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Ahsoka has fought Sith Lords, crime syndicates, slavers, and Mandalorian warlords.
The formal reception line may be worse.
“Mand’alor Ahsoka Tano and Commander CT-7567 of the Three Hundred Thirty-Second,” the herald announces.
Every head in the ballroom turns.
Ahsoka keeps walking.
Her beskar makes a quiet metallic rhythm with each step. Togruti armor is built differently from the human sets common across Mandalore, fitted around a taller frame and designed to leave her lekku unrestricted. Plates protect her chest, shoulders, hips, and forearms without interfering with the sensory organs beneath her montrals. Dark blue cloth shows between silver-grey beskar, with narrow orange markings honoring the soldiers who followed her into Sundari.
The Darksaber rests against her hip.
She feels every eye notice it.
Rex walks half a step behind her in immaculate dress whites, orange piping marking the 332nd along his collar and cuffs. A single commander’s rope hangs from his shoulder, and his ARC bar sits above the medals on his chest.
He looks calm.
Ahsoka knows better.
“You’re grinding your teeth,” he murmurs.
“You’re counting exits.”
“There are twelve.”
“Thirteen. The western balcony has an emergency stairwell.”
Rex’s mouth twitches.
Morai perches atop Ahsoka’s right montral and makes a pleased clicking sound.
“Don’t encourage her,” Rex says.
Morai nips at the air near his hair.
“She agrees with me.”
“She always agrees with you.”
“That’s because I’m usually right.”
They reach Chancellor Organa and Queen Breha at the center of the receiving line.
Bail looks exhausted, which Ahsoka considers a promising sign. Palpatine had always appeared perfectly rested while the Republic burned around him.
“Mand’alor,” Bail says warmly.
“Chancellor.”
The title still sounds strange.
This is the first peaceful transfer of executive authority since Palpatine’s death. Fox had carried the civilian powers of the office during the Senate deadlock, then surrendered them without protest the moment Bail’s election became official.
No coups. No emergency decrees. No clone battalions surrounding the Senate.
Just signatures, witnesses, and a Chief of Defense who reportedly told Bail, “Congratulations. These are your problems now.”
Breha takes Ahsoka’s hands.
“I’m glad you came.”
“So am I.”
That is mostly true.
Rex offers Bail a formal salute. Bail returns it with the solemnity of someone who understands that Rex is a commander, not decoration for the Mandalorian delegation.
“You clean up well, Commander,” Breha says.
Rex blinks. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Ahsoka feels warmth flicker through their bond before Rex buries it beneath parade-ground discipline.
They move deeper into the ballroom.
Senators, generals, diplomats, and military commanders fill the space beneath suspended chandeliers. Republic banners hang beside the standards of member worlds. Music drifts through conversations about ceasefires, surrender corridors, and which of Palpatine’s surviving appointees will be dismissed next.
Ahsoka spots Fox beside Riyo near one of the balconies.
The Chief of Defense wears dress blacks and three Guard-red ropes. Metal covers part of his face, catching the gold light when he turns toward his wife. Riyo is eight months pregnant and visibly irritated by the chair someone has placed behind her.
Fox moves it closer.
Riyo moves it away.
He moves it closer again when she isn’t looking.
Ahsoka decides not to interfere in that particular military campaign.
Then she feels Anakin.
His presence reaches her before she sees him. Familiar brilliance, contained anger, regret, love, and a wound between them that time has covered without healing.
Morai’s feathers rise.
Ahsoka stops.
Rex nearly walks into her back.
“What is it?”
He follows her gaze.
Anakin stands across the ballroom beside Padmé and Obi-Wan.
For several seconds, nobody moves.
Anakin looks older.
Not physically, though there are deeper lines around his eyes. His hair is longer, and formal Jedi robes fail to conceal the tension in his shoulders. Ahsoka can feel him trying to understand the person standing across from him.
She isn’t the sixteen-year-old who walked away from the Temple.
Her montrals have grown, carrying her height above most humans in the room. Her eyes are almost entirely yellow now, with only a thin ring of blue remaining at the edges.
She wears beskar instead of Jedi robes.
She carries the Darksaber instead of green blades.
People call her Mand’alor.
Anakin takes one step forward.
Morai launches from Ahsoka’s montral.
The convor crosses the ballroom in a streak of green and white, circles Anakin’s head once, then snaps her beak close to his ear.
Anakin ducks.
“Seriously?”
Morai shrieks at him.
Several diplomats turn.
Ahsoka closes her eyes. “Morai.”
The convor lands on a chandelier and glares down at Anakin with supernatural hatred.
“She still doesn’t like me,” Anakin says.
“She remembers Mortis.”
“So do I.”
Ahsoka opens her eyes.
Anakin has crossed half the distance between them.
Rex remains at her side.
Not behind her now.
Beside her.
Anakin notices.
His eyes move briefly over Rex’s dress whites, the commander’s rope, and the orange insignia of the 332nd. Then he looks at the distance between Rex and Ahsoka, which is barely enough for air.
“Commander,” Anakin says.
“General,” Rex replies.
The greeting is respectful.
It is also colder than Mandalore’s northern wastes.
Ahsoka exhales through her nose. “We’re not starting a fight at Bail’s gala.”
“I wasn’t going to start one,” Anakin says.
Rex looks politely unconvinced.
Ahsoka folds her arms. “That sounded exactly like something you say before starting one.”
“You used to say that because you were usually helping.”
“I was fourteen.”
“You were dangerous at fourteen.”
“I’m Mand’alor now.”
“I noticed.”
His gaze drops toward the Darksaber.
For one awful moment, Ahsoka thinks he is going to make a joke about her collecting titles.
Instead, he says, “It suits you.”
The simple sincerity hits harder than anger would have.
Ahsoka’s arms loosen.
“Thank you.”
Anakin studies her face.
“You got taller.”
“You got tired.”
His mouth shifts into something close to a smile. “Having twins does that.”
“I’ve met them.”
“I know. Leia bit your gauntlet.”
“She has excellent instincts.”
“Luke tried to eat Rex’s medal.”
Rex touches the ribbon unconsciously. “He nearly succeeded.”
Ahsoka smiles before she can stop herself.
The expression fades when she looks back at Anakin.
There is too much between them.
Her trial.
The Council.
His failure to trust her.
Her decision to leave.
His years of silence after.
Palpatine.
The truth about the Sith, the chips, and the man Anakin had believed was his friend.
Any one of those subjects could destroy the fragile peace between them.
Anakin lowers his voice. “I wanted to contact you.”
“You knew how.”
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”
“That never stopped you before.”
His jaw tightens.
Ahsoka feels Rex shift closer, not touching her, but near enough that she could reach him without looking.
Anakin notices that too.
“I thought you needed space,” he says.
“I needed my family.”
“You left us.”
The words come out sharper than either of them intended.
Ahsoka’s temper sparks.
“You handed me to the Senate.”
“I tried to save you.”
“After you believed I might’ve done it.”
“I never believed that.”
“You didn’t believe me quickly enough.”
Anakin opens his mouth.
Ahsoka’s montrals catch Rex’s quiet breath beside her.
Not a warning.
A reminder.
This night is not large enough for the whole argument.
Anakin seems to reach the same conclusion.
He looks down, then back at her.
“You’re right.”
The fight leaves Ahsoka so abruptly that she doesn’t know what to do with herself.
Anakin Skywalker does not admit fault easily. He usually has to be cornered with evidence, three witnesses, and Obi-Wan looking disappointed.
“I should’ve trusted you before I understood the evidence,” he says. “I should’ve stood between you and the Council before they made their decision.”
Ahsoka’s throat tightens.
“That doesn’t fix it.”
“I know.”
“I’m not ready to forgive everything.”
“I know that too.”
Morai makes an angry sound from the chandelier, apparently unconvinced by this rare display of maturity.
Anakin glances upward. “She doesn’t.”
“She has higher standards.”
“That’s terrifying.”
Ahsoka almost laughs.
The music changes behind them. Bail steps onto the central platform, raising a glass as the room gradually quiets.
Anakin looks toward the platform, then back at her.
“Are you happy?”
The question catches Ahsoka off guard.
She looks around the ballroom.
At Bail and Breha.
At Padmé, who watches from a respectful distance.
At Fox quietly blocking another senator from touching Riyo’s stomach without permission.
At Rex, standing close enough that their shoulders nearly meet.
“Mandalore is difficult,” Ahsoka says. “The clans argue about everything. Half the government thinks I’m too young, the other half thinks I’m too Jedi, and Bo-Katan thinks sleep is a political weakness.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“No,” she says. “It wasn’t.”
Ahsoka looks at Rex.
He doesn’t answer for her.
He never does.
“I don’t know if I’m happy yet,” she says. “But the life I have is mine.”
Anakin nods slowly.
“That’s good.”
Bail begins his speech.
“Tonight, we celebrate more than an election. We celebrate the survival of a principle. Authority in the Republic belongs neither to one office nor one individual. It is entrusted, limited, and returned.”
Applause moves through the room.
Ahsoka watches Anakin.
There are tears in his eyes that he will deny later.
“I missed you, Snips,” he whispers.
The old name cuts through years of distance.
Ahsoka looks away before her expression betrays her.
“You don’t get to say that like nothing happened.”
“I know.”
“But you can say it.”
Anakin’s breath catches.
Ahsoka doesn’t hug him.
She isn’t ready.
She also doesn’t walk away.
Rex remains beside her as Bail raises his glass to the Republic’s future. His hand settles lightly against the back of Ahsoka’s armored wrist, hidden from most of the ballroom by the folds of her cloak.
Anakin sees it.
His eyebrows rise slightly.
Rex’s expression dares him to comment.
For once in his life, Anakin Skywalker makes the wise decision.
Morai swoops down and lands between Ahsoka’s montrals, still glaring at him.
One peaceful transfer of power is apparently enough for the evening.