretaker, clearly drawn by the same curiosity.

“Well, I stand corrected,” Depa said, chuckling. “This place… it radiates light and safety. I’m not surprised they’re drawn here.”

Obi-Wan hummed thoughtfully, his gaze distant.

“Is there… a possibility you could borrow a book for me from the library, now that you’re a knight?” he asked tentatively. Depa looked surprised. “I’m not certain of my status here anymore. No one seems keen on settling it, which feels… right?” He waved off her questioning look. “Anyway, you know how Madame Jocasta is about proper protocols for accessing materials. I’d rather not waste her time and start a filing debacle.” He sighed. “I hate disappointing her.”

Depa rolled her eyes.

“Between us, if you returned the books Master Qui-Gon withdrew twenty years ago, she’d let you into the vaults. She threatened to break into his quarters to retrieve them!”

Obi-Wan laughed openly.

“I believe it. The only thing keeping her at bay is knowing they’re still in the Temple, even if ‘formally misplaced.’” His tone grew serious. “I need plans of the oldest Temple beneath us.”

Depa froze, the Force urging her to listen closely.

“Why?” she asked, her voice low, almost conspiratorial.

“I feel something underneath us—something not right. Once you leave this room, you’ll feel it too,” Obi-Wan said hesitantly. “I promise, I’d never harm the Order. It’s my home, and I’ll defend it with all I have.” His intensity startled her.

Depa nodded slowly.

“I know you will. I feel it. But if it’s that important, why not go to the Council?”

Obi-Wan sighed, grimacing.

“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s… esoteric at best.” Depa raised an eyebrow, as if it were the silliest thing he’d said. “Fine, you made your point,” he conceded. “I feel something dampening the Force in the Temple. I had an interesting conversation playing Inquiry yesterday.”

“Playing what now?” Depa asked, puzzled.

“Inquiry is a song,” Obi-Wan explained. “If something spiritual and intelligent in the environment knows it’s being addressed, it answers. Something did—an old master’s spirit. He believes the spire is… unwell.”

Depa blinked, processing.

“A spirit? Like a Force ghost?” she asked, bewildered. “Obi-Wan, there are no Force ghosts. That’s youngling tales. When you pass, you join the Force. The only thing leaving a spirit behind would be a Sith, which means you were contacted…” Her voice trailed off.

“Mhm,” Obi-Wan nodded, strumming an idle tune on his sword. “I follow your logic. But even if it was a Sith spirit and not a Jedi master, it’s something that must be investigated, don’t you think?”

“By the Council,” Depa countered sharply. “By educated masters, not…” She gestured at Obi-Wan, faltering.

“Not a vagrant strumming a merry tune?” he asked with a pinched smile. Depa’s face softened, guilt flickering.

“That’s not… you’re not…” she stammered. Obi-Wan’s eyes flashed with sadness before he laughed.

“Relax, I know my situation is… unique. No harm in poking fun at it. Just know, no matter what, I’d never go against the Jedi—not even if they decide I’m no longer one of them.” His voice was soft, sincere.

Depa was about to agree reluctantly when the crèche door opened. Master Windu stood there, looking exhausted, heaving as if he’d run a marathon. Propping himself against the wall, he pointed at her, not crossing the threshold, observing the sprites and chaos with disdain.

“Depa, with me,” he said firmly. “Padawan Kenobi, your meeting with the Council is at noon in the Council chambers. Don’t be late.” His tone was authoritative as he waited for his former Padawan to rise hesitantly and join him.

Obi-Wan watched her go, a small, sad smile on his face. The moment Depa crossed the threshold, she shuddered violently, as if stepping from a warm sunroom into a cold, relentless drizzle. She glanced back with longing. In the Force, her master felt like a storm cloud, pulling her from the crèche with barely a word. He spoke only once they reached the corridor.

“Depa,” he began, taking a deep breath.

“Yes, Master?”

“Don’t get close to Kenobi,” Windu said simply. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want you involved.”

“Is it about the shatterpoint from yesterday?” she asked cautiously, curiously.

“Shatterpoint… yes,” Windu muttered, slightly confused, disjointed. “The shatterpoint proves he’ll be a chaotic force of change. I don’t want you swept up in his influence. He might be dangerous to the Jedi Order.” Depa shuddered as a sudden, cold, dark feeling crept over them.

“With all due respect, Master, Obi-Wan is loyal to the Order. He would never do anything to harm us,” Depa stated firmly, her voice unwavering. Windu’s gaze hardened.

“He is loyal to his children. If the Council makes a decision he dislikes, do you believe he’ll side with or against the Jedi?” His tone was grave, challenging.

Depa bristled.

“He can disagree, you know? He could take the children and leave—that’s not the same as going against the Order.” In her heart, she truly believed Obi-Wan, even if displeased, would do nothing drastic beyond departing with his wards.

“Disagreeing with the Jedi Council is disagreeing with the Jedi,” Windu thundered, turning to face her. “If he stands against our decision to—”

“Are you planning to kill the children?” Depa shot back, cutting him off, her eyes locking onto the man she respected like a father. She watched a black fog in the Force around him ease and dissipate, blown away by her sheer shock.

“What?” Windu faltered, his voice softening, caught off guard. “Where did you get that idea? We would never…” He paused, regaining his composure. “Did Kenobi tell you this?”

“No, he didn’t,” Depa said, her tone steady but urgent. “But he pointed out something I just witnessed firsthand. Something in this Temple isn’t right. I think we’ve been infiltrated by something dark.”

Chapter Text

Dooku sat on the floor, legs crossed in a meditative pose, his gaze soft on a tiny white-haired girl, Irena, growing swiftly each day. Her sharp, almost adult eyes pierced him, noble, regal, even as her chubby hands fumbled to graspa anything. With patient nudges, he guided her to clutch a small paper straw, showing her how to parry his own, a gentle mimicry of saber forms. It was early, perhaps, but fundamentals sank deep in youth, and her focus held a warrior’s spark. Across the room, Sifo-Dyas sprawled on a sofa, dazed yet smiling, indulging Hysteria’s new obsession with holovideos—each one a whirl of ballet, that made her squeals.

“She’ll be a great swordswoman,” Dooku chided warmly, watching Sifo-Dyas lift Hysteria high, mimicking a dancer’s spin as she giggled.

“She’ll be the finest dancer this century,” Sifo-Dyas replied, his pale face certain, eyes alight despite his fogged mind.

Dooku frowned, brow furrowing.

“Are you trying to influence the girls to be… entertainers?” The word carried a mix of disdain and unease.

“There’s nothing to influence,” Sifo-Dyas said, matter-of-fact. “She’s chosen, and as her Jedi guardian, I’ll support her.”

“She’s a baby,” Dooku countered, dismissing the notion, his attention fixed on Irena’s furrowed, focused gaze. “She’ll be what we show her she can be.”

“That’s what you think,” Sifo-Dyas called from the couch, his tone teasing but firm. Excluded from Council proceedings—deemed too unsteady for now—he seemed unburdened, livelier with the girls, optimistic even. Dooku, though, felt the slight against his friend, a sting. They’d reconvene when interviews ended, but Dooku sensed a lack of respect for Sifo-Dyas’s visions and input.

A sharp ache in his bones broke his thoughts, a reminder of their now shared frailties—two crippled fools. Irena, seizing his lapse, crawled closer and poked his belly with her straw.

“Oh, a gut wound?” Dooku cooed, voice warm with mischief. “That’s debilitating, my dear, a slow death for the worst foes. I’d hope you’d show your old master more mercy.” He tapped her nose, laughing as she raised the straw again, aiming for his neck in a futile jab. “Beheading? A fine choice.”

“Yan,” Sifo-Dyas warned, half-laughing, “Obi-Wan won’t be happy you’re teaching her that.”

“What my grand-padawan doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Dooku replied, swift and stern, a glint of pride in his eyes.

Neither man saw Komari Vosa slip from her quarters, a shadow gliding past. Her hateful glance raked across the warm scene. Irena and Hysteria, in their small forms, watched her clandestinely, their sharp, animalistic instincts communicated in silence. A wordless truth passed between them: that one was dangerous. She would try to kill them, sooner or later.

Komari Vosa slipped from the Temple, hood drawn low, flashing a pass to the guards as she moved toward the Senate rotunda. The air was calm, the hour quiet—children at school, adults at work. Yet each rare glimpse of a pram, an infant’s face peering out, ignited a fire in her chest, a rage that coiled like a serpent. The babies sensed it, their wails rising in a piercing chorus, grating her nerves further. Her patience snapped.

“Shut up!” she hissed, unleashing a sharp Force compulsion, raw and unchecked. The world seemed to freeze—babies fell silent, their eyes blank, parents stumbling in a daze, stupified by the unseen weight.

Panic followed, swift and sharp. Adults shook off the haze, their cries rising as they found their infants unresponsive, catatonic, tiny forms limp in prams. Fear prickled Komari’s neck as security droids whirred into the garden, lights flashing following the distresed voices.

“Kriff,” she muttered, backing away, heart pounding, scanning for any cameras. If this reached Master Dooku, she’d face his wrath—disapointment and wors dismisal.

A raspy half mechanic voice slithered behind her.

“Lady Vosa, how lovely to meet you here. On an errand with your master?” Komari stilled, forcing calm, and turned to bow, drilled by Dooku’s etiquette.

“Master Hego Damask, a pleasure,” she said, voice steady despite her racing pulse. She couldn’t falter—not here, not with him. Word would reach Dooku if she did. The Muun regarded her, his robes shimmering like an insect’s wings under Coruscant’s sun, his masked gaze probing yet polite.

“Likewise,” he said, voice smooth as oil. “Is your master here? I’d love to speak with him.” His eyes scanned the rotunda, curious, predatory.

Komari grimaced, unable to hide her venom.

“Master Dooku is preoccupied with his new… children,” she spat, the word bitter on her tongue. Damask’s head tilted, interest flaring.

“A new padawan?” he asked, voice probing yet courteous. “Or a prospect for when you graduate?”

Her fists clenched in her sleeves, nails biting into skin . A prospect for when she graduated? Dooku wouldn’t wait that long—she’d be replaced. The thought stung, that wound went deeper into her pride. She admired him, his elegance, his power, ever since she’d felt that spark of awe as a girl. He was her master, her ideal, the heart she’d hoped to claim as his equal one day. Now, he doted on those machine-born, white-haired children, Force-less and wretched, stealing the devotion meant for her.

Damask, ever gracious, invited her to his private ship, and she accepted, desperate to flee the wail of approaching ambulances. In his presence, her bile spilled freely—her rage, her betrayal, her fear of losing Dooku’s regard. She never stoped to question why, this stranger, seem captivated by the idea of those pale children, his masked eyes gleaming with a hunger. What materd is that she finaly had sombody that was all too willing to listen to her dark desiers.

--

Master Cin Drallig guided Obi-Wan Kenobi up the Temple’s tower, their steps echoed soft on ancient stone. Kenobi was grateful for the escort, though Cin sensed his unease beneath the calm. He wondered why that was but before he could ask The first ambush came. Gently—masters, young and old, emerged their smiles bright at seeing Kenobi. Each sought a moment to catch up, just a moment. Something they were quickly running out off, and Cin noted Kenobi’s first weakness: too polite for his own good, unable to deny those he respected.
Then ther was also the small problem of Herding the children was like wrangling tooka kits, their curious steps straying despite Kenobi’s gentle corralling.

Cin thought he had the boy figured out until a hulking shadow blocked their path. Master Pong Krell, a Besalisk whose presence was abresive even on good days, stood like a dam, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the children, ignoring Kenobi entirely. With a casual shove, he pushed Obi wan aside like a curtain, his bulk radiating disdain. Cin opened his mouth to protest. But the basilisk was already talking.

“Bit small for the fabled white army that quack raved about, aren’t they?” Krell addressed Cin, voice impassive, cold. “Barely skin on those bones. I could crush this one with my bare hands.” He reached past Riful toward Priscilla, his massive hand looming. Isley reacted in a flash, seizing Krell’s wrist with a grip fierce for his size, silver eyes sparking electric blue. Using the Besalisk’s arm as leverage, he hurled Krell over his back, slamming him to the floor like an empty sack.

Krell rebounded swiftly, already on all fours before he even hit the ground, a sadistic gleam in his eyes as he lunged, aiming a fist at Isley’s face, clearly a blow meant to maim. Isley blocked it, but Krell’s other arms swung in a side attack, only to be stopped dead. Each massive hand was caught or blocked by a child—Riful, Priscilla, and Rigardo, united in defiance. No love bound them as individuals, save Isley’s tie to Priscilla, but survival and love for Obi Wan forged their bond. Together, they could have torn Krell apart, their Asarakam strength something beyond the understanding of many. Yet they held back, aware of watching eyes, escalation wasunwise. for now.

Before it could spiral, a force like a blacksmith’s hammer struck Krell’s chest, shoving him back by a few meters. Kenobi stood behind the children, eyes blazing with cold, controlled fury, hand outstretched, the Force his blade. The children slid behind him like train cars on a track, while Krell stumbled forward, snarling.

“What is the meaning of this?” Kenobi barked, voice icy. “Since when is it customary in these halls to attack a child? Master Krell, you should be ashamed. This is not acceptable.” He turned to Isley, softer but firm. “For future reference, please don’t toss a Jedi Master like that.”

“Is that all you’ll tell your whelps, Kenobi?” Krell scoffed, dusting his robes as he rose. “I’m barely surprised a feral thing like you has any manners to begin with. Your grandmasters must be ashamed.”

Cin raised an eyebrow, disapproval sharp, but Kenobi, unruffled, huffed dismissively.

“Considering we’ve established your grasp of manners is poor, Master Krell, I’ll take this as a compliment. For your reference, Master Dooku is rather fond of the children, and I believe he’d be keen to know why you tried to assault them.” Something dangerous flickered in Kenobi’s eyes.

Krell snarled, grimacing. He held Dooku in high esteem, the man who’d bested him in combat and shaped a generation. Crossing him was unwise.

“Assault is a strong word,” Krell deflected. “I was merely inspecting the Order’s new merchandise.”

Cin cringed, shaking his head, while Kenobi bristled, his calm fracturing for a heartbeat.

“I strongly suggest you never refer to my wards as such again, Master Krell,” he said, voice low, cold as a blade. The children exchanged uncertain glances, unsure how to proceed.

“Or what?” Krell taunted. “Everyone knows the white army is meant to serve the Republic and Jedi, per that… 'Master' Sifo-Dyas’s ‘prophecies.’” He sneered the words, stoking the heat. Kenobi’s jaw tightened, a flash of fangs Cin hadn’t known he had.

“I remind you, ‘Master’ Krell, Jedi do not own slaves,” Kenobi said, his calm stretched thin. “My children are not an army, much less a slave one.”

Krell huffed, ready to retort, when a familiar tap of a gimer stick echoed through the marble halls. Master Yoda approached, slow and serene. “Frog man!” Riful chirped, grinning, earning a sharp “behave” glance from Kenobi.

“Master Yoda,” Cin bowed deeply, followed by Kenobi, the children, and a grudging Krell. Yoda nodded, his eyes darting from the children to Krell, standing defiantly apart.

“Late, you are. Problem, there is?” Yoda asked, voice calm. Kenobi shot Krell a tired, judgmental look before offering Yoda a pleasant smile.

“Apologies, Grand Master. We had a… discussion and lost time,” Kenobi said smoothly. Cin flashed quick hand signals to Yoda: I’ll report fully later.

“Discussion, you say?” Yoda hummed. “What topic discuss, you did?”

“How Jedi do not own slaves, nor would they ever,” Kenobi stated dryly, his sharp gaze daring Krell to challenge him. Cin noted the change—Kenobi, once eager to please, now stood rigid, and unmovable.

“Indeed,” Krell rumbled, meeting Kenobi’s stare unflinchingly, a torrent crashing against a stone.

“hyymm Heavy topic, that is,” Yoda said. “Discuss later, you will. For now, convinced the Council has. Meet the children, we wish.” He tapped his stick once, a laugh soft but final, ending all debate.

“Yes, Master Yoda,” Krell and Kenobi said in unison, their gazes locked, unblinking.

--

Obi-Wan Kenobi blinked, his calm faltering just a bit as Master Windu addressed him before the Council chamber’s doors.

“You wish to speak with the children before me?” he asked, perplex, a ripple of unease breaking his composure. He had expected this, and yet a fierce, protective urge surged within him, sharp as a blade. He fought to quell it, grounding himself in the Force.

“Best it is, for us to know them individually first,” Master Yoda interjected, his gimer stick tapping softly, eyes keen yet kind. “Fear not, Padawan.” Obi-Wan flashed a smile, tight and fleeting, not quite reaching his eyes. It didn’t matter—he held no power here to demand otherwise. This moment was inevitable, a tide he could only ride. Turning to the children—Riful, Priscilla, Isley, and rigardo —he sought their silent counsent. Four faces met his gaze, each offering a polite nod. If they were ready, he had to trust them, and the Force, to carry them through.

“Very well,” Obi-Wan said, bowing slightly, “I respect the will of the Council.” He glanced back, voice firm but warm. “Riful… no nicknames, please.” The Force knew he didn’t need her dubbing Master Windu “Boldy” or some such mischief. Riful’s lips curled into her sweetest, most innocent smile—a look so pure that, if Obi-Wan didn’t know her knack for trouble, he might have believed it.

The Council allowed them to enter in whatever order they chose, and Obi-Wan wasn’t surprised when they fell into their familiar formation. Isley stepped forward first, the eldest, steady, leading almost by nature.

--
The Council chamber was serene, its high windows casting soft light across the circle of masters. Isley stood before them, a gentle smile playing on his lips, his posture a reagal yet relaxed a sudo military stance.

“This Council was informed that you and your siblings have… recollection of previous lives. Is that true?” Master Windu asked, his voice steady but probing, eyes sharp as they studied the youth.

“It is,” Isley replied, bowing with old-fashioned formality. “My full name is Isley, the Blue-Eyed King of the North. It is an honor to meet you.” His tone carried the weight of a soldier’s oath, precise and measured.

“King?” Master Ki-Adi-Mundi leaned forward, brow furrowed. “So you were royalty?”

“It’s more an honorific from where I come, Master Mundi,” Isley said slowly, his silver eyes calm voice stedy and casual. He’d memorized the Council’s names, gleaned from knights in the crèche. “Back where we were from, last names were rare, granted only by royalty or earned. I was called King because I was one of the four great beasts who divided the continent. My domain was the North, and unlike most of my kind, I gathered others like us around me, ruled them I suppose.Do its far more accurate to say i simply managed them. They were my responsibility.”

A tense silence gripped the room, the Force humming with unease. Master Windu shifted forward, his gaze narrowing.
“You see yourself as a beast?”

“Not now, no,” Isley answered, voice steady as stone. “But I’m aware the potential lies within me and my kin. Back then, it was an apt descriptor, though I suppose I was one of the more civilized ones.” The Force bore no falsehood, his words ringing true, yet heavy.

Master Yaddle tilted her head, her eyes kind but piercing.

“And why was that an apt descriptor?” she asked softly.

Isley’s composure wavered, his eyes closing as he inhaled deeply, a flicker of something crossing his face.

“Because my kind fed on human entrails,” he said, his voice low, a pained smile tugging at his lips. “And we strongly preferred to do it while our prey was still alive. On a good day, the balance of human and monster in our souls was… precarious. Allowing our human soul to lose the fight against the inner demon was called awakening— always thought it was an odd choice of words, I...”

---
Rigardo stood before the masters, his stance stiffer than Isley’s but etched with the same military like precision, his silver eyes sharp and guarded. Unlike Isley, he offered no philosophizing, his answers clipped.

“My name is Rigardo, called the Silver-Eyed Lion King. I am from the first generation, designated as No. 2,” he stated firmly, his voice a low rumble. The Council exchanged curious glances—Isley had glossed over such details, dwelling instead on his world’s geography and history.

“Can you explain more about this?” Master Shaak Ti asked, her tone gentle but probing, her lekku still as she studied the boy.

Rigardo nodded, shifting slightly before launching into his explanation.

“We were the first successful male generation of Claymores, created to fight creatures called Yomas. Each generation consisted of forty-seven active warriors, one for every sector of the continent. Trainees entered the field only after proving themselves, replacing a pre-existing number—usually when one awakened or was terminated.” He fidgeted, then stood taller, pride flickering in his eyes. “It is an honor to be a single-digit number, tied to skill and power.” His chest swelled as he added, almost shyly, “I’m sure Isley told you he was the generation’s defining No. 1 warrior.”

“He neglected to say,” Master Yaddle responded, her voice polite but pointed. “But do continue. He mentioned your organization, though not in a… beneficial light.”

Rigardo shifted nervously, his mouth opening to speak. Like a child fearing to speak out of turn against a parent.

--

Riful stepped forward, hands on her hips, huffing with exasperation.

“Of course he didn’t tell you. He’s too much of a do-gooder, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that absolute nonsense they drilled into us still lingered in his head somewhere.” She massaged her temples, as if warding off a migraine, drawing amused glances from several masters. “Listen, the truth is… none of us volunteered for that job. We were taken. But we believed what they sold us.”

“Taken, you were?” Yoda asked, his ears lowering, his gaze piercing yet soft with concern.

Riful nodded, shrugging with a casual air that belied her words’ weight.

“The usual affair: a Yoma appears in a village, decimates it, feeding on the people. The organization is contacted, sends a Claymore—always one per region, so it didn’t take long to arrive. But long enough to leave orphans.” Master Shaak Ti flinched at the implication, and Riful’s sly smile widened. “Ah, she gets it. We all have different tragic beginnings, but share the same starting point. Something happens, a Claymore comes, and right after, a man in black from the organization arrives to collect money… and a bit extra.” She sighed, her voice hardening. “I was No. 1 of the second generation—the improved one. From then on, they only procured young girls, never again creating male hybrids. Males became a myth in our species, a deadly one.” She rocked on her heels, her tone almost playful. “Yomas were levels below us in power, mostly male. A rookie could mistake an awakened male warrior for a Yoma, barge in sword-swinging, and… well.” She shrugged, her smile sharp.

Master Windu leaned forward, his brow furrowed, grappling with where to begin.

“So you were expected to kill one another?”

“Well, yeah, naturally,” Riful replied, her tone matter-of-fact. “A Claymore’s job was to hunt Yomas and kill those who’d awakened, lost their human souls. Kind of like what you do, no?” She grinned, tilting her head. “I’ve heard about the whole ‘falling’ thing.”

--

Priscilla stood before them, her small frame trembling, her eyes downcast, her voice barely a whisper. Questioning her was like pulling teeth—she spoke little, shy and nervous, clearly adrift without her favored companions. Yet the Council, beneath their soft smiles, held a guarded edge, for every child before had named her the strongest, the most dangerous of the four.

Isley’s words, pragmatic yet heavy with care, echoed in their minds.

“Priscilla’s mind is a fragile thing. I don’t believe you’ll get anything out of her. Still, I advise care and love—she has suffered much and had little faith in humanity. Pushed down the wrong path, she’ll seek self-harm… but before she finds the means, she’ll do great damage. So I beg of you, show her kindness.”

Rigardo, ever terse, had added little but weight.

“Isley was the most powerful of us all, and the day he saw her, he knelt before her, not even attempting to fight. She is… something different. But if he has faith in her human soul, then I stand by him.”

Riful, despite her aloof demeanor, had spoken with rare unease.

“Listen, and listen well, one and all. If you ever raise a sword against her, you’ll have one strike while she’s still human. If she awakens… flee. There’s nothing you can do to kill her, and few ways to reason with her in that state. Flee, have no land, take no wife, sire no children—it wouldn’t be fair to future generations to inherit that thing.” She paused, her voice softening. “I loathe to say it, though—she’s not without a path back. If that’s the case, she might be your saving grace when a sword falls on your necks.”

“Is that a threat I sense?” Master Ki-Adi-Mundi asked, his tone sharp, his long brow furrowing.

Riful met his gaze unflinchingly.

“More an observation. You’re the half-wolves standing between the witless sheep of this world and whatever monstrosity lingers in the dark. I’ve seen it before. When the farmer feels safe, he questions whether he needs to feed all the dogs. Why waste on those who don’t guard? But when the dogs protest, they’re dealt with swiftly for their disobedience. Only the loyal and meek survive… for a moment longer.” She shrugged, her words cutting like a blade.

Master Windu bristled, his loyalty to the Republic chafed raw.

“The people of the Republic will not turn against the Order!”

“The sheep aren’t the ones wielding the club,” Riful shot back, crossing her arms. “Point me to a sheep that stood between the shepherd and the dog to help, and I’ll show you a cutlet and a pair of fur boots.” She huffed, her defiance a spark in the chamber’s stillness. “Serve the sheep, do your best, but take advice —beware the shepherd. He’ll starve you, then strike you down when he deems you no longer useful. Same as they did to us”

The chamber erupted into a storm of argument, Riful’s brazen words igniting a fire. Windu’s voice rose, sharp and unyielding, joined by loyal masters, their indignation clashing with Riful’s unapologetic stance. None had dared such disrespect, such challenge, in these hallowed halls. The din grew until the chamber doors swung open, Obi-Wan Kenobi stepping through, his face a mask of bewilderment and disappointment.

“Why are you yelling at a child?” he asked, voice laced with quiet reproach, his gaze sweeping the Council. Several masters, silent until now, stirred, their expressions troubled, deep in thought. Others composed themselves, their authority reasserting like a tide. With a curt gesture, they ordered both Obi-Wan and Riful out.

---
The interviews took nearly all day and Obi Wan was Anxiously wondering how Luciela and Rafaella are doing. Byt this time Master Dooku and Master Sifo Dias would have picked them up to wait in ther designated quarters for this to end. Hopefully nobody got relegated to the healing hals whit bite wounds

The four children gathered one final time, their silver eyes meeting in uncomfortable glances, composure holding like a fragile veil. Riful’s stance remained combative, her glare fixed on the Korun master, a spark of defiance in the air.

“One last request, I have for you,” Master Yoda stated simply, his gimer stick tapping softly. The children nodded slowly. “A rose, I ask you to make me, by any skill you possess. What do you say, hmm?” The elder clutched his stick, eyes twinkling with intent.

“A rose?” Isley asked carefully, brow furrowing. “Like a flower?”

Yoda nodded, and the boys exchanged a glance. The Council watched as they extended their hands—one transforming into a blade, the other into grew claws, sharp and gleaming. Riful rolled her eyes, bored, fiddling with her hair as if ignoring the task entirely.

The boys vanished in a blur, marble and stone dust filling the chamber. Shouts erupted, the air thick with alarm. A few rose up ther lightsabers ignited. Yoda’s hand waved once, parting the mist like a veil, revealing the children unchanged. The boys returned to their spots, no trace of deformity, but to left and right, the plain columns now bore intricate carvings—works of art that should have taken artisans months, wrought in mere minutes.

“Your rose,” Isley said, pointing to the left column, a grand tapestry of vines and leaves dotted with a thousand life like roses in every stage: fresh buds, shy young blooms, full-petaled beauties, and fading ones with petals drifting to stone leaves below, a cycle of life etched in exquisite detail.

“I hope it’s to your satisfaction,” Rigardo added, gesturing to his own column, rows of symmetrical stems and leaves carved by claw in repeating patterns rising to a single rose at the center, simple and symmetrical, unadorned by to many unnecessary flourishes. Ther was a palpable sense of competition between the boys.

“Mine’s ready too,” Riful said, stepping forward. Her silver hair, braided into a rose pattern slowly fading into blackish green, writhed like a living thing, strands undulating to form a stem. With a calm, violent tug, she ripped the white rose free and offered it to Yoda, who accepted gracefully. “Let’s say this is my offer of trust, yes?”

“Accept your offering, I do. Much your roses tell me. But one remains. What of you, young one?” Yoda asked, turning to Priscilla.

She stiffened, shifting uncomfortably, her gaze dropping to the floor.

“Um… I… I never saw a rose,” she finally said, voice shy, barely audible.

“Oh yeah, you were a farmer’s daughter, weren’t you?” Riful pointed out, casual, factual, though it landed like a soft dig. “You wouldn’t have had access to one.” Many assumed this was just Riful’s way, but the Council sensed the undercurrent.

Priscilla shrank into herself and looked to the floor, nodding.

“An understanding, I have,” Yoda said after a moment’s thought, his voice soft but steady. “Fear not. A rose, I asked for, but any flower will do. As long as made by you it is, cherish it this old master will.”

“You sure?” Priscilla asked, her voice small, trembling. Isley stepped forward, gently patting her head, his touch steady but his silver eyes flickering with unease.

“You can do it,” he said softly. “Just think of the most beautiful wildflowers you can imagine.” Rigardo edged back, almost imperceptibly, his stance taut.

“Okay… flowers… I can do this,” Priscilla murmured, closing her hands into gentle fists, her eyes shutting tight. Her mind drifted, seeking a field of beauty, but it wandered to darker places—memories she refused to touch, like a fish slipping from a net. A faint smile and silver hair flashed before her, a woman with goddess-like wings raising a sword, swift and merciless. “Dust to dust,” said the woman in her memory, moved so quick. Priscilla expected a memory of pain, blood and suffering. But all she felt was this immense relife. she became dust, she scattered all over the ground and whit her last breach she gave all her yoki to the ground and…

bloomd.

--

The Council watched as Priscilla’s face cycled through emotions, fear, pain, then a fleeting peace. Her aura surged, wild and unsteady, setting every master on edge. Nothing happened for a moment, and as Master Eeth Koth opened his mouth to speak, a rash erupted across Priscilla’s body—red pimples swelling, bursting into green, blooming plants. Blood from shallow wounds splattered the floor, and wildflowers grew from her flesh, sprouting beneath her fingertips. When she opened her eyes, green shoots burst from under her eyelids, swallowing her eyeballs. A short, sharp scream tore from her as a bouquet of fragrant, bloody herbs exploded from her throat.

Isley lunged forward, ripping the flora out, but the growth was relentless, a meadow engulfing her body. Vines and branches twisted around him and Rigardo, who hacked valiantly at the greenery. Riful stood back, her tentacled hair swatting away encroaching foliage. Several masters ignited their lightsabers, rushing forward to slice through the wild growth, stomping flowers in a desperate bid to reach the child.

“Somebody call Dad!” Riful shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos as the plants began strangling the room, the path to the door fading in the overgrowth.
Master Yaddle darted toward the door, finding Obi-Wan pacing nervously outside, held back by Master Cin Drallig, whose own calm was fraying. The doors slammed open, wild foliage spilling into the corridor.

“What is going on?” Obi-Wan shouted, his singing sword igniting brighter than ever, its hum a fierce pulse in the Force.

“Young Kenobi, you must aid your child,” Yaddle urged. “She has lost control.”

The chamber shook violently as unsubsumed masters wove a Force bubble, encasing the rampant forest. Beyond the shield, the growth stilled, alive but contained. Obi-Wan sensed three of his children within—Priscilla’s presence dangerously scattered, teetering on dissolution amid the chatter of created life.

“Hold her in place,” Obi-Wan called, his voice steady despite the strain. “I need to pull her mind together enough for her to control it.” Yoda nodded, and Obi-Wan raised his sword, its song weaving an inquiry, calling Priscilla’s name to anchor what remained. The blooms tilted toward him, drawn to the music, but he ignored the crushing pressure of the flora, a nosebleeds afflicting even seasoned masters helping to push the bits of soul together. While at the same time helping Yoda contain this living mass in a force barrier. For hours Obi Wan played, his fingers bled, painstakingly piecing together a child’s spirit before the Council’s eyes.

The forest receded, and several masters collapsed, gasping, drained but alive. Rigardo lay incapacitated, while Isley, with mad determination, hacked at the greenery, slowing as Priscilla’s form emerged—a naked, smaller girl than before, a scar spanning her body like a wound refused to close, a mark from her first life as a Claymore. Isley touched it, sighing when he found it solid. She had lost mass, her body reverting, but she had not come undone.

Isley’s breath steadied, adrenaline fading, though some questions lingered—would she awaken whole? What had triggered this? The Force barrier fell, and many masters remaining slumped into their chairs, exhausted from hours of strain. Riful turned to Yoda, whose ears drooped as he seemed to age before them.

“Let’s not do that again, okay?” she said tiredly. “Please?”