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Chapter Text

PART ONE

It is the waning days of the CLONE WARS. The fight has consumed countless worlds, transforming the Jedi Order from peacekeepers into generals leading armies into battle.

On the resource-rich planet of TARNOS, Separatist forces have launched a devastating assault. The Republic Senate, long deaf to the pleas of Tarnos's people, now scrambles to secure the planet's valuable doonium mines before they fall into enemy hands.

Young Padawan EDRIC KANE and his Master, KAEL ASHER, have been dispatched to turn the tide of a battle that grows more desperate with each passing hour. But as the fighting intensifies, the young Padawan begins to sense that something is terribly wrong—not just with this mission, but with the Jedi's role in the war itself....

The Pathfinder's hull screamed as it tore out of hyperspace into hell.

Edric Kane had half a heartbeat to register the wall of fire before the first hit launched him off his feet. His padawan braid whipped his cheek as he slammed shoulder-first into a bulkhead, hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs and scatter constellations across his vision.

He blinked them away. Breathe. He dragged air back into his chest as the ringing in his ears gave way to clone chatter instead: urgent, but disciplined voices traded orders and damage reports. Alarms wailed and red strobes washed the bridge, turning the white armor of the clone troopers to bloody apparitions.

Outside the viewport, the Battle of Tarnos raged. Republic fighters twisted between vulture droids like dancers with death. Frigates traded cannon blasts that rippled across shields like crashing waves. A Separatist cruiser shouldered up on the port side, close enough that Edric could see the burn scars along its hull before it raked their Star Destroyer again. 

The deck kicked suddenly. Master Kael Asher stumbled forward, and Edric's hand shot out; caught his forearm and set him upright. Though nearly a head shorter than his master, Edric didn’t budge, thick shoulders and a low center of gravity made him hard to move even when the ship tried. He felt the flare in his bruised shoulder and swallowed the curse that wanted out.

“Thank you, Edric.” Master Asher brushed off his robes like they weren’t seconds from being slag. He lifted his voice. “Status.”

“We’re, uh… getting blown to pieces, Master,” Edric said before the clones could.

Master Asher sighed through his nose. “Very observant, Padawan.”

“You wanted me to speak up more. Doesn’t ‘we’re about to die’ count?”

“Shields holding,” a clone officer called from the pit, red light rippling over white plates. “Evasive pattern Aurek-Seven; trying to break the frigate’s angle.”

The Pathfinder lurched again and Edric’s quips quickly died. He braced, fingers finding the chill of his saber hilt at his belt out of habit. It didn’t help as much as he’d hoped.

Something else thrummed beneath the alarms. The Force carried a thin, patient edge—watching, unseen, like a predator in the bush. It had followed him since Coruscant, but now it pressed closer, as if waiting for him to glance back. It made his skin crawl and want to look over his shoulder even though he knew nothing was there. Nothing he could see, anyway.

The ship steadied, and Edric studied his master's profile in the strobing light: tall, lean, hair and beard gone long in the campaign, but still kept neat and orderly, back straight no matter how the deck rolled. Edric admired that. And resented how far he felt from it.

Well into his sixteenth year, he’d already filled the slate blue robes more than most his age. Short sun-touched curls framed his round face; a thin braid brushed his shoulder; stubble shadowed his jaw he wasn’t sure he liked. Broad-chested and thick-set, he looked more like a young jedi knight than a padawan, a fact Temple hallways never failed to notice. He never knew what to do with the attention.

Another blast walked up the bow and set his teeth on edge. He drew a breath through them. The ache wasn’t just the shoulder. He’d fought before in this war, yet this was different. As if the Force itself had gone dim, leaving him fumbling in the dark.

Tarnos shimmered green beneath them, serene and untouched from this distance, casting a contrast to the turbulence inside him. It only made the knot in his chest pull tighter.

“Focus, Edric.”

He caught his master’s look and felt the heat creeping up his neck. He hated how easily Master Asher read him like an open book, despite his efforts to maintain a better facade. 

“Yes, Master,” he mumbled.

He closed his eyes. The Force was there, just beyond reach like a half-remembered song waiting for him to find the first note before it would join in.

“Talk to me,” Master Asher said. “What’s the mission?”

Edric blinked. “The briefing?”

“Unless you hit your head harder than I thought—yes.”

“Tarnos,” Edric tipped his chin at the planet. “Mid Rim. Doonium-rich. Run by a few families who kept it ‘neutral’ most of the war.”

“As in building cities on backs they underpaid and ignored,” Master Asher added, that familiar edge showing.

“Yeah.” Edric rubbed his temple. “Resistance’s been growing for years—protests, sabotage. They begged the Republic for help.”

“And the Senate responded with…”

“Diplomacy,” he finished with a grimace. “Which went nowhere, as usual. Then the Separatists cut a deal with the mine owners and suddenly it’s urgent.” His voice dropped. “Funny how that works.”

Master Asher was silent for a breath. “Not that funny.”

“So we’re here to help the people,” Edric said, a shade too flat, “and also secure doonium for the Republic.”

“If we can make a difference for the people caught in the middle, we do it. Even if we’re late.”

“It feels like we’re bringing gunships to make it worse,” Edric blurted before thinking. “Not… fixing the cause.”

His master glanced at him, something unreadable flashing behind his calm. “You’re asking the right questions, Padawan, but don’t let them paralyze you. We still have a duty.”

Edric wanted to argue, wanted to ask to whom, but the words stuck in his throat. His grip tightened on his saber’s hilt. The yellow crystal seemed to throb with his own pulse. The harder he reached for the Force, the further it slid away. That thin, patient wrongness along his spine wouldn’t uncoil.

“You were distracting me on purpose,” he muttered, side-eyeing his master.

Master Asher arched a brow, almost amused. “Was it that obvious?”

“You always do it when I get in my head,” Edric groaned. “You just make it sound like it’s my idea.”

“That’s how you know it’s working.”

This time, Edric thought, watching another explosion bloom against their shields, I'm not so sure.

He remembered Master Asher challenging the Council in the briefing on why help Tarnos now, when it suddenly suited the Republic? Edric had never seen him so blunt with the other masters. He suspected there was more left unsaid. It didn’t sit right with him either.

“Master,” he said, watching the Pathfinder’s hull plates strain against another barrage, “if we actually make it to the surface—what then?”

“Support the front. Bleed pressure where we can. Evacuate if it spirals.” Master Asher’s tone stayed even. He paused. “And maybe double-check your maps before you route a squad through a live-fire lane.”

Edric flushed. “That was one mistake.”

“One very scenic mistake.”

“We got out fine.”

“Eventually. After detouring through half a block of artillery.”

“I said I won’t do it again,” Edric muttered, cheeks hot. One error. Nobody had even gotten hurt except his pride, which was already hanging by threads. But somehow it kept coming up.

“Good,” Master Asher said, and there was warmth beneath the reproach. “Lesson learned, then.”

“Yes, Master,” Edric grumbled under his breath.

The Pathfinder’s engines wound down, and the deck steadied beneath them. A clone trooper designated CT-7321—or Zel as Edric knew him—strode up, bucket tucked under his arm.

“Generals,” he said. “We’re ready to deploy on your command.”

Edric flinched at the title. It always sounded too big, like armor that didn’t quite fit. Not even technically his, but people saw his build and made assumptions. 

“Thank you, Zel,” Master Asher said with a small bow. “We’ll leave immediately.”

As Zel peeled off, Master Asher’s hand settled on Edric’s shoulder. The touch was gentle but anchoring, guiding him toward the turbolift. “You’re more restless than usual,” he said quietly. “What’s going on?” 

Edric hesitated. His gaze dropped to the deck plating, watching his boots carry him forward. “I’m not sure, Master. It’s not just this battle. We’ve fought before, but this feels…” He groped for words that wouldn't sound paranoid. “Wrong. Like something’s watching us. Or waiting for us.”

Master Asher let the silence breathe. The lift doors sighed open; they stepped inside.

“Be mindful of the future,” he said at last, “but don’t let it cloud your mind. Anxiety will come. Let it pass. Focus on the present, one step at a time.” He nodded toward the control panel. “Like pressing that button.”

Despite everything, Edric almost smiled. He reached out and hit the descent control, feeling some of the tension in his chest ease. His thoughts surfaced from their dark spiral, though that whisper of danger kept threading through and no Jedi practice could smother it now.

“See?” Master Asher said with a faint smile. “Not that hard.”

It still was. Edric drew a slow breath. “I’m trying—”

“Don’t try.” 

“There is no try, I know!” Edric shot him a look as the lift braked.

The hangar deck trembled as transports and fighters clawed into the fight. Clone troopers swarmed their assigned LAAT, buckling plates and cinching straps. When they spotted the Jedi, they snapped salutes.

“At ease,” Master Asher’s voice echoed. Edric fell in at his right. The gunship’s engines spooled up, a low roar that thrummed through Edric’s ribs. He gripped an overhead handle with sweat-slicked palms and watched the troopers run last checks, faces hidden behind blank visors. Painted stripes and tally marks cut across otherwise identical armor—little flares of self in a sea of sameness. The sight stirred something in him: comfort in their calm readiness, and the gnawing truth that these men were bred for a kind of war he’d only trained for.

One trooper met his stare. “We’ve got your back, sir,” he said with a firm nod. 

Edric managed a small smile and dipped his head. He’d met so many of them—same faces, different men. They knew their jobs and did them even when they didn’t like it. Good soldiers follow orders, their saying went. Maybe doing his best would be enough. Or not, the voice in his head countered.

Master Asher stood beside him like a statue, his lightsaber clipped securely to his belt. Edric tried to mirror him, but every bump shook another bead of sweat down his temple. He let out an impatient sigh as his eyes wandered toward the cockpit where Tarnos grew larger and larger in the viewport. The planet’s vibrant greens smoldered beneath black scars of fire. Explosions and laser fire lit up the clouds like a raging thunderstorm.

The LAAT jolted as they punched the atmosphere. Flak buffeted the hull; something thumped against the plating. 

“Approaching LZ,” the pilot called back. “It’ll be bumpy.”

Edric’s heart climbed to his throat. Heat flushed his limbs; muscles itched to move. The sting of past defeats in the training halls flickered through him, the sweat and strain of countless drills, the bitter resolve that followed every misstep. 

They passed in an instant, fueling the fire in his chest that drove him forward, that put one leg after the other and guided his lightsaber. All those stumbles and do-overs coalesced into a single, hard line of intent: prove you belong. To Master Asher. To yourself.

Wind and noise exploded through the cabin as the side doors slid wide. The smell of burning vegetation and scorched metal rushed in. Below, a wide valley opened under a jagged mountain range: swathes of thriving green, clean angles of modern buildings in the distance and, everywhere, patches of char and skeletal frames.

Their landing zone sat at the forest’s edge, on blackened farmland where soil should’ve been rich. Master Asher glanced his way; one small nod that said: Trust the Force. Clones stacked at the doors. Dust plumed as the LAAT flared and hovered.

“Jump, now!” the pilot barked.

With their yellow and green lightsabers snapping to life, Edric and Master Asher leapt from the gunship, troopers flooding after them. They spread fast, setting a perimeter just beyond the dust. 

A sharp whistle cut the air.

The LAAT blew apart. The shockwave flung men off their feet and slammed them to the ground.

Edric dug his heels into the soil, threw up an arm as heat and shrapnel tore past. Fire licked his back; the stink of singed cloth reached him a breath before the pain. His outer robe was burning. He tore it free, hurled it down, and stamped it out. Left in his slate blue sleeveless tunic, he felt exposed, but lighter. A cool gust scraped the fresh burn.

“Form up!” Master Asher’s voice cut through the ringing. The survivors rallied on the Jedi.

Ominous thuds rolled through the smoke. Edric’s eyes widened as B2 super battle droids materialized from the haze, their red photoreceptors winking alive.

“Ambush!” a clone shouted, blasting as the supers’ wrist cannons answered. The air ionized, the burnt ozone stinging Edric’s nose.

His saber snapped high. Yellow light batted bolts aside in tight, reflexive arcs. He slid to Master Asher’s right, keeping troopers in his shadow. The supers’ weight of fire forced them back however. A clone went down with a heavy thud, a scream too human in the mechanical din. It jolted Edric like a slap.

“Edric, on me!” Master Asher called out. 

He caught up, and they fell into the old rhythm. Master Asher’s green blade cut an elegant line through a droid’s torso. Edric drove his saber straight into another’s chest plate with brute force, wrenching free as sparks geysered. For a breath the world stretched between heartbeats. The Force skimmed his skin but wouldn’t quite take his hand.

More droids pushed through the smoke. Too many. Clones fought hard, but every second the supers chew through the line, forcing them back. Another trooper folded, clutching his side, still firing one-handed to hold the gap.

His bolt cracked a B2’s head a blink before its cannon leveled at Edric.

“Told you we’ve got your back,” the trooper gritted. 

Edric gave him a sharp nod and turned back in. No time for more.

“We’re getting overrun!” someone yelled, voice breaking. The weight settled in Edric’s gut. This wasn’t a battle; it was a grinder. How did the Republic, the Council, let it get here? Bad intel… it had to be. Right?

“Hold the line!” Master Asher urged, steady but ragged. “We hold until more reinforcements arrive.”

Edric gritted his teeth. He caught a bolt, rolled his wrist, and split a droid from hip to shoulder. Sweat stung; he didn’t slow. Hours of drills turned to muscle and angle and will. But for every machine that fell, three more filled the holes. Static crawled across his skin, fear and fury around him swelled his senses until dark smoke seemed to curl at the edges of thought. You’re going to fail, the voice hissed.

A distant rumble crescendoed just when the situation seemed hopeless. Edric’s muscles relaxed as LAATs screamed in, guns already spitting. Lines of clones jumped hot into the fight and the gunships clawed back skyward. Thank the Force!

The push flipped. Edric surged with the clones, carving into the staggered line. The balance of the fight began to slowly shift. His blade moved cleaner, faster—no stutter in his steps, no tension in his grip. Whatever held him back was gone. He moved with the Force now, almost without thought, perhaps, for a moment, like a true Jedi. 

He didn’t notice how far he’d drifted from his master’s side.

Something changed.

The hairs on his neck rose. The Force was eclipsed.

Vulture droids dove from the sky, unleashing concussion missiles. The ground buckled. Fireballs tore the field open with dirt, metal, bodies thrown like debris. That crushing emptiness surged back, wrapping cold fingers around Edric’s heart. This is it. 

The warning from the journey wasn’t some distant shadow anymore. It was now. The predator had been real all along, waiting for its chance.

Now it struck.

He braced himself, trying to regain his footing, but a tremor shook the ground beneath him. Edric spun toward his master only to see a missile hit beside him. 

The blast lifted Master Asher and hurled him across the churned soil. He crashed to the ground in a twisted heap. 

He didn’t move.

“Master!” Edric cried, the word drowned by the roars around him. Their bond in the Force flickered—faint, unsteady, like a flame guttering in the wind. Edric’s world narrowed to the shape of his master’s body and the grit grinding in his teeth as his legs moved already. ”Master!” No thought. Just the drum of his pulse outpacing his feet.

The ground fought him, every step was like wading through hands clawing at his ankles. Flashes came: Master Asher’s steady voice, midnight drills, a rough laugh after a clean parry, the hand on his shoulder when he doubted himself. The Code meant nothing. He just had to reach him.

But the predator wasn’t done.

Another missile hit close. The shockwave slammed him flat, dirt in his mouth, pain striping his ribs. The world spun; sound tunneled to a high, cruel ring. He dragged a hand forward, fingers stretching toward Master Asher’s still form. The Force guttered to a thin wick.

Then came the dark.

And it swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

Lyra Ment balanced on a thick branch, belly to bark, one arm stretched for a stubborn cluster of fruit just out of reach. 

“Come on,” she hissed through clenched teeth, the limb creaking beneath her with every inch she leaned.

Below, Dex’s whisper knifed up from the underbrush. “Lyra! You’ll get spotted!”

She rolled her eyes. “You want something sweeter than ration packs, right?”

Taking a slow breath, she edged her torso forward. A breeze stirred the leaves, swaying the cluster just enough for her fingers to brush the lowest berry. She grasped it, but the stem held. “Spirits, you’ve got to be kidding.”

Bracing with one hand, she crept farther out, then made a clean slice with her knife, cutting the whole cluster free. She smirked.

The branch groaned louder beneath her.

Lyra stuffed the fruit into her pack, clocked another limb a short jump away and didn’t hesitate. 

She sprang, hit the next branch with a soft thud as the one behind her cracked and crashed to the forest floor. The others on the ground leapt aside.

“Lyra! Are you alright?” her father called from below.

“Fine.” She slung the pack, climbed down, and dropped the last span beside her dad, heart still drumming.

His look was half exasperation, half pride. “You could’ve broken your neck.”

“Yeah, but you’d be chewing on expired eopie jerky without me,” she said, handing him a berry and reclaiming her rifle. Around them, the others regrouped, eyes nervous and wide, scanning the treeline. Far off, the rumble of artillery became a constant reminder that the fight hadn’t moved on. The woods that had been her playground were now the only thing keeping them alive.

Her emerald eyes scanned the environment for signs of movement. She motioned to the others—villagers stitched together by necessity, not choice. Weeks ago, they had homes. Now, they were ghosts haunting their own ruins. 

“Still no sign of animals?” she asked. 

Her father looked away.

A twig snapped on their right. Lyra’s rifle came up before her mind could catch up, but it was just a branch shifting in the wind. She exhaled sharply. Nothing. She searched again for tracks, but there were only some old footprints from themselves and deep, mechanical gouges where battle droids had passed, likely separated from their column. She blew an unruly lock of dark brown hair from her face, airing out the frustration bubbling inside.

“They’ll be back,” her father said, warm with a hope she couldn’t find. 

Another boom ran through the trunks and through her ribs. She turned to her father and caught the exhaustion carved into his face. New lines. Deeper than before. Had the same happened with her own features? Her father’s stubble had transformed into a beard, with spots of grey hairs on both cheeks. He was getting older. They both were.

Seventeen should have been an in-between of childhood and adulthood. War didn’t care. Even before, her father said she’d taken on too much: minding kids while parents worked the mines, checking on the elders. Responsibilities her mother had abandoned. But Lyra had to be better. She needed to be.

The wind shifted, and her nose wrinkled at the smell. Smoke, burnt vegetation, and the sharp tang of ozone from the endless cannon fire. The trees’ clean scent drowned under it. Morning dew on her skin had turned oily, bending light like a slick film.

Her eyes traced the columns of smoke curled above the canopy. She could name them. There was that dark plume where their village used to be. Her throat tightened. She suddenly saw it again: the sweep of droid ships, the first blasts, her father’s hand dragging hers as roofs folded in and walls blew apart. They’d grabbed what they could and ran. But Aunt Pan…

Thinner streaks to the east marked the first Separatist landings near them. A newer plume kept growing. She pushed the thoughts away.

Her fingers found Aunt Pan’s puzzle box in her pocket, the tiny plates warm from her hand. The old woman had pressed it into her palm on her tenth birthday, eyes twinkling as Lyra tackled its intricate mechanisms.

“You've got the old magic in you, child,” she’d said when Lyra solved it before sunset. “The Spirits of the forest guide clever hands.”

Every blade of grass, every stream, every root she’d tripped over—this was her home. Now Separatists and Republic soldiers trampled it. The doonium mattered. People like them did not. Even the Jedi—legends or not—only came for what the Republic coveted. Nobody thought of them, or the living treasures beneath their great canopy. Her blood simmered under her skin.

Beyond the smoke, the aristocrats’ clean towers pierced the sky like polished knives. Her jaw tightened. Somewhere in those towers, her mother lived. Had she ever even thought about them? That woman who’d traded them for a promise of luxury. The heat in Lyra’s chest flared, raw as the day she understood. She’d been only five when her mother left. Too young to grasp the adult tangle, but she was old enough now to name it.

“We should keep moving,” her father said softly, touching her arm. He always seemed to know when she was thinking about her mother, could probably see it in the way her shoulders stiffened and her hands balled into fists. “There's nothing for us there anymore, Lyra.”

They moved deeper into the forest, slipping through the underbrush as quietly as possible. Hiral walked at her side, adjusting her pack with shaking hands. She’d lost her husband in the first wave. 

Old Tam hobbled behind Hiral, favoring the bad leg the mines had given him. Bringing up the rear were the twins Dal and Dex. Older than Lyra by a good five years, but far more immature with their constant pranks and jokes. Not these days though, the thought crossed her mind. She couldn’t remember the last time she saw them truly laugh.

They were all that remained of their hunting party. Others had scattered to different hideouts or... Lyra didn't want to think about the alternatives. The volunteers from neighboring villages were capable enough, and the battles all brought them together. They had the same home, and the same aspirations to save it. Pity it took the end of the world for them to unite.

A low rumble pulled her eyes up. Through gaps in the canopy, a Republic gunship dropped—angular and gray against the clouds. Its engines roared, the sound thrumming through the forest floor, sending small critters and insects scurrying for cover.

“Look,” Dal whispered. “A Republic ship. We should ask for help.” 

Dex nodded in agreement, hope flashing through the mud on his face.

Lyra scoffed. “You know they’re here for the doonium, right?”

“But they're fighting the Separatists,” Dex said. “They could help, maybe?”

“They’re here because the rich sold us out,” she snapped. “The Republic wouldn’t even know Tarnos existed without the mines.”

“Lyra,” her father’s voice was gentle but firm. “We can't stay here forever, and you can’t bargain with droids. It won’t hurt to ask.” His eyes swept the group. “We’re running out of options. And the people in the caves need more than we can find.”

She wanted to argue, but the lines around his eyes argued first. He was right, of course. Their situation was becoming desperate. The caves could only shelter them for so long, and their supplies were running out despite their best efforts to forage and hunt. With a sigh, she nodded, fingers digging into the worn strap of her rifle.

Ahead, the ship cut toward the column of smoke that marked what used to be home. She turned, moving past the twins and Hiral, then picked up her pace, weapon raised as she slipped into the trees.

The dense trunks encircled her, some so massive they could have hidden all twelve of them behind their bark. High above, their canopies stretched like the skeletons of the skyscrapers she had glimpsed further away. Her dark green tunic and mud-streaked pants disappeared into the underbrush. 

The scar at her collarbone itched—a souvenir from an ambush. She flattened to the bark as the LAAT descended, engines beating the smoke flat. One glance. That was all she dared.

The others formed into quiet clusters around her, taking cover. Her father slid in beside Lyra, his presence steadying a little. He gave her a small smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“That's a lot of clones,” Dex whispered. 

Lyra peered again. He wasn’t wrong. White-armored figures fanned out in the clearing, moving with the rigidness of drilled formations. She shifted her grip on her rifle. 

A sharp snap cracked from behind. Lyra almost spun again, but forced herself to ignore the reflex. Her muscles remained taut, the unease prickling at the back of her neck. Maybe it’s just the spirits Pan used to warn us about, she told herself.

Then the clearing blew apart. Fire rolled outward, the blast wave surging through the trees and slamming into them like an invisible fist. Lyra hit the dirt, her ears ringing as she spun toward the fireball where the LAAT had landed. Smoke churned upward, swallowing the sky, dust swept and choked the air, blinding them—but through it, she heard them.

Thuds. Heavy. Mechanical.

Her breath caught. Lyra met her father’s eyes just as the first blaster shots split the air. A gust of wind carried the stink of scorched plastoid and burning flesh. She squeezed her eyes shut and whispered a half-remembered prayer for protection. 

The sounds were horrifying enough: the mechanical march of battle droids, the sharp reports of blaster fire, the screams of the wounded. She peeked with one eye and through the haze, Lyra caught a glimpse of yellow light: a lightsaber's blade cutting through the mist. A Jedi?

Farther off, another roar, this time deeper, slower. Something big moving beyond the trees. More ships? Lyra couldn’t tell. The smoke made guesses useless.

Then the screech of vulture droids sliced through the sky, their engines howling like dying beasts. Another barrage of explosions hammered the forest. Lyra barely had time to dive to the ground, arms over her head as shockwaves tore through the forest again and again. Leaves whipped around them like shrapnel. She clung to her father's arm. He was trembling. Or was it her?

The twins huddled together, their faces pressed against each other’s shoulders. Hiral clamped both hands over her ears, eyes screwed shut as if she could will the world to stop.

Silence.

The sudden absence of sound was almost worse than the blasts. The forest seemed to hold its breath; smoke and ash hung thick, threaded with the sour-scorched stink of flesh and something else she couldn’t name. Lyra stayed crouched, ears still ringing as she counted heartbeats.

Slowly, she peeled herself away from the tree and stepped out. The others hesitated, then followed, emerging from the undergrowth. 

The clearing was a scatter of wreckage: twisted B2 limbs like crushed beetles, wires twitching; clones who’d moved like a single machine now sprawled where they’d fallen, white armor cracked and blackened. A few helmets had rolled free. The faces beneath were the same face, stilled.

Lyra swallowed and kept her gaze forward. It didn’t keep the images out.

That was when she saw him, a figure sprawled in the dirt, battered but breathing. Her legs ran before her brain caught up, before her father's warning reached her ears. Instinct drove her; help first, think later, hardwired into her being. As she approached, she noticed the lightsaber hilt near his open hand, its metal dulled by soot. It’s the Jedi. 

His face was younger than she’d expected, though his broad frame suggested he was older than her. Something about him seemed familiar, but she couldn't place him. Perhaps the way dust-filtered light caught his sun-kissed curls reminded her of someone. The peaceful expression on his unconscious face despite the surrounding carnage seemed strange. He didn’t look like a savior either. Just a person.

“Hey!” She dropped to her knees beside him. “Can you hear me? We need to move, come on!”

Chapter Text

Darkness and light swirled around Edric like a storm. Voices clawed at him, harsh and accusing. Master Asher appeared, face contorted with rage. "You left me to die!" His twisted features seared into Edric's mind. He reached out, but the blackness yanked him down like a hooked fish. 

Other voices cut in, sharp as knives. "You let your family down," they accused. Faces he didn't recognize—yet felt connected to—flickered past, eyes bright with disappointment. A shadowed figure raised a pyramid holocron; facets glowing blue and crimson across nothing. "You will never get it back," the figure hissed. The rush of faces and sound blurred to a nightmarish smear until, mercifully, the vision began to fade.

△▲△

Consciousness came slow, like wading through mud. Shadows danced above Edric; sound seeped in as if through water. His eyelids fluttered, fighting to focus on his surroundings.

Everything hurt. His head pounded in rhythm with his heartbeat, while his body felt like stone. Movement was a battle he hadn’t agreed to fight yet.

A face cut through the haze—a girl, with green eyes and faintly freckled, about his age.

“Hey! Can you hear me? We need to move, come on!” Her voice pierced through Edric’s mental fog with urgency. His memory returned in jagged pieces: blasterfire, screams, the white heat of explosions.

“Who are you?” The words scraped his throat. He tried to sit up. Not his best idea. The world blurred, then steadied.

“I’m Lyra,” she said quickly. “There’s no time. The droids could come back. We have to go.”

She tugged hard. Edric groaned, dragging himself upright against every protest in his ribs and legs. 

A jolt of terror snapped him fully awake.

“Wait—my Master! Where is he?” His eyes raked the ruin: the silent clones, torn droids, cratered earth. No sign of his master. A hole cracked open in his chest, raw and gaping like the craters on the battlefield. He squeezed his eyes shut, reaching for the Force not with command, but with hope. The Force answered only with quiet. A silence that didn’t push him away, just… invited him to listen harder. He’d failed to protect Master Asher. Failed to read the warning he’d gotten from the Force.

“No clue,” Lyra said, the edge in her voice pulling Edric back to the present. “But if we stay, we could end up like him.”

She yanked again. This time he let her bring him to his feet. His legs barely obeyed; every step was a negotiation. His balance wavered as he noticed the dozen figures around them. An older man with greying hair stood close behind Lyra, sharing similar features. Judging by their attire, Edric guessed all of their group were locals. Some searched the fallen, checking for survivors or scavenging supplies. He noticed two of them helping up a trooper not far away. His eyes widened. The clone’s armor was singed, marked with the same shoulder stripe—there was no doubt, it was the one who’d covered him before.

Lyra moved ahead without waiting and the older man steered Edric after her. He staggered to follow, catching only glimpses of the girl weaving through the trees. His muscles trembled as if the ground itself was shifting beneath his feet, but something slowly steadied in him with every step.

The distant booms grew louder, a reminder that trouble wasn’t far. Edric clenched his jaw. One foot. Then the other. 

At the edge of the trees his thoughts cleared a little. A dull throb still pulsed behind his eyes, but his senses started to sharpen. His body, however, still lagged behind like dead weight. A cold breeze sliced across his sweat-soaked skin, snapping him back to full awareness. 

He glanced up at the canopy. Broad leaves spread above like shields against war, filtering the planet's sun to a soft glow. It reminded him of a living temple with towering trunks and a vibrant understory of colorful plants thriving in the moist, shadowy haven. Tiny flowers seemed to sway of their own accord, though his swimming vision might have been playing tricks on him. 

He managed to match Lyra’s stride, noting how she moved with the forest, as if she belonged to it. The distant clamor of weapons faded, giving way to a symphony of insects and rustling leaves.

“Where are you taking me?” Edric asked after a while, his voice hoarse and cracked with dryness. He tried to map their path in his head, in case he’d need to find it again, but the woods seemed to swallow them like a beast.

“To safety,” she replied without looking back.

“You’re from here, aren’t you?” he asked between coughs.

Lyra stopped abruptly and turned, fixing him with a sharp stare. “Yeah,” she said. “We saw your ships and thought help had finally come. Thought maybe the Republic finally gave a damn.” Her voice dropped, heavy with bitterness. She angled her chin toward the destruction behind them. “Doesn’t look like it, does it?”

Edric flinched. She was right. All around them was ruin and death. The Separatists wanted the planet's doonium, but the Republic—and the Jedi—should’ve known what their campaign would cost the people who called this place home. A hot pang rose in his chest, licking at his ribs, his ears burning with shame and anger. He recognized the feeling—a fire that Jedi weren't supposed to feed. And yet...

The older man behind him stepped forward, placing a hand on Lyra’s shoulder.

“Not everyone’s to blame,” he said gently. “Not him.”

Lyra’s stance loosened, but only slightly. “Maybe,” she muttered. “He’s still a part of it.” She flicked a look down the path. “Let’s keep moving, Dad.”

She disappeared into the trees, her anger trailing behind like a whip crack. Her father lingered, offering Edric a weary, understanding look. His clothes were worn, his hands thick with calluses. Proof of a life already shaped by hardship, now made even harder.

“This war chews all of us,” he said. “Especially young ones like Lyra. I’m Renan Ment, her father.”

“Edric Kane,” he replied with a nod. “Thank you... for helping me.”

Renan offered a faint smile. “Looks like you've had a rough day, young Jedi Knight. But then, so have we.” He stepped in beside Edric, steadying his pace. 

“I’m not a Knight,” Edric said quietly. “Still just a Padawan.”

One brow climbed as Renan looked him over. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Not again…

Edric rubbed the back of his neck. “I get that a lot. I’m… not there yet. After today, it feels even further away.”

“Well, Knight or not, we’re grateful you’re here. Lyra too—even if she won’t show it yet,” Renan added with an encouraging nod. 

They pressed on through the forest, the trail winding deeper beneath the canopy, leaving behind the sounds of battle; a world Edric wasn’t sure he belonged to anymore. He tried to steady his head. What would Master Asher say? He focused on his breathing, leaning on his teachings: Be present. Stay in the now.

He matched his breath to his steps and took stock: a dozen villagers, the wounded clone, and him. Enough to fill a gunship.

Renan broke the quiet. “This forest used to be the place we came to think. Hunt a little. Clear our heads. It’s different now. But fire doesn’t end a forest. Give it time, life comes back through the ash.”

Edric glanced from the man to Lyra up ahead. A tight ache settled under his sternum. “I’m sorry about your home,” he said. “We… the Jedi thought we were helping. But all we brought was pain.”

Renan gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Intentions don’t always match with outcomes. We trusted the Republic to protect us. That trust… didn’t last.”

Edric opened his mouth, hesitated, then pushed the words out. “I know just saying sorry doesn’t fix anything,” he said. “But I mean it. Really.”

Renan’s expression softened. “It’s not on you. You’re young, and the galaxy’s messy. All any of us can do is try to make a difference where you can, however little.”

Edric held onto that—the words plain, true. This was what the Jedi were meant to do: protect people like Renan, like Lyra. Not just fight for what senators wanted mined out of their ground. 

“Maybe I can help,” he said. “We need to get your people out. I can contact a transport, or—”

“We’re not leaving just yet,” Renan cut in gently. “There’s a camp nearby. That’s where we’re headed.”

Edric swallowed the urge to rush. One step at a time, he reminded himself.

The forest eventually gave way to a steep rock face where a cave mouth yawned between stone and vines. Shadowed by trees and mountains, it was nearly invisible unless one knew where to look. A sanctuary, tucked away from the violence of the outside world.

Lyra stood at the cave's entrance, arms crossed. Her gaze met Edric’s for a beat, then slid away. Still guarded, but the earlier chill was gone.

“This way,” she said, and stepped into the dark.

It closed around them fast. Edric’s eyes struggled to adjust until Lyra and a few others cracked glowrods, their pale light stretching long shadows across the rough stone. Cool air brushed against his skin, carrying the scent of damp earth, mud, and the faint tang of fungus. The echoes made it hard to tell what was draft and what might be movement deeper inside.

After a few winding turns, they emerged into a high chamber ribbed with ancient stalactites hanging from above. 

Edric stopped short. Fifty or so people clustered there among bedrolls, crates, and failing lamps. Children ran to the returning adults, some sobbing as they threw themselves into their arms. Edric stepped aside, watching a little girl—no older than four—crash into her mother’s arms. Both wept. The knot tightened in his chest. He quickly looked away.

“Come on,” Lyra said more gently. “I’ll show you a spot to rest.” She pressed a ration bar and a battered flask into his hand.

“Thanks.”

The ‘spot’ Lyra had mentioned turned out to be an old mattress with a flickering lamp perched on a supply crate. To Edric at that moment, it looked better than his own bed back in the Temple. His eyelids were heavy, but rest would have to wait. There was still much to do.

“Ain’t much,” Lyra said, her tone somewhere between blunt and apologetic. “We grabbed what we could before the sky fell.” 

With his brain still playing catch up, Edric wasn’t sure if she meant it as sympathy or dry humor. Either way, he dipped his head as thanks. 

She hesitated before turning. “Look, I was… hard on you earlier. That wasn’t fair.”

“You don’t owe me an apology.”

She gave a brief nod and peeled away, leaving him alone with the dim hum of the cave and his own exhaustion.

He sank onto the mattress, slowly unwrapped the ration bar, and took a bite. His stomach remembered then it was empty and gave a loud rumble. As he chewed, Edric watched the refugees around him. These people had lost everything, yet they still found the strength to keep moving forward. Parents comforted the children. Teenagers distributed supplies. Somewhere, someone laughed. A child shrieked at a silly face. Another climbed a crate like it was a fortress.

He looked down at the half-eaten bar. He could’ve finished it, but the others needed it more. He wrapped the rest carefully and tucked it away. The water helped clear his throat, but not the press on his chest. 

A soft, melodic chant drifted through the cavern, barely louder than a whisper. Edric rose and followed the sound to a ring of women around a low fire. They sang for the children, their voices threading through the stone like an old, half-remembered spell.

‘In Tarnos' verdant embrace, where shadows dance and Spirits dwell,

Whispers of the ancient trees weave a sacred, silent spell.

Guardians of earth and sky, hear our humble, heartfelt plea,

Shield our land with unseen might, let our hearts and souls be free.

Oh, Spirits of the wild, in moonlit glades and sunlit seas,

Keep us safe in your embrace, under the shelter of your leaves.’

The voices wrapped around Edric like warm mist—soft, ancient, but filled with sorrow that the Force seemed to amplify further than sound alone could. 

Lyra appeared at his side. Firelight caught in her eyes like distant stars glimpsed through fog. Somehow, he felt steadier with her nearby, drawn to the stubborn flame that lived under her tiredness. He wished he knew how to kindle the same certainty in himself.

“It's an old hymn,” she said. “A prayer to the forest Spirits.” She leaned against the wall, shoulder almost brushing his. Warmth bled across the inch between them and a flutter rose inside him. Unfamiliar. Elusive. Not quite understood, but impossible to ignore. When she turned, he glanced away.

“It's beautiful,” Edric said. A flush crept up his neck, hidden mercifully in the dim glow.

“Used to sing it myself,” Lyra murmured. “Back when I still believed in miracles.” A wry smile tugged at her lips, part fondness, part fatigue. “Now I figure... we gotta make our own.” 

Edric nodded. “The Jedi teach that the Living Force is everywhere,” he said. “That if you listen, the miracles will come.” It sounded like a line from a holobook even to him. Not belief, just a phrase he was supposed to say.

Lyra scoffed, giving him a teasing look. “You Jedi love your stories. Squint hard enough and the galaxy lines up, right?”

“Maybe. So tell me how it really is then,” Edric asked. He surprised himself with the challenge in his own voice, but saw Lyra's gaze wander to the flames, transporting her to somewhere—or maybe sometime else. 

“I was ten when I learned that song,” she said. “Aunt Pan taught me. She said the Spirits look after folks who know how to listen.”

Edric tilted his head. “The Jedi Archives talk about things like that. Different cultures interpret the Force in their own way. Maybe your Spirits and the Force aren’t so different.”

Lyra looked back, curiosity softening her brow. "What is it like? Hearing this… Force?" Her voice had grown quieter too.

Edric scratched his chin, searching for the right words. “Noisy. For most Jedi it’s like breathing. For me…” He paused, looking for words. “It's like learning a language. I know the rules, the theory. I just don’t have the words to hold a conversation.”

Lyra arched an eyebrow. “So... like a busted protocol droid?”

Edric blinked.

She laughed—unguarded, warm—and the sound rippled through the chamber and stirred something in Edric’s gut. It lit her face, startled her a little, as if she hadn’t heard her own laugh in too long. When she caught him watching, she turned, amusement still bright in her eyes.

A distant rumble shook the stone. Dust drifted from the ceiling, and the spell broke. 

Lyra's expression hardened, her earlier smile replaced by a blank stare into the flames. “We begged for help for so long,” she whispered. “The Republic never came. Didn’t care. Not till the Separatists showed up. Suddenly Tarnos mattered—because of what’s under our feet.” She ran a hand through her dark hair, a motion Edric's eyes followed before he caught himself. “The mine owners kept their towers. We lost everything.”

She looked at him then. Wide and full of old wounds. His stomach quivered under the weight of her stare. She quickly turned away, wiping her face with the back of her hand, the gesture oddly vulnerable. “You’re probably just another cog in their machine,” a sob escaped her. “That’s what I keep telling myself. But when I was little... I thought the Jedi were different. I thought you gave a damn.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

Edric swallowed. I care, he wanted to say. The water he’d drunk earlier hadn’t eased the dryness in his throat. He had no defense. Not when he’d read the same reports. Not when Master Asher had questioned the Council too. His hands curled until he forced them open.

He didn’t want to be that kind of a Jedi. He wanted to help people like her, like these families huddled in the dark. That’s what Master Asher would’ve done. Lead them to safety. But can you? The persistent voice in his head needled.

A proper plan was necessary to get off-world and evacuate the refugees before the CIS found them. Normally, Master Asher would stand at his shoulder, nudging ideas, sharpening a plan. Now it was on him alone. At the very least, they would need a few transports from their cruiser and a secure extraction zone. Something defensible, in case the droids came back.

“I can’t change what’s happened,” he said. “But I can try to make it right.” 

She blinked, startled. 

“I’ll help you get off-world,” Edric added. “I just need to reach our cruiser.”

A flicker of emotion passed over her face: first surprise, then hesitation, and finally something softer.

“I don’t know if I can leave,” she admitted quietly. “This is my home, Edric.” Her fingers traced a groove in the rock.

“The Temple’s all I’ve ever known. But…” He hesitated, unsure how to explain something he’d never shared before with anyone else beside Master Asher. “When I meditate, there's this place I go to in my mind. Fields of tall grass swaying in the wind, stretching as far as the eye can see. It feels more like home than anywhere else. And it’s always with me.”

Lyra studied him as if seeing him properly for the first time. “You're a strange one.” Her gaze lingered on his for a moment before she shook her head and laughed with a dry, tired sound. “Guess we both had to grow up too fast.”

Edric gave a slight nod. “The Order teaches that duty comes before everything else. Emotions are distractions.” He balled his fists again, then consciously relaxed them, noticing how Lyra tracked the motion. “Lately I’m starting to wonder who that really serves. The Force... or the ones pulling the strings?”

“At least you ask,” Lyra said. “That's more than most do.” She was quiet for a moment, then added softly, “Sometimes I wonder who I’d be, if I’d been born somewhere else. But this is where I belong. Even if it’s broken.”

“You can rebuild,” Edric said gently. “But only if you survive.”

Her eyes met his. And this time, she didn’t look away.

They drifted from the singers, the melody fading into a distant hum. The smell of sweat, damp stone, and old earth filled the air. Camp lights cast dancing shadows on the tall walls, flickering like restless spirits.

He slowed near the main chamber, scanning the ragtag camp: hollow cheeks, exhausted eyes, children clinging to weary parents. The tear-streaks cutting through dirt on their faces spoke louder than words. It was a place stitched together with survival and nothing more. His pulse climbed. Feelings wouldn't save them. Action might. Comforting each person wasn’t what they needed from him now. A chance for safety was.

The Temple had given him purpose and shelter. These people had neither. And in some small, hidden way, maybe the Order’s choices had helped it happen. Perhaps more intertwined with the cruelty of war than they all considered in their comfortable Temple. The thought took root in him and spread like ivy through the cracks of an old ruin.

As he looked over the crowd again, his eyes caught a familiar shape slumped against the wall, armor scorched but intact. The clone trooper who’d saved his life. 

Edric didn’t even know the man’s designation.

Villagers swept over the clone with careful hands, cleaning burns. The trooper groaned when the disinfectant bit.

Edric approached, and knelt beside him. “How’re you holding up?”

The clone blinked through pain, then eased when he recognized him. “Been better, sir. I’ll manage once the meds kick in.”

“You didn’t have to save me. Thank you,” he said, voice low. “I'm Edric.”

“I know,” the trooper said, managing a weary smile, “CT-1128. But you can call me Lokk.”

Edric offered his hand; Lokk’s grip was firm. “Good to meet you, Lokk.” He nodded at the bandage. “How bad? I might need your help.”

Lokk shrugged, casual but tight around the edges. “Just a graze. I’ll live.”

Edric appreciated the bravado, but as Lokk’s gaze drifted off, the shift was clear. His eyes unfocused, staring past the cave walls at something only he could see and Edric didn't need the Force to know why. He's thinking about the others, his fallen brothers. Edric didn’t fill the space with words. He set a hand on Lokk’s shoulder instead and stood.

No time to dwell. No time to mourn.

The cave provided cover, not safety. The mouth was too tight for a full evac by LAATs. If droids found their trail, no walls or shadows would protect them. He considered Master Asher, just for a second. Then forced the thought away. No. The refugees came first. That's what he would want too. 

His eyes went to the side passages veining off the chamber. Some sloped deeper.

“Lyra.” She turned immediately. “Those tunnels—do you know where they go?”

She followed his gaze and frowned. “Some of them.”

“Any of them lead to another exit?”

“A couple. Few dead-ends. My dad has an old map—I’ll get him.” She was already moving.

Lokk stirred behind him, trying to sit up. Edric stepped in and helped ease him up.

“Got a plan, sir?” he asked through a breath.

“Not yet. Pieces of one,” Edric said. “How many gunships do you think we'd need for everyone?”

“Two. Maybe three. Depends how tight. I’d bring cover. If clankers are sniffing around, we’ll need guns.” 

He was right. A single LAAT carried roughly thirty—crowded, less with troopers aboard. They’d need at least three and escorts.

The plan anchored him, at least slightly. Fog lifted by degrees. This was his element. Working on problems, finding solutions, avoiding past mistakes. That was how he learned, through failure, as Master Asher often liked to point out.

His master's absence pressed against his focus though. With a deep inhale, he released the image. No rushing. A plan first. He studied the dark mouths of the tunnels again. Each one a promise.

Or a trap.

Chapter Text

Lyra wove through the tunnels, her thoughts tangled like forest roots. Trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford—for Jedi or anyone. Yet Edric didn’t fit the stories. He spoke his doubts out loud and didn’t hide behind polished lines. Against her better judgment, a sliver of belief crept in.

It didn't hurt that he carried himself with quiet strength rather than arrogance. None of that self-righteous superiority so many Republic officials displayed. Instead, she’d found genuine care that contradicted everything she’d come to believe about the Jedi. 

Nothing like how she had pictured them either. She shook it off. Survival first. The rest could wait. She’d heard enough secondhand tales to trust her people over monks from legends.

Her thumb found Aunt Pan’s puzzle box, the worn corners a reminder of why she fought. The old woman would’ve given her some cryptic wisdom for times like these. Judge character by actions, not badges. There was something about Edric that made her—

“Made a new friend?”

Lyra startled. She hadn't noticed the twins lounging against some supply crates she passed. Their identical faces wore matching grins that immediately set her teeth on edge.

“He's a Jedi,” she said. “He can help us evacuate.”

“A Jedi, huh?” Dal lifted a brow. “Thought you couldn’t stand them.”

“I can't,” she said, flat. “But we need allies. And he seems…” She searched. “Decent. For a Jedi.”

They traded a look she ignored.

“Decent,” Dex echoed, amused. “Looks like he can handle himself.”

“Don’t start,” she warned. “Seen my dad?”

“North passage,” Dex said, grin returning. “Want us to tell the Jedi where his biggest fan wandered off to?”

Lyra didn’t respond, just walked off. She heard them snickering behind her, but she kept her eyes forward.

Edric’s words clung to her mind like burrs. He’d shown glimpses of a person beneath the Jedi mantle, someone questioning his place in a war neither of them had asked for. It changed nothing, she reminded herself. One honest talk didn’t erase years of neglect.

The tunnel narrowed. Moisture beaded on stone and dripped into shallow pools. The cool air smelled of minerals, like the days she and her father hid from rain in these same hollows while he told stories of hunters waiting out storms.

“Lyra! Wait.”

Old Terek shuffled toward her, one hand on the wall. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, but a spark had found its way back in. Before the attacks, he’d been their village mechanic, kept their tools alive—droid circuits, mining rigs—and taught Lyra some when she was little.

“Is it true?” He caught his breath. “A Jedi?”

She nodded. “Found him after a battle. He’s with us.”

Terek’s face lit like a boy’s. “The Spirits heard us,” he whispered. “My grandmother met one once. Said they could move mountains with their minds. That true?”

Naked hope in his eyes knotted her chest. She’d seen that look too many times—when they petitioned the Senate, when promised med supplies that never came, when rumors said the Republic was finally coming.

“Terek,” she said gently. “He’s one Jedi. Just a boy.”

“But he can call for help? Bring more? The children haven’t seen daylight in days.”

“He’ll try to get us out,” she said, choosing each word. “But Separatists are everywhere. Don’t expect miracles.”

The light dimmed but didn’t die. “When you’ve lived as long as I have,” he said, tapping the datapad at his hip, “help shows up from sideways places. Hope’s rare, not gone.”

“I’m not trying to snuff it,” she said. “I just don’t want people disappointed if—”

“If things fall apart?” he finished, kind. “Child, they already did. Long before you were born. But change still comes. Maybe this time it tilts our way.”

Lyra watched Terek shuffle off to check two elders by a small fire. Lyra almost called after him—to remind him Edric was just one person—but held her tongue, brushing a lock of hair from her face. Let them have their hope. She wouldn't be the one to take what warmth they had.

She found her father at a basin, washing up. The glowrod caught the silver threading his hair. His weathered hands moved methodically, each motion careful not to waste a single drop of water. He looked up, eyes crinkling despite the strain. “There you are,” he said. “Showed the Padawan around?”

Lyra stopped. “Padawan? I thought he was a knight.”

“So did I,” her father said, drying his face. “Easy mistake. He told me he’s still a learner. About your age.”

She leaned to the wall, folding her arms. “He says he might get us off-world.”

He straightened, alertness cutting through fatigue. ”That’s good news.”

“Maybe,” she said, biting her lips. “I still don’t know if we can trust him.”

Her father sighed, the sound bouncing off stone. He set the cloth down and put both hands on her shoulders. “Forget the Republic. Forget the war. He’s trying to help.”

She stepped back, arms tighter across her chest. Why was everyone so quick to hand trust to a stranger? “It’s the lies, Dad. We were ignored for years. It’s—”

“I know,” he said. “But he didn’t make those choices. Don’t hang the whole galaxy on one kid.”

“He’s still part of it,” she muttered, the words thinner than before.

“And so were we, in our own way,” he said. “Good people get trapped in broken machines too.”

She looked away, jaw set. “Or they just follow orders.”

He nodded, quiet. “I’ve seen the weight in his eyes. Like someone else I know.”

She didn’t answer that. Didn’t want to. “He lost his master out there. He’s alone, confused. We shouldn’t put our lives in his hands.”

“No,” her father agreed. “But he deserves a chance.” He gestured toward the glow of the central chamber. “We’re running out of options, Lyra. If he can help…”

Her voice dropped. “What about home? If we leave—”

“Home’s the people,” he said gently, touching her cheek. “We can rebuild walls. Not lives.”

Lyra knew he was right; saying it felt like surrender. She glanced toward the path that led back to where Edric waited. “He asked about other exits.”

“Smart boy,” he murmured, rummaged in a crate and pulled a small holoprojector. A map of the caves shimmered to life. “This one might serve.” He pointed to a narrow eastern passage.

Lyra studied the lines, fixing them in memory. “Let’s show him.”

As she turned to leave, her father caught her wrist. “Lyra,” he said, his voice low. “Remember what Aunt Pan said about the Spirits?”

“That they guide those with open hearts,” she recited without thinking.

“Then keep yours open. That’s all I ask.”

She held his gaze, then nodded. “I’ll try,” she said. “But I’m still keeping an eye on him.”