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Qui-Gon could not move.
The energy cuffs burned where they bit into his wrists and ankles, humming with a low, relentless thrum that vibrated through bone and muscle alike. He tested them once—only once—before the sharp spike of pain taught him the limits of resistance. The Force flowed around him, maddeningly present and utterly useless, like water just out of reach.
Across the room, everything happened too fast and too slowly all at once.
The vibroblade tore free of Eero’s grasp, yanked by Dooku’s will, and for a heartbeat Qui-Gon’s breath lodged painfully in his chest. The blade spun toward Dooku’s restraints, bright and merciless—
Dooku slipped free.
Effortless. Precise. As if the cuffs had never truly held him at all.
Relief flared instinctively in Qui-Gon’s chest, sharp and brief. His Master was free. His Master was safe.
Then Eero ran.
The door slammed open and shut, the sound echoing too loudly in the small space. Qui-Gon barely registered it. His attention had locked onto Dooku, to the way his Master straightened, shoulders settling, presence expanding in the Force until it pressed against Qui-Gon’s senses like a physical weight.
The lightsaber flew into Dooku’s hand.
Not Qui-Gon’s.
Dooku turned—and Qui-Gon saw Lorian standing there, armed now, desperate and cornered. The air shifted. The Force tightened, coiling like something alive and angry.
“This time it is not a game.”
Qui-Gon felt the words more than he heard them.
Something cold settled in his stomach.
He tried to speak. Tried to call out. His throat closed around the sound as if his body already knew how useless it would be.
Dooku moved to block the exit, cutting Lorian off with finality that made Qui-Gon’s pulse stutter. The intent radiating from his Master was unmistakable, and it terrified him—not because it was uncontrolled, but because it wasn’t.
This wasn’t fury spiraling out of command.
This was choice.
He will kill him, Qui-Gon realized, with a clarity so sharp it hurt.
Not in self-defense. Not in the heat of battle.
He will kill him because he wants to.
“Master,” Qui-Gon tried, his voice hoarse. “My lightsaber—”
The words barely reached his own ears. Dooku did not even turn his head.
The dismissal struck deeper than the restraints. Qui-Gon had known anger from his Master before, had known cold silence and sharp correction—but this was different. This was being rendered irrelevant. Unnecessary. An inconvenience.
I am here, Qui-Gon wanted to say. I am afraid. Please see me.
But Dooku did not need him.
Dooku did not want him.
When Lorian fired, Qui-Gon flinched instinctively, every muscle straining uselessly against the cuffs. Dooku deflected the bolts with lazy precision, advancing without haste, without urgency. He looked… pleased.
Qui-Gon felt sick.
The fight moved closer—closer to him. His breath came shallow now, chest tight as he watched Lorian stumble, desperation bleeding through every movement. And then—
Lorian lunged for the lightsaber on the floor.
No.
The word tore through Qui-Gon’s mind, silent and desperate.
Dooku let him take it.
The violation hit like a physical blow.
That was his lightsaber. An extension of his will. His vow. His bond to the Order, to the Force, to Dooku himself. To see it in Lorian’s hands—clumsy, hungry, pleased—felt like something sacred being dragged through filth.
Qui-Gon cried out then, a sound wrenched from him before he could stop it. Panic burned hot behind his eyes.
Dooku did not look at him.
“Go ahead,” Dooku said calmly. “Attack me.”
Qui-Gon shook his head helplessly, bile rising in his throat. He wanted to tear his gaze away, but he couldn’t. He was bound, forced to watch as his Master toyed with a man who could not win, drawing out the humiliation with surgical care.
This wasn’t justice.
This wasn’t balance.
This was cruelty.
Each parried blow landed like a blow to Qui-Gon’s own chest. He could feel Dooku’s satisfaction through the Force, thick and choking, and with it came something worse: recognition.
This is familiar.
He had felt this before. As a boy. The tightening ground beneath his feet. The knowledge that resistance would only make it worse.
Dooku stepped forward, gathering the Force, shaping it with terrible elegance. His blade moved faster now, brighter, the air crackling with power barely restrained.
He is going to kill him, Qui-Gon realized again, and this time the certainty crushed the breath from his lungs.
“Master!”
The word tore out of him, raw and useless.
“Stop.”
He did not shout this time.
He did not plead.
He simply spoke the truth of it, because he had nothing left.
The world seemed to tilt.
Dooku turned.
Their eyes met.
And in that moment, Qui-Gon felt the full, unbearable weight of what was being asked of him—not just to witness, but to intervene. To stand between his Master and the dark road opening beneath his feet. To be the thing that stopped him.
Not the Council.
Not the Code.
Qui-Gon.
He saw it then, in Dooku’s face—the flicker of recognition, the fracture in perfect control. He saw horror bloom there, sudden and sharp, as Dooku looked at himself reflected in Qui-Gon’s eyes.
Qui-Gon held that gaze with everything he had.
Please, he thought, though he did not say it. Please choose something else.
The lightsaber deactivated.
The sound was small. Final.
Qui-Gon sagged against the restraints, strength bleeding out of him all at once, relief and exhaustion crashing together until he could barely breathe. Lorian gasped, shuddering, alive.
“It’s over,” Dooku said.
Qui-Gon closed his eyes.
It was.
But the weight of what almost had been—the knowledge of how close his Master had come, and of the terrible truth that it had been Qui-Gon who had stopped him—settled heavy in his chest.
He did not know how long he could keep doing this.
He did not know how long Dooku would let him.
And for the first time, bound and helpless and shaking, Qui-Gon wondered whether being his Master’s conscience was a role he had ever truly agreed to take on—or whether it was simply another burden that had been placed in his hands without his consent.