Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Obi-Wan Kenobi hadn’t always been No One. Once he had a name and a soul, born to one of the great clans of Stewjon. His father was an outlander, but still an important man who others bowed before in respect (and cringed away from in terror that scraped against Obi-Wan’s mind with icy claws). But Obi-Wan had been born early—a small, scrawny thing who brought shame to his father, and whose traumatic birth killed his egg bearer.

Weak, his father called him. He had chosen a Stewjoni spouse because Stewjon was once a jewel of the Mandalorian Empire, its people close descendants of the Taung and known for their legendary prowess in battle. His father wanted a warrior, but a runt like Obi-Wan was useless to him. Unworthy.

Obi-Wan didn’t remember much of the day his step-mother tried to drown him. She hated Obi-Wan with a simmering rage that spilled over his skin like flames whenever she grabbed or struck him. He had a vague notion that he had done something that she deemed unforgivable that day—the final straw that broke the eopie’s back—but no knowledge of what the crime was. He did remember being lured out of their home with a promise of sweets, and then being distracted by the sugary heat of the cinnamon candy as she marched him down to the river. Then there was a blur of muddy water, choked screams, and darkness.

He woke on a starship, bound for the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, another child clinging to him for comfort like a touch-starved mynock. The child was Quinlan Vos—rescued from Kiffu by Jedi Watchman Tholme after Quin had his own close call with murderous family members—who understood Obi-Wan’s trauma in a way that no one else could. Master Tholme introduced him to the Jedi as Obi-Wan Kenobi, and he hung his head in shame. Obi-Wan understood what the name meant, though the Jedi didn’t. He had been cast out, cursed to drift alone and never march ahead with his ancestors.

His new name was a warning—soulless, stay away.

Over time he forgot about his home and his clan, his Stewjoni Mando’a replaced by crisp, Coruscanti accented Basic. Obi-Wan threw himself into his studies, but no matter how hard he studied or how deeply he meditated, he couldn’t escape the forgotten truth that stalked his steps—he was born for battle, a child of conquerors.

Obi-Wan wanted so badly to be better—to be good. And he failed. Again and again. No one wanted him as a Padawan, and his last hope, Master Qui-Gon Jinn informed him that he was too angry to become a Knight, destined to Fall. Obi-Wan was sent away to the AgriCorps, where was snatched and enslaved upon arrival and sent to serve in the deep sea mines.

Obi-Wan celebrated his thirteenth birthday in slavery during his three months in the mines. The injustice burned and carried with it a faint percussive rhythm like distant drums that thumped in his chest alongside his heartbeat. Then Qui-Gon came, and only after offering to sacrifice his life to save the other miners did the Jedi master deem Obi-Wan worthy of apprenticeship.

For three months he disappointed his new master. Qui-Gon continued to deem him too angry, too aggressive, and his doubt created prickly friction between them. The drums beat louder in Obi-Wan’s dreams, heralding a change on the horizon.

On Melida/Daan, the drums thundered along with his racing pulse when Obi-Wan learned of the plight of the Young. Stewjoni were legendary for their fierce protective instincts—their Taung ancestry raged to the surface when younglings were endangered. When Master Jinn demanded that Obi-Wan abandon the Young and return to Coruscant, Obi-Wan chose to stay and fight. In a fit of anger his master tore away his Padawan braid, took his lightsaber and left.

Six months at war taught Obi-Wan many hard lessons, but the most difficult to accept was that while he had failed at being a Jedi, he excelled at being a general. The Young didn’t need a Jedi anyway—they needed a soldier, and under his leadership, the Young’s war against the Elders saw victory after victory.

At several points it looked as though the Elders would finally cave and commit to the peace their children demanded. They never did, though. Instead, each time defeat loomed, the Elders doubled down on their cruel ways, and the Young in turn had to invent new methods to fight them. Obi-Wan had run through Quinlan’s entire repertoire of pranks, each modified for battle. He applied every scrap of healing knowledge that he’d learned from Bant, and innovated every strategy he’d learned from playing dejarik and holo-chess with Garen and Reeft.

His will was strong, but his body cracked under the strain. His three months traveling with Master Jinn had not been enough for his health to recover from his time as a slave, so he had joined the war underweight and tired. In the few moments he had to meditate he sank into the Force and reached out for help.

We can’t fight this war alone. Someone please help us…

Cal Kestis was born to a dying clan. No corner of Mandalorian space was left untouched by the civil war, and Stewjon was no exception. Cal’s clan had supported a losing faction—the True Mandalorians—and earned the ire of Death Watch. His clan was picked apart until only a handful remained, and when infant Cal showed signs of Force sensitivity, his parents decided to do what no self-respecting Mandalorian would ever do—they gave him to the Jedi. A Jedi foundling, Cal was named by the Seeker who took him in and lost all connection to his clan and culture.

Until the war. The Vodë of the 13th Iron Battalion instantly fell in love with their Stewjoni Padawan Commander. With Master Tapal’s approval, Mandalorian language and history modules were added to Cal's lessons, and the clones taught Cal everything they knew about being Mando'adë. He loved his new brothers, right up to the moment the Vodë turned on the Jedi and Cal lost his family again.

The small band of survivors aboard the Stinger Mantis knew that rebuilding the Jedi Order would require much more than a list of names hidden in a holocron. For five years they balanced rebelling against the Empire and scouring the galaxy for other survivors, possible students, and the remnants of Jedi teachings in ancient, ruined temples.

At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary as Cal and BD-1 explored their latest destination. The pair battled their way through hostile native flora and fauna inhabiting the ruined temple, but the deeper they explored, the more Cal felt drawn toward the mystery at its center. Something tugged him forward, as though the Force guided his steps.

“Just a little farther,” he murmured. BD whistled anxiously.

“Cal,” Cere said over the comm. “I don’t like these energy readings.”

“What energy readings?” He paused, hands on his hips as he studied the enormous stone doors blocking his path. The pull was strongest here, like a hook in his chest reeling him toward whatever waited on the other side.

“Something changed when you left the previous chambers and the sensors lit up like a Coruscant rave. I’m picking up an energy source near you and the readings are all over the place. I want you to return to the Mantis.”

Cal tugged his right glove off and tucked it into his belt. He pressed his bare palm against the stone and closed his eyes—there. Life pulsed just beyond the doors, the beat steady and constant like the rhythm of war drums. “Can you hear that?”

“Cal?”

Through his psychometry Cal spied the echo of a Mandalorian in full armor standing before the same doors. “The drums call the people to the hunt,” the warrior said as the vision faded.

“Cal! Abort mission! I mean it!”

The doors swung open and warm, endless light enveloped Cal.

We can’t fight this war alone. Someone please help us…

Children—there were children who needed him. Cal’s Stewjoni instincts surged, combined with the steadfast resolve of a Jedi Knight, and he strode forward into the light.

“I’m coming,” he whispered. “Hold on.”

Chapter Text

43 BBY, Zehava, capital city of Melida/Daan

Cal groaned as he drifted toward consciousness. His skull pounded with the worst headache he’d had since Greez decided it was a good idea to introduce Merrin to the Mid Rim drinking challenge. He squinted at an unfamiliar ceiling.

“Beedee?”

The droid whistled in alarm, climbed up on Cal’s chest and peered down at him. “Hey, little buddy. You all right?”

“<No damage from unidentified event detected. Are you damaged?>”

“Only my head.” He gently picked up BD-1 as he sat up and shifted the droid around to his usual perch on Cal’s back. “Are you picking up any local transmissions?”

“<Nothing within range of my receivers.>”

“Weird. Let me know if that changes.” Cal pushed to his feet. The enormous, empty duracrete room held no hints to their mystery location, and Cal reached out with his senses to get a feel for his surroundings. He shuddered—the area was steeped in suffering and violence, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since the height of the war. The stale feeling of violent death tainted the Force, as though the planet’s surface was covered by a tomb. And yet…

There. A fading light in the Force, struggling against an encroaching darkness like the flame of a flickering candle against the night. Before the Empire, Cal would have thought the person to be a Jedi. Startled, Cal made a choked noise that was half laugh, half sob, because in five years of searching for Force sensitives with the crew of the Mantis, this was the first time he’d felt one.

“<Query: status report? Deploy healing stim?>”

“No, I’m fine. There’s a Force-sensitive out there, and they’re in trouble. We need to hurry.”

BD-1 whistled in agreement and they set off. The room they’d awakened in was part of an abandoned warehouse, and Cal discovered an exit that led them onto an equally abandoned street. He paused and gazed at the night sky—no familiar stars, no ship traffic. The weather was cold but not freezing, and Cal adjusted his poncho.

He drew the Force around him in a notice-me-not as he hurried down the empty street. The surrounding buildings crumbled with disrepair and neglect, scarred by old explosive damage and blaster burns. A holdover from the war? Many of the less prestigious worlds that saw battle never recovered thanks to the Empire’s neglect.

BD-1 whistled a course correction, stating that his sensors had picked up the sounds of blaster fire nearby. Cal reached out cautiously to get a read on the situation—if there were Inquisitors in the area he didn’t want to draw their attention. They might be hunting the Force-sensitive, though their decrepit surroundings spoke more of an outer rim planet than an Imperial world—no probe droids, no stormtroopers, no TIE fighters screaming overhead.

He paused at the sound of combat, and then used a Force-assisted jump to leap atop the roof of a nearby building. Crouching, he hurried along the roof’s edge and peered at the battle below. Two groups had a third pinned—ambush, his instincts whispered. A still form was splayed in the street.

Cal frowned. “Beedee, is that a child?”

 “<Confirmed. Adolescent human or near-human. Combatants east of our position also appear to be comprised of younglings of similar age.>”

Children. Those assholes were firing on children.

With a growl Cal grabbed two of Merrin’s favorite flashbang grenades from his utility belt—apparently the brilliant green smoke they produced reminded her of Dathomir. He activated the grenades and used a Force-assisted throw to land them among the attackers. He pulled his bandana up to cover his nose and mouth, and when the grenades exploded Cal leapt down, ignited his saberstaff and charged the closest group. Cal downed the attackers quickly, but when he headed for the second group the cowards turned and fled. 

He shut down his saber and hurried to the side of the injured kid, who had taken two shots in the back. Cal stretched out and tried to send comfort and healing energy. The boy was scrawny, practically only skin and bones, his copper hair dirty and matted. Cal swallowed hard as the Force rose and battered him with the memory of his first desperate days on Bracca—alone, stranded and struggling with the wounds left by the Force bonds that had snapped during the Purge—before Prauf took him in and helped him find work.

Stewjoni, the Force whispered. Huh—this planet definitely wasn’t Stewjon. Still, the knowledge was a boon, because it meant that the kid could handle one of Cal’s healing stims that were customized for Stewjoni biology.

“Stim, Beedee.”

A vial of healing stimulant solution launched from the droid’s dispenser, and Cal snatched it out of the air and jabbed it into the side of the kid’s neck. The boy gasped as the chems raced through his bloodstream.

“Who are you?”

Cal glanced up at a group of armed children, their blasters trained on him. The speaker was a girl with a different shade of red hair, though equally dirty and matted.

“Cal Kestis, he/him, and this is BD-1, also he/him.”

BD whistled a tentative greeting.

“Did the Jedi send you?”

Cal blinked—maybe they were farther out than he’d thought, somewhere in wild space where the Empire hadn’t managed to touch. He swallowed hard, because he didn’t want to be the one to tell the children that the Jedi were dead.

He shook his head. “No, the Force did.” He grimaced and patted the pockets of his coverall. “I have a bottle of bacta spray somewhere.”

“Save it,” the boy muttered. “There are those who need it more.”

The girl scowled. “Shut up, Obi-Wan. Let the man help you.”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi?” Cal asked, and the group tensed.

“How do you know his name?”

“I don’t, not really.” Cal held his hands up, palms apart, to ease the kids’ tension. “We’re from the same planet, Stewjon. Most Stewjoni who choose to leave or are cast out are named Obi-Wan Kenobi. It means—”

“—no one, child of no clan,” the boy finished with a mortified groan. “I’m fine.”

BD-1 whistled in disagreement, and Cal shook his head.

“You’re really not,” Cal said. “Two blaster burns are hardly flimsi-cuts. Hence, bacta spray.”

“Go ahead,” the girl ordered. “I’ll kick his ass later if he argues.”

The corners of Cal’s mouth twitched—Merrin would like her. He quickly located the correct pocket and produced the bacta spray in question. Obi-Wan hissed as Cal applied the spray, and then the boy sighed and fell silent, unconscious.

“Is there a med center nearby?” Cal asked. The girl made a sound of disgust and shook her head.

“None that we can go to.” She peered at him. “You’re not with the Elders?”

“To be honest, I have no idea where I am. I’m not even sure how I got here.”

“<Unexplained phenomenon,>” BD-1 said. “<Possible cause: Force interference. Last known location was an abandoned Jedi temple on unnamed planet Besh-1138, Gallardo sector.>”

“Right…” Cal remembered the ruins, an enormous set of doors and a strange presence in the Force. Cere said something over the comm about aborting the mission. “Where am I?”

“Melida/Daan,” she replied.

“Never heard of it.”

One of the other children snorted. “Not a lot of people have. We’re in the Cadavine sector.”

“<Outer rim. Near the Arkanis sector,>” Beedee said. “<Astronavigation records list a planet Melidaan. Unaligned, no Imperial presence on record.>”

Cal frowned. No Imps was a good sign, but they did patrol the Arkanis sector. It was a miracle that the Inquisitors hadn’t picked up on Obi-Wan’s presence.

The red-headed girl eyed him thoughtfully. “I’m Cerasi, she/her. Come with us. But if I find out that you’re lying, I’ll shoot you myself.”

“Deal,” Cal said. BD-1 warbled in dismay, but he was no doubt used to Cal’s dubious life choices. “I’ll carry Obi-Wan, you lead on.”

Cal gently lifted him, tucked the boy’s head against his free shoulder and felt BD shift his weight to peer at Cal’s new passenger.

“<Adolescent: designation Obi-Wan Kenobi. Signs of prolonged malnutrition, borderline starvation.>”

Skin and bones. Obi-Wan radiated pain even when unconscious, hinting at older, deeper wounds. His Force signature ached with a trauma that Cal knew all too well—the psychic scar caused by a broken master/padawan bond. Kid would’ve been what? Two or three years old when the Order fell? Maybe he’d been with a Seeker and managed to escape the carnage, and bonded with them after. Cal would ask him later. As it was, the poor kid was clumsily reaching out to him for comfort like a crecheling drawing on the bonds with their creche mates.

Cerasi’s band led Cal on a winding path through the city—or what was left of it. The area was a graveyard of industry, overgrown with weeds and inhabited by rodents scuttling in the shadows. Finally they reached a storm sewer, and Cerasi pried the grate up and motioned for everyone to climb down. Cal gently floated Obi-Wan into the waiting arms of his fellows, and then Cal leapt after him and pulled the grate back into place with a quick tug of the Force.

Their path twisted through a series of tunnels, both natural and man-made, deeper beneath the city, and a growing sense of dread knotted Cal’s stomach. The stench didn’t bother him—he’d encountered numerous disgusting discoveries while scrapping ships. Instead, it was the familiar feeling of fear, hunger, and desperation that threatened to swamp him with unwanted visions and memories that were best left forgotten. Life on Bracca had been lean and hard.

BD whistled low when they reached their destination. The tunnel opened into a wide, long cavern with a low ceiling. Children huddled in small groups throughout an old crypt filled with rows of sarcophagi, and none of the kids could be older than sixteen or seventeen standard, though the youngest… Cal swallowed hard. What sort of kriffed up world had he been teleported to where children were forced to hide like this?

“This way,” Cerasi ordered.

A boy with dark skin and short, black hair emerged from behind a curtained corner of the room. “What happened?”

The girl sighed. “We were ambushed. Obi-Wan was bringing up the rear to cover our escape and got shot in the back, then the rest of us were pinned down and couldn’t reach him. And then this Jedi came out of nowhere and fought the Elders off.”

The boy glared at Cal. “Did the Council send you to clean up their mess?”

The Council again. Why? The Force shivered with a discordant chime.

“No, the Force sent me,” Cal said. “It’s a Jedi thing. Where can I put him?”

“This way.” The boy waved him toward the curtained area.

Cal tried not to flinch at the suffering and sickness that clung to the children’s makeshift hospital. He set Obi-Wan on an empty cot and knelt beside it. Reaching out, he guided the boy into a healing trance.

Cal sat back on his heels and eyed the other patients. A memory flashed before his eyes—Suture, the CMO of the Albedo Brave, teaching him the basics of field medicine.

“Pay attention, verd’ika. This just might save your life.”

“How can I help?” Cal asked. “I know a bit about healing, but I’m better at fixing machines than people.”

BD whistled in agreement and they peered at him.

“I’ve never seen a droid like that,” Cerasi said.

“Not many people have,” Cal said. “Beedee is a personal assistant droid. He used to travel with a Jedi master who studied ancient civilizations.” He rose and dusted himself off. “Am I allowed to know your name?”

The boy straightened. “I’m Nield, he/him. Cerasi and I are the leaders of the Young, along with our General there.”

Cal staggered as the vision hit without warning. Cal and his best friend Caleb Dume, both initiates, running through a training room while pretending to be the Negotiator and the Hero with No Fear. Caleb always insisted on Cal being General Kenobi, since they both had red hair.

Later, Cal and Caleb, ready to ship out to the war as Padawan Commanders. They elbowed each other as they strained to see the Team during one of their rare visits to Coruscant, ready to ship out as well on a new campaign. Cal stumbled, fell and squawked in indignation after a particularly rough shove from Caleb, who then darted away and left Cal to his fate as the Jedi Generals approached.

Cal’s jaw dropped as Jedi High General Obi-Wan Kenobi smiled down at him. “Hello there.”

Later still, Cal perched on the edge of his bunk aboard the Mantis. The holocron in his hand unlocked and revealed the image of General Kenobi, his expression worn and haggard as he delivered a final warning to any survivors of the purge. "This is Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen, with the dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place…”

Cal gasped and shuddered as he snapped back to awareness. Oh no. That wasn’t possible.

Cerasi stepped forward, her hand extended to support him. “You get visions, too?”

“Yeah.” Cal grimaced and ran a hand through his hair as his stomach flipped in anxious somersaults. “What’s the date?”

“Taungsday, why?” Nield asked.

“The whole date, year included.”

Cerasi answered, and BD squawked the binary equivalent of “what the kark?!”

That explained why the kids kept asking about the council—the energy source Cere warned him about had sent Cal and BD-1 back through time. Cal hadn’t even been born, and wouldn’t be for almost another decade. His gut twisted with grief as he realized that he’d never see his motley Mantis family again. His presence here had probably already changed something.

Cal turned to the sleeping, scarred boy who would one day become the Negotiator.

“Hello there.” General Kenobi reached down and Cal took his hand in reflex. For a moment his psychometry slipped through the man’s shields and illuminated layers of emotional scars. Never good enough, always left behind, abandoned. All locked away beneath a calm, placid exterior of perfect Jedi control.

Force, the process had already started. Unless you change things. The thought whispered through his mind and he swallowed hard at the enormity of his situation.

“Someone help us.”

He could save them—the Jedi, the Republic, even the Mandalorians—and he could start with Obi-Wan Kenobi. No One, Child of No Clan.  

Cal exhaled a shaky breath and turned to the two leaders of the Young. “Okay. If one of you can read me into your situation, I’ll have a better idea of where to start.”

Nield and Cerasi exchanged a long look, and then nodded. “We can do that. But if you hurt Obi-Wan—”

“You’ll shoot me. Agreed. He’s been hurt enough.”

BD-1 beeped in disagreement with Cal’s offer, and Cal grinned at the droid on his shoulder. “It’s fine, buddy. I’ve been shot plenty of times.”

The sour tone of BD’s reply left no doubt as to how he felt about that. Cal chuckled as he followed Nield and Cerasi out of the tiny hospital. Something tugged at Cal—another Force-sensitive youngling clumsily reaching out for comfort. He turned and took a moment to look past a disturbingly strong notice-me-not suggestion to find a small girl with dark hair and eyes peeking at him from behind a stone sarcophagus.

Cal smiled and knelt. He reached back through the Force and was smacked with another vision.

The Second Sister tilted her helmet. “Who was your master? Someone I killed?”

Cal picked up the Inquisitor’s lightsaber and watched the tragic tale of Trilla Sudari from her capture to her torture, and the moment she saw Cere again.

Trilla’s body went rigid, caught in the grip of a powerful Sith. Trilla locked eyes with Cal. “Avenge us.”

Cal blinks. “Trilla?”

The girl darted forward and collided with his chest, clinging to him like a tiny mynock. She was so small—three years old, maybe? Hard to tell with the obvious malnutrition that plagued the Young. He stroked her tangled hair.

“How do you know her name?” Cerasi asked. “She never speaks. Obi-Wan is the only person who’s been able to talk to her.”

“Because she’s Force sensitive,” Cal said. You’re safe now, he thought to the girl in his arms. I’ve got you.

Saving Trilla would be far better than avenging her.

Meanwhile, on Coruscant, Jedi Master Mace Windu fainted mid-sentence during a council meeting as dozens of massive shatterpoints exploded at once.

Chapter Text

Jedi Master Yan Dooku woke to his comm buzzing. Still half asleep, he grabbed the offending device and frowned at it, wondering what had gone wrong now, but he snapped to attention when he recognized Sifo-Dyas’s private comm number.

“Sy?”

“Doo? I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“It’s fine. Is something wrong?”

“They stopped.”

Dooku’s brow furrowed. “Pardon?”

Sifo-Dyas’s expression bloomed with a bright smile. “The dreams stopped. Something changed.”

Dooku sat up, fully awake now. For the past few years Sy had been tormented by visions of the Jedi fighting a terrible war, leading an army of soldiers in white armor, followed by a catastrophe that destroyed the Order.

“What happened?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, but it was something drastic.” Sy shrugged elegantly. “Master Windu collapsed at the council meeting yesterday, he’s in the Halls of Healing. The shatterpoints must have been enormous. The Force almost feels lighter, as if a weight’s been lifted from my shoulders.”

Yan’s mind whirled with possibilities—what could have occurred to cause such a drastic change? He and Sy often spoke of the encroaching oily darkness that seemed to smother the Force more each year. The Council ignored this, of course, which was why Yan had been punished with this particular assignment after speaking out again.

“Intriguing.” He stroked his graying beard. “My resources are limited in this sector, but I’ll see what I can find. If nothing else, I’m glad that you are feeling well again, my old friend.”

Sy’s smile softened. “As am I. However, I do have a task for you.”

“Oh? Has my sentence been commuted?”

“I’m afraid not, but the Force has been quite insistent on this matter. I need you to go to the planet Melida/Daan, in the outer rim. Your dear Padawan Jinn made a mess there, and he left something precious behind. There is also something very strange happening there. My visions have intimated that it’s important, but I haven’t seen much else.”

Yan sighed and pinched the bridge of his aquiline nose. He rather hoped that someone else would be responsible for cleaning up his padawan’s messes, particularly since Qui-Gon had stopped speaking to him after Xanatos left the Order.

“Very well. It’s not as though I’m making any headway here. We’d need two dozen knights to affect any real change with this level of corruption.”

“I’ll send you his mission file, though of course there isn’t much there,” Sy said. “May the Force be with you, my dear friend.”

“And with you as well.” Yan nodded and ended the call.

Force, what had Qui-Gon done now?

For the first time in months, Obi-Wan didn’t wake to pain. There were the usual small aches and hunger pangs, but he felt lighter somehow. He groaned as he rolled to his side, and then he startled and blinked at the group assembled next to his cot. The mysterious Stewjoni Jedi Knight—Cal Kestis, if he had heard correctly—sat beside him, legs crossed and eyes closed in meditation. Little Trilla was asleep in the man’s lap, her arms wrapped around the Jedi’s bird-like droid as though it was a plush toy.

The Jedi’s mouth twitched in a slight smile. “Hello there. How are you feeling?”

Obi-Wan frowned. “Who are you? I was told I was the only Stewjoni in the Order.”

“Are you?” The Knight opened his eyes and quirked a copper eyebrow.

“Pardon?”

“With the Order? Nield and Cerasi told me you left to help the Young.”

“I…well, yes.” Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “The Force wanted me to stay, so I did.”

“I understand. My Master taught me to trust only in the Force.” His expression softened. “Governments and politicians can be corrupt, witnesses can be mistaken, but the Force will always be with you, and it will guide your path if you trust it.”

“And…and it guided you here?” Obi-Wan asked, afraid to hope. Master Qui-Gon’s rejection had hurt. Aging out and being sent to the AgriCorps hurt. Being abducted and tortured by Xanatos and sold into slavery had definitely hurt. Could it be possible that the Force had finally answered his pleas?

“It did. The Force sent me here for a reason. Helping you and Trilla is part of that reason, along with aiding the Young. Children are the future.”

This is the Way. The half-remembered words whispered through his thoughts as Obi-Wan turned to study Trilla. “I found her in an abandoned home during a supply run. I don’t know how long she had been alone, but she was desperate for connection.”

“Clung to you and wouldn’t let go?” Knight Kestis smiled dryly, and Obi-Wan giggled.

“For almost two days.”

His grin widened as he stroked Trilla’s hair, and then his attention returned to Obi-Wan. “I have a few ideas I want to discuss with you, but we should get some fluids in you first, and I’m sure you’ll want to check in with your troops. You’ve been out for almost twelve hours.”

“I’m fine.”

Knight Kestis laughed. “My ori’vodë used to say that ‘I’m fine’ is Jedi for ‘I’m bleeding out but too stubborn to die.’”

“There are others who need the resources more.” Obi-Wan straightened and grimaced.

“There will always be people in need.” Knight Kestis eased to his feet, juggling the youngling and the droid. “And it’s a Jedi’s job to help them, but we can’t survive on the Force alone. Always eat and sleep when you can, because you never know when your next battle will break out.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “Jedi are peacekeepers.”

“And Stewjon’adë are warriors. Mand’alor Tarre Vizsla was both Jedi and Mando’ad. We should always seek peace, but sometimes we have to fight to achieve it, or defend it. That’s why the Force led you here, right? To fight alongside the Young so they can achieve the peace that their elders refuse?”

That wasn’t a temple teaching, yet the words rang true. It was something to meditate on. Obi-Wan nodded and allowed the knight to herd him out of the hospital and over to the Young’s mess hall.

Trilla woke at the scent of the thin bone broth being served for the morning meal. Knight Kestis set her on the bench beside Obi-Wan, and the droid hopped on to the empty crate that served as a table. Trilla tugged on Obi-Wan’s sleeve and then crawled into his lap. He felt her bump against his shields in an attempt to knock—her control was improving—and he allowed her through to share comfort and reassurance. She had been worried about him.

“I’m all right now, little one.” Obi-Wan smiled. “You seem to like our new Jedi.”

Trilla nodded, and then pointed to Obi-Wan, herself, the droid and then Knight Kestis. Family, she thought at him.

“All Jedi are family,” he agreed.

Trilla shook her head and created an image of the four of them, almost like a child’s drawing on flimsiplast. Knight Kestis stood behind them, one hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder while the other ruffled Trilla’s hair. The droid was perched on Obi-Wan’s other shoulder, peering around like a curious bird.

Family, she insisted.

Obi-Wan’s stomach twisted with hunger for both food and family. He was so tired of being unwanted, of being alone.

Knight Kestis returned with three bowls and a single portion of bread, which he divided into two pieces—one for Trilla and one for Obi-Wan. Trilla immediately dunked her half in her broth and started eating.

The droid peered into the knight’s bowl and whistled.

Kestis chuckled. “Thanks, Beedee, but I think I’m better off not knowing what kind of marrow was used for the broth.”

“Ignorance is bliss in this matter,” Obi-Wan said.

Once the meal was finished, Knight Kestis turned to Trilla. “Do you want to go with Obi-Wan or with me?”

She looked between them and then pointed to Obi-Wan.

“Good choice.” Kestis smiled. “Nield gave me and Beedee a pile of equipment to repair, so we’ll be with Spanner’s group.”

“Very well.”

The droid scrambled up Kestis’s arm and perched on his back. He ruffled Trilla’s hair and smiled. “Be good for your ori'vod.”

Obi-Wan flinched, surprised at how easily he remembered the language of his birth and by the concept of being an older brother. True, the Jedi were all family, but he faintly remembered being an ori’vod before Master Tholme rescued him.

Force, he missed Quin.

He took Trilla’s hand and went in search of Nield and Cerasi. As expected, they were in the war room, arguing about something or other.

Cerasi spotted him first and moved in for a hug. “Stop getting shot, you jerk.”

Obi-Wan laughed. “I’m not doing it to inconvenience you, I promise.”

Nield embraced him next. “You need to learn how to duck, General.”

“It’s on my to-do list,” Obi-Wan said dryly. He chose an empty supply crate to sit on, and Trilla crawled into his lap. “What’s our status?”

“Still in desperate need of food and medical supplies,” Nield said. “As usual.”

“We’ve located a new Melida stash,” Cerasi said. “I think we’ve finally pinned down their schedule for rotating their supplies.”

“The Jedi and his droid are working on some new surprises for the next run. Says he used to be a scrapper.” Nield shrugged. “Spanner says he knows his shit. I think she’s in love.”

Obi-Wan cocked an unimpressed eyebrow. “I think he’s a little old for her.”

Trilla, who had been silently following the conversation while sucking her thumb, promptly removed said thumb and said, “Shit!”

Cerasi and Obi-Wan leveled disapproving looks at Nield, who raised his hands in surrender.

“Hey, if she learned that from anyone it was definitely Bubbles and Squeak.”

Shaking his head, Obi-Wan turned to Trilla. “That’s an impolite word. We don’t use it. Only rude people like Nield say that.”

Trilla turned to frown at Nield. “Wude.”

Cerasi giggled and Nield sighed. “Point taken.”

Obi-Wan smirked. “Read me in on what you’ve learned so far.”

Trilla napped while the three leaders discussed plans to steal the Melida’s supplies. They paused at midday when Knight Kestis brought them lunch—half a ration bar each. Trilla migrated from Obi-Wan’s lap and settled in the knight’s to nibble on her portion. BD-1 hopped on the table and studied their map.

The droid whistled and Kestis nodded. “A little bit, yeah.”

“What'd he say?” Cerasi asked.

“The area is laid out like a mission we had on Twuest, except we were rescuing slaves, not supplies.”

Obi-Wan frowned and fought the urge to paw at his throat and the scars left behind by the bomb collar. “Twuest is a Republic world. Slavery is illegal.”

Knight Kestis smiled sadly, a haunted expression in his eyes. “There are a lot of things that are illegal in the Republic that happen anyway. Slavery is one of them.”

“Figures.” Nield scowled. “They’re not going to send someone else to help, are they?”

“Not unless we can reach the communications tower and contact the Order,” Obi-Wan said.

Knight Kestis eyed him thoughtfully, but didn’t comment.

Obi-Wan frowned. “How did you know to come here if the council didn’t send you?”

The knight’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. “Because I follow the will of the Force. The Order follows the will of the senate. I’d be happy to discuss it with you if we have some time before the raid tonight.”

“Of course.”

“Do you recognize this place?”

Obi-Wan rose and surveyed the area—Knight Kestis had shared his meditationscape, and they were surrounded by a circle of sand that gave way to patches of sawgrass and a variety of stubby succulents. He looked up but instead of a sky he saw a high ceiling.

“The Room of a Thousand Fountains, the Stewjoni garden,” Obi-Wan said.

“Exactly.” The knight smiled up from where he sat, legs folded beneath him, palms resting on his thighs. “I loved coming here when I was an initiate. It was my favorite place to meditate. It was as close to home as I could get.”

“How did you come to the Jedi?” Obi-Wan returned to his spot across from Kestis.

“A seeker found me when I was a baby. If the Order knew more about Stewjoni culture, I would’ve been named Obi-Wan Kenobi, too. But the seeker was given the honor of naming me, and so I’m Cal Kestis.”

“How did you learn the language?”

“Studying language modules and tutoring from my ori'vodë.” Cal sighed and then held out his hands out to Obi-Wan, palms up. “I’ll tell you my story, if you tell me yours.”

Obi-Wan nodded and placed his hands over the knight’s. They settled deeper into the Force, and Obi-Wan began sharing his memories. Being lured from his home and nearly drowned by his step-mother, meeting Quinlan and Master Tholme, feeling out of place in the crèche when his friends told tales of Mandalorian monsters who hunted and killed Jedi for sport. Being told he was too angry, too short-tempered. Always reaching for perfection and never finding it. Aging out of the Order, the disastrous flight to Bandomeer, being kidnapped by Xanatos and enslaved, followed by his miserable months as Master Jinn’s apprentice and then the war against the Elders.

Cal squeezed his hands and offered comfort, but he didn’t seem surprised.

“I’m going to show you events from my beginning, but they won’t make sense until I reach the end,” Kestis said cryptically.

“I’m ready.”

The crèche in the Temple. A dark-haired boy named Caleb. A Togruta child named Ahsoka. Smothering darkness at the corners of Cal’s awareness, creeping ever closer. A war. Ahsoka leaves the initiates as a padawan commander—

What the kriff was a padawan commander? What war?

Caleb and Cal slice through the Temple’s firewall and stay up late watching holonet newsreels about the war. Their favorite reports feature stories about The Team—Jedi General Anakin Skywalker, the Hero with no Fear, and the Negotiator, Jedi High General Obi-Wan Kenobi.

What?!

The war continues. A chance meeting with General Kenobi and a glimpse at the man’s painful past. Cal and Caleb become padawan commanders. Cal is assigned to General Jaro Tapal and the 13th Iron Battalion. The troopers under their command are clones, all copies of a Mandalorian bounty hunter, and they call themselves the Vodë. They adopt Cal as one of their own, call him their vod'ika, teach him how to play sabacc and swear in Mando’a. Cal adores his ori’vodë and learns everything he can about Stewjon and Mandalorian culture.

Until the day everything changed. A flood of pain, fear, and grief. A holo-recording of a disheveled, broken master warning survivors away from the temple. "This is Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen…”

Master Tapal dies in Cal’s arms as every bond he shares with a Jedi snaps in quick succession. His connection to the Force shatters, leaving him alone and disconnected for five long years.

A quest to find a lost holocron. An evil Empire that hunts him at every turn. Inquisitors. The Second Sister—

No! No, no, no. Not Trilla.

The Fortress Inquisitorious, where Jedi were tortured until they broke or died. A prison block filled with tier after tier of empty cells—no Jedi left to fill them. A monster in black armor murders Trilla, and nearly kills Cal and Cere.

Five years of following the Force, fighting alongside rebel forces, and turning the tables and hunting Inquisitors. Crawling through ancient, long-abandoned temples in search of scraps of Jedi teachings and wisdom. A warning about an energy source, a cry for help, followed by waking in an abandoned warehouse on an unfamiliar world. A flickering light in the Force, a youngling in trouble, shot twice in the back.

The memories faded and Obi-Wan found himself in the Stewjoni garden again. He stared at Cal and recognized the scar across the man’s face as the blaster burn he received on the day Mastar Tapal died. Obi-Wan spied the hilt of the lightstaff clipped at Cal’s hip and knew it was constructed from a combination of Master Tapal’s saber and Master Junda’s hilt.

“You’re from the future,” Obi-Wan whispered as he drew his hands away.

“A terrible future. One where the Sith destroyed the Republic and the Jedi Order, and created a new Sith Empire.”

“You know who the Sith are.”

Cal nodded. “I know who one of them is. His Sith name is Darth Sidious, but right now he’s the apprentice, not the master. We never learned who his master was. We didn’t figure out who Sidious was until it was too late.”

“We have to tell the Order.”

“We will, but not yet.” He raised a hand to hold off Obi-Wan’s protest. “Sidious is in the senate, and I bet his master is, too. We have to be very careful how we proceed. If we do this right, we can save both our people.”

“Both?” Obi-Wan frowned.

“The Jedi and the Mando’adë. The Sith whittled down the Mandalorians until they had no defenses left, and then they bombarded the system. Mandalore, Kalevala, Stewjon, everything is glass and rubble.”

A low thumping rhythm began around them.

“What is that?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Drums, I think,” Cal said. “I heard drums in the ruins, too.”

“They call the people to the hunt,” a new voice spoke. 

They turned to see a humanoid figure in full armor, though the T-visor of his buy’ce was open, revealing his face, and a strange saber hilt was clipped to his belt. His image was faded and translucent, like the image from a holoprojector.

“Some Mando'adë have forgotten the point of war and the importance of the hunt,” the warrior continued. “Family. We hunt to provide for our families. We fight to protect them. Not for glory, but for love.”

Obi-Wan rose and studied the man. “Do I know you?”

“I know you, ner ad’ika.” He smiled. “You have grown so much. You will bring great honor to our people.” He turned to Cal and inclined his head. “You both will. Remember, that orders and empires come and go, but family is what truly matters. Don’t repeat the mistakes of the past. Create something new, something better. Remind our peoples that we are stronger together. Vodë an, ka'rta tor.”

Siblings all, one heart of justice.

The world shifted around them as the meditation broke, and they found themselves once more in the Young’s sleeping quarters. Trilla snored softly on the pallet beside them, and Cal reached out and gently adjusted his poncho, which she used as a makeshift blanket.

“Are you all right, Obi-Wan?” Cal asked.

“Yes…” Obi-Wan nodded slowly. He knew that man, he’d seen him before, but he couldn’t remember when or where. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “So, where do we start?”

Cal smiled, unclipped his saber, separated it into two hilts and set them in front of Obi-Wan. “First, we see if one of these is willing to work with you, because you need a proper weapon. Second…” Cal trailed off and cleared his throat. “I was hoping you’d do me the honor of being my padawan, and allowing me to adopt you.”

Obi-Wan’s jaw dropped in shock. “You—really? Because I was a general?”

“You’re a general now.” Cal grinned. “But no, that’s not the reason. I want a better life for you, and for Trilla.”

“She wants us to be a family.”

“I want that, too.” Cal blushed. “You don’t have to answer now. You can take time to think it over.”

Cal wanted him, as both a student and his child. The faded parts of his mind that remembered what it was to be Stewjoni realized that he could have a name and clan again. He wouldn’t be no one. And he could still be a Jedi—he and Cal would follow the will of the Force together, and help people regardless of whether they lived in the Republic.

“I’d like that. Can I—my name was Be’nari, before. I’d like to choose Ben. Ben Kestis.”

Cal nodded. “Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad, Ben, clan Kestis.”

Cal opened his arms and Obi-Wan—no, Ben —launched himself into the embrace.

“I know what it’s like to be left behind,” Cal said. “To be alone and hurting. From now on, we face everything together, as family.”

“Together.” For the first time in over a year, Ben felt hope, and the Force seemed to sing its approval.

Chapter Text

Cal hadn’t slept in three days—not since he arrived in the past. He meditated when he found a few spare minutes, but as his CMO had often reminded him and Master Tapal, meditation was no substitute for sleep.

After distributing the new supplies that they had liberated from the Melida and ensuring all the Young at their location were fed and their injuries treated, Cal had been pulled into the middle of a pile of younglings and ordered by Cerasi to shut up and go to sleep.

He drifted at first, but then he opened his eyes and frowned. He stood in the captain’s quarters of an unfamiliar ship as hyperspace whizzed past the viewport.

“Su cuy’gar.”

Cal turned toward the speaker and found a Mandalorian in full armor. He didn’t recognize the colors or markings offhand, but there was something familiar about the voice filtered through the helmet’s vocoder.

“Su cuy’gar,” he greeted in return.

The stranger tilted his head. “Mando’ad?”

“Stewjon’ad.” He scratched the wiry stubble along his jaw—among their near-human quirks, Stewjoni hair contained metallic properties. Good for armorweave, but a bitch to cut or shave.

It didn’t seem like a vision, but everything felt more solid than a dream. This was something different, something new, and his brow furrowed as sensed a connection between them. Not a Force bond, though… Cal swallowed a curse as he yanked off his gloves and rolled up his right sleeve. The soulmark that had remained a dark, misshapen blotch since it first appeared seven years ago had changed. Instead of indicating that his soul mate was deceased, it had bloomed into a multicolor image of a mythosaur skull.

“Oh, Force,” he muttered. 

Across from him the Mando removed his gauntlet and vambrace, and rolled up the sleeve of his kute to reveal a matching mark. “Ner runi, mar’e.”

Cal traced his fingers over his mark. In only a few days he’d adopted two children—one a High General of the Grand Army of the Republic and the other the Second Sister of the Galactic Empire’s Inquisition—and now connected with his soul mate, a Mandalorian.

Kriff, what next?

The Mandalorian removed his helmet and Cal gasped and flinched away, slamming into the bulkhead behind him. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the face of his soul mate—the face that every clone in the GAR shared. The face of his ori’vodë within the 13th battalion, who doted on Cal right up to the moment they tried to execute him.

The smell of smoke and blaster fire, the voices coordinating the hunt for Cal and his master through the Albedo Brave, the burn of a blaster bolt searing his face and neck.

But this man was no clone. The clone army hadn’t been ordered yet and wouldn’t be for years. No, there was only one person this man could be—the Prime, the template from whom each vod had been cloned.

“Jango Fett,” Cal blurted.

Dark eyebrows rose in surprise. “You know me?”

Cal laughed, a bitter, tortured sound, as fear and confusion raced through his veins. No, no, no—this was the worst sort of cosmic joke. Fett stepped forward, one hand stretched toward Cal, who jerked away again.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Ner runi…I don’t understand. What’s wrong?”

Cal struggled to breathe past the panic gripping his chest as pins and needles pricked up and down his arms.

“Cal, hurry!”

The escape pods are locked down. His shaking fingers fumble to punch in an override code to open the door. Master Tapal, already gravely wounded, tries to protect Cal, but there are so many of them and they keep firing…

“I don’t recognize you,” Fett said slowly. “Did I do something to harm you?”

Cal choked on a sob. “You—you took everything from me. My home, my family. Everything.”

This was a shared dream—he needed to wake up. He searched his feelings and latched on to his Force bonds with Ben and Trilla.

“Wait!”

The dream broke as Cal followed the bonds back to consciousness and woke with a strangled gasp.

“Buir?” Ben’s face swam into view as Cal sat up.

Trilla already clung to Cal’s chest, and he wrapped his arms around Ben and hugged them both tight.

“What’s wrong?” Ben asked.

“A…complication. We can talk about it later.” His heart raced but he managed a weak smile. “How about we work on katas, okay? You need to get used to that saber, and I need to practice using a single blade again.”

Trilla grumbled and squinted up at Cal. “Wude.”

Cal melted and kissed the top of her head. “Sorry, kiddo. Beedee can play more matching games with you.”

BD-1 whistled in agreement, and Cal rose and led his family away.

Jango startled awake, pulse pounding. He rolled up the right sleeve of his kute and there it was—the faint outline of a dormant soulmark had been replaced with a detailed mythosaur skull.

Real. It had been real, and he winced at the terrible knowledge that his soul mate was afraid of him.

“Haar’chak!” He rolled out of his bunk, pulled his boots on and headed for the cockpit where Myles was keeping watch. It was just the two of them on this mission, and he needed Jaster and Arla’s advice right now. Myles was a good friend, but he could still be an idiot.

Myles looked up from the holovid on his data pad. “Vod, seriously. That wasn’t even an hour. Arla will stab me if you look like death warmed over when we get home.”

“Look.” Jango extended his arm to display the soul mark.

“You got new ink? When did you—” Myles trailed off and his eyes widened. “No way. Really? You saw them? Are they cute?”

“Mesh’la.” Jango sighed and dropped into the pilot’s seat. “Stewjon’ad. Copper hair, blue-green eyes, pale skin. But he’s afraid of me. He knew me. He said…”

Myles’ expression sobered as he reached over and gripped Jango’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“No. He said I took everything from him.” Jango grimaced and shook his head as his gut twisted into knots. “What if they were a contract? Kark. What if I destroyed his family like Vizsla destroyed mine?”

“Did you get his name?”

“No.”

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re almost home. When we get to Keldabe, you’re going to run a search through the Haat Mando’adë contracts for any mentions of Stewjon’adë. And you tell your buir and ori’vod. They might remember something, or have a plan.”

Jango nodded. “Thanks, vod. When did you get so smart?”

Myles grinned. “I’ve always been smart. People just never see past my good looks and charming demeanor.”

Jango rolled his eyes and then squawked in protest when Myles ruffled his hair.

The kyber crystals in Cal’s saberstaff didn’t sing to Ben like his own crystal had, but they seemed to like him well enough. He’d chosen the half created from Master Junda’s hilt, and so far the saber worked well for him.

Cal was an unusual lightsaber instructor—he claimed his preferred form was called “oh shit don’t die.” He explained that his strange style was due to his own eccentric schooling—first from Master Tapal and then later from Cere, combined with experience fighting in two wars. Ben had seen a glimpse of Cal’s padawan training aboard the Albedo Brave, and he couldn’t imagine what it had been like to live and study aboard a warship.

“Here, like this.” Cal paused his own kata to adjust Ben’s form.

Master Jinn had been teaching him Ataru, but Cal changed Ben’s focus to Soresu, with the ominous comment that they’d have plenty of people shooting at them and Soresu was the best defense against that.

“Again.” Cal stood back and watched as Ben moved through the form, and then he nodded. “Good.”

“Was Soresu Master Tapal’s preferred form?” Ben asked.

“No, Djem So. Cere and Master Cordova both used Niman.”

BD-1 whistled an affirmative, and offered to display a holo of Master Cordova doing katas.

“Thanks, buddy,” Cal said. “Maybe another time, though. We’re going to stick with Soresu for now.”

“I learn?” Trilla looked up from the memory matching game BD projected after she correctly located a pair of purple Kowakian monkey-lizards.

Cal smiled at her. “You will. We’ll start with the Shii-Cho movements, and then we’ll build you a training saber when we get a new crystal for your brother.”

Trilla nodded and returned to her game, and Ben edged closer to Cal.

“Will they let us go to Ilum?” Ben asked softly.

“Sure, why not?”

“Because we’re…” He trailed off and frowned.

“Different?” Cal clasped Ben’s shoulder. “The things we’ve been through—the things we’ve done—don’t lessen who we are as Jedi. We are where the Force needed us to be.”

Ben shivered and hunched in on himself. “When I left the Temple, it all happened so fast and I was so ashamed of aging out that I didn’t even say goodbye to my friends. I didn’t contact them when I was Master Jinn’s padawan. Now, with everything that’s happened…I’m not sure they would even recognize me anymore.”

“I understand. My best friend and I were so excited to be sent to the war, but the reality was nothing like how it looked on the holonet. The first time I felt one of my men die, the first time I killed someone.” Cal grimaced and shook his head.

“It’s awful.” It had felt as though something inside him died the first time Ben killed an Elder, like he’d lost the last scrap of innocence that had been left after fighting pirates, Hutts, and being enslaved.

“It is. That’s why it’s so important that we listen to the will of the Force, especially in battle. We can’t give in to anger when we lose someone. Revenge isn’t justice, and it isn’t the Jedi way. Trust the Force, and remember that Jedi are peacekeepers, but we are not pacifists. Sometimes peace talks need aggressive negotiations.” Cal smirked. “But don’t forget that the people who love you—your friends, your crèchemates—will care about you no matter what you’ve been through. They want to help, and they can’t do that if you don’t talk to them.”

“I know… Have you decided if you want to contact the Jedi for help?”

After their first joint meditation, they had discussed a few different ideas for how to proceed. They agreed that helping the Young was their first priority, after which they could see about warning the Jedi about the Sith in the senate. Unfortunately, they didn’t have much of a plan other than “make the Elders surrender and agree to peace.” Calling anyone offworld for help required gaining control of Zehava’s communication center, which was one of the most hotly contested areas within the city.

Cal looked away, his expression guarded as he rubbed his right forearm. “What do you know about soulmarks?”

“I don’t have one,” Ben said. “Wait, do I get one?”

“If you did, you kept it hidden. Most Jedi did, because of the rules about attachment.” Cal clipped his hilt to belt and sat atop an empty crate. He patted the spot next to him and Ben joined him. “When my mark appeared, it already had the blackened look of a broken bond. I thought it meant my soul mate died in the purge. Just one more Jedi to mourn. When I arrived here the mark was the farthest thing from my mind.”

Cal removed his gloves and rolled up his sleeve. Ben peered at a horned animal skull tattooed with some sort of metallic ink that added an iridescent sheen to the image. Sensing that something was up, Trilla abandoned her game and joined them.

“What that?” Trilla pointed at the mark.

“It’s a mythosaur skull,” Cal said. “Mythosaurs are the symbols of the Mandalorians.”

“Your soul mate is a Mandalorian?” Ben asked. Something anxious and unnamed fluttered in his stomach.

“One who I have a complicated history with.” Cal grimaced. “He was the template for the clone armies. Seeing him…caused a giant panic attack. All I could think of was the day the clones turned on us.”

“Ah. That’s why you were upset when you woke.”

Trilla climbed into Cal’s lap and hugged him. “It’s okay. We love you.”

“Thank you. Both of you.” Cal smiled at Ben over the top of Trilla’s head, and then he laughed. “The three of us are going to need so much mind healing.”

Ben giggled. “You’re not wrong. Do you think he’ll help us?”

“Yes. The Mandalorians would jump at the chance to help the Young, but that’s something you’ll need to decide with Cerasi and Nield first.”

“Right.” Ben nodded thoughtfully. “Who is he? What do you know about him?”

“His name is Jango Fett. Right now he’s…the same age I am. Huh. Guess that explained why he reminded me so strongly of the Vodë. The adult clones looked like they were in their twenties due to the rapid aging process.”

“Why did he agree to be the template for the clones?”

“No one really knew for sure. Fett died right after the Jedi discovered the clone army so we never got to question him.”

“What now?” Trilla asked.

“Now we decide what to do,” Ben said.

Cal nodded. “Master Tapal would play a game with me when reports came in about the war. He called them thought puzzles. He’d ask me to come up with three reasons to explain why something happened, like a battle, or a senate vote. Then to come up with three things that might happen next based on those reasons. Finally, we would meditate on each of the options and see what the Force agreed with.”

“So, we need three reasons why you found your soul mate now?” Ben folded his legs as though preparing to meditate. “Okay…first, because you had to come here, to this time, to connect with him. Does finding him now affect the Mandalorians somehow according to your timeline?”

“I think so. Beedee, do you have anything on Mandalorian history in your files?”

BD beeped a forlorn negative.

“Family,” Trilla said. “Family is why.”

Ben and Cal frowned at her announcement, and then Cal’s eyes widened. “She’s right. Galidraan. There was a massacre there that wiped out many of the True Mandalorians, including Jango’s sister and his adopted father, the Mand’alor. Okay, that’s two reasons—I needed to travel here, and traveling here gives us a chance to prevent the Galidraan massacre. Three…a soul mate gives me someone to help raise you two troublemakers.”

Cal grinned and tickled Trilla, who shrieked in delight.

Ben flinched, nervous that Cal wouldn’t need an adopted son if he could have children with his soul mate, but then the Force nudged him with encouragement. “ Oh,” he said softly. “What happens next—Jango teaches me how to me Mando’ad, and you teach me to be a Jedi.”

“Me, too,” Trilla said.

“Very good. Stopping the Galidraan massacre might mean building a stronger Mandalore. And traveling here, to this time, might mean a lot of things…that we need to meditate on it.”

“No!” Trilla crossed her arms. “No meditate.”

“A quick meditation,” Cal promised. “And then Ben and I will show you how to play the silly image game.”

“A game?” Trilla seemed suspicious.

Ben grinned. “It’s a fun game, we played it in the crèche. You come up with the silliest thing you can think of and you share it through the Force. Like this.” Ben created an image of BD-1 covered in bright blue feathers like a parrot, adding wings and a mechanical beak, which the bird-droid used to devour a datachip cracker.

“Beedee bird! Okay, I play!”

Arla cursed at the search results on the data terminal screen. “Well, we have allies on Stewjon but we’ve never taken a contract there. I’ll reach out to our contacts, but we should probably search for Obi-Wan Kenobis. It’s more likely we ran across someone who’d left Stewjon or was exiled.”

“Tor Vizsla and Kyr’tsad have Stewjon connections, too,” Jaster said. “We know he’s recruited there before. I think his first riduur was Stewjon’ad.”

“The one who died, right?” Arla asked, and Jaster nodded.

Jango shook his head. “My runi isn’t Kyr’tsad. He didn’t have beskar’gam. Civilian clothes, a little ragged. He has a blaster scar across the left side of his face.” He traced the path on his own cheek to demonstrate.

“That might help identify him.” Arla entered the description of the scar into the new search parameters. “Early twenties, male features, unconfirmed pronouns…”

Jango held his head in his hands and Jaster patted his back as he joined him on the couch. “We’ll find him, ad’ika.”

“He doesn’t want to be found.” He looked up. “Buir, he was terrified of me.”

“Next time, you need to approach him carefully, Jan’ika,” Arla said. “Like a spooked tooka kit. No sudden moves. Show him he can trust you.”

“You haven’t seen him since?” Jaster asked.

“No. I’ve tried calling out for him. Nothing. He’s avoiding me.”

Arla sighed. “Spooked tooka kit. The more you call for him, the more he’ll hide. Let him come to you.”

Sensible advice. “Vor’e, ori’vod.”

She snorted. “This is self-preservation. Buir wants bu’adë, and I don’t have a maternal bone in my body.”

Jaster grinned at Jango. “I’m counting on you, ner ad. Plus, Stewjon'adë are intersex, so that means ik’aadë.”

Babies. Great, no pressure there. Jango couldn’t even convince his soul mate to talk to him, there was no way he was going to consent to sex.

“Do we have any good news?” Jango asked. “Tor Vizsla tripped and impaled himself on the Darksaber?”

“We should be so lucky,” Arla murmured. “A tip came in about Kyr'tsad making a deal with Gardulla the Hutt about something nefarious. I was going to follow up before you came home and detonated your drama bomb.”

“You should still look into it,” Jaster said. “I’ll keep your vod company. He can help me deal with Duke Kryze’s new round of complaints.”

“Please, Manda, no. That’s torture.”

“That’s politics, ad. You said you wanted to learn how to be Mand’alor.”

“Did I? When was that? Was I drunk?”

Jaster cackled. “No, and it’s too late to back out now. We’ll all pray that your runi is a better diplomat than you are.”

Though it pained him to do so, Jango spent the next few nights sober, dreaming quietly, and not reaching out to his soul mate through their bond. When they finally made contact again, Jango hung back and didn’t approach.

His soul mate stood in the main room of Jango’s suite at the Keldabe palace. He studied his surroundings with a furrowed brow until he noticed Jango.

Jango held his hands up to show he meant no harm. His soul mate worried his bottom lip while he studied Jango—it was both a blessing and curse that his soul mate was so beautiful. Jango longed to kiss away the man’s frown.

“I needed time to think,” his soul mate blurted. Jango noted that his Mando’a lacked the lilt of a Stewjoni speaker, and instead he spoke with the familiar accent of a Concord Dawn native.

“I understand,” Jango said.

“The ka’ra matched us for a reason. I want to trust that, but we need to take things slow. This path won’t be easy for either of us. We should begin with cin vhetin.”

White field—a blank slate. Jango swallowed hard as his stomach sank. “Are you with Kyr’tsad?”

He laughed and shook his head. “No, not at all. But my adë and I are Jetiisë.”

Jango was glad that he wore his sleeping clothes and not his armor when his knees buckled and he flopped hard onto the couch behind him. Adë, as in more than one child, and all Jedi. He paled—had the True Mandalorians killed a Jedi? Was that the family that his soul mate had lost?

The Jedi cautiously took a seat on the couch across from him. “Like I said. Not an easy path.”

“You’re Stewjon’ad. How did you come to be a Jetii?” Jango asked.

“I don’t know. I was a foundling.”

Jango nodded slowly. “You have a riduur? I thought Jetii weren’t allowed to marry, or raise their own adë.”

He smiled and Jango’s heart skipped a beat. “No riduur. I have two adopted adë. Aliit ori'shya tal'din.”

Family is more than blood. Thank the Manda. He had no idea what he would’ve done if his soul mate already had a spouse.

The man continued. “I am a Jetii, but I haven’t been a part of the Order in years. My ad, Ben, left the Order months ago. My adiik, Trilla, can sense the Force, but she’s never been to the Temple and the Order doesn’t know about her. We’re stranded, and I don’t know if anyone knows where we are…” He trailed off with a grimace. “We need your help.”

His soul mate launched into his story. Melida/Daan—a forgotten Outer Rim world inhabited by two factions who had been at war for centuries, and who were so dedicated to defeating each other that when their own children created their own faction, the Young, and demanded peace, the Melida and the Daan turned on them.

Demagolkasë. Parents hunting their own children. It was unthinkable.

The children traveled through the sewers—the only place the Elders weren’t willing to search—and lived beneath the city in forgotten catacombs, sleeping among the bones of their ancestors.

His soul mate arrived on Melida/Daan and followed the sound of battle, and then he witnessed for himself the Elders attacking the Young. He leapt to the children’s defense and saved the life of the boy who would later become his son, Ben.

“He’s Stewjon’ad, too. He’s one of the leaders of the Young. They call him their General.” His pride in the boy was evident in his smile, and Jango’s heart melted, impressed by his soul mate’s care for the child and the mandokar shown by both of them. “He was Obi-Wan Kenobi, and I couldn’t let that stand. He’s been abandoned by so many people—his dar’aliit, his Jetii’cabur. I gave him a name and a clan.”

“Foundlings are the future.”

“This is the Way.”

Haar’chak. If his soul mate became any more attractive Jango would faint from the blood rushing to his dick. It was difficult to fight his hard-on as it was.

Jango cleared his throat. “May I sit beside you?”

His soul mate nodded. “Sure.” He eyed Jango warily, so Jango made sure that he sat a polite distance away. “You’re on Manda’yaim, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

He winced. “Melida/Daan is on the other side of the galaxy. It’s near the Arkanis sector.”

“We’ll begin preparations to leave immediately.”

“The Young need food, clothing, blankets, medical supplies, mind healers.” He sighed and scrubbed his face. “It’s awful, Jan’ika. I’ve never seen anything this bad, and I’ve fought in war.”

Jango swallowed the urge to ask what war, because his soul mate looked too young to be a veteran. Instead, he embraced the thrill of hearing his name used as an endearment.

“Ner mesh’la Jetii,” he murmured. “Will you give me your name? Gedet’ye, cyare.”

“Cal Kestis, he/him.”

“Vor entye, Cal’ika.” Jango smiled. 

Cal raised a hand and slowly, hesitantly touched Jango’s face. Jango closed his eyes and held still as his soul mate caressed his cheek and traced the line of his jaw. Calloused hands spoke of a life of hard work, and Jango wondered what a Mandalorian Jedi would look like in battle. Most of the stories of Tarre Vizsla were legends, with few factual accounts of the Mand’alor’s life.

Jango’s eyes flew open when Cal’s forehead pressed to his, and he exhaled a shaky breath and clung to Arla’s advice. Spooked tooka kit. Let him come to you. Show him he can trust you.

At this distance he could see the flecks of green in Cal’s blue eyes past the pale, delicate lashes that framed them. Freckles dotted his cheeks, and his skin was reddened by wind and sun.

“Freckles. Copikla.”

Cal blushed. “I used to hate them. Ben has them, too.”

Jango smirked. “Thank you for providing the bu’adë my buir has been harassing my ori’vod and me about for years.”

Cal laughed, and the sound was beautiful. “It’s a bit soon to say the riduurok. I don’t even have armor to exchange.”

This time Jango couldn’t swallow the moan that escaped him. “You’re going to look even more amazing in armor, ner mesh’la runi.”

Cal flushed and his pupils dilated. Jango leaned in for a kiss—he wanted to devour him, but he settled for a chaste brush of the lips and then drew away.

Cal opened his mouth to say something, but then he turned and glanced over his shoulder. “The adë are waking, I need to go.”

Jango nodded. “My sister, Arla, and my lieutenant, Myles, are on Tatooine. They can load up on supplies and reach you in a few hours, a day or two at most. K'oyacyi, Cal’ika.”

“K'oyacyi, Jango.”

Cal faded from view, and Jango shook himself awake. He had much to do, and he needed to start now.

Chapter Text

It took Arla almost two days to wrap up business on Tatooine, buy what supplies they could find on the damned dustball, and haul shebs to Melida/Daan. It took less than two hours after their arrival for Arla to want to nuke the whole damn planet—after the Young were safely away from their demagolkasë parents, of course.

Without comm frequencies to call, she and Myles were forced to run recon until they located Jango’s soul mate, so they hid their ship outside of Zehava and infiltrated the city at night. The security patrols were alert and well organized—not up to Haat’adë standards, but an average civilian braving the streets would be picked up in minutes.

The Elders were out hunting, and Arla wanted to show them what a true hunter could do. Shabuirë.

They stuck to the rooftops and used their jetpacks in short bursts. Finally they spotted flashes of blaster fire and made their way toward the fight.

Myles cursed softly, his tone awed. The HUD in Arla’s buy’ce adjusted to the scope on her rifle, and she cursed in agreement. The overall scene was shocking—a group of small children fled from a squad of soldiers who pursued them, and between them stood two figures wielding gold lightsabers. The Jedi moved like water, effortlessly deflecting barrage after barrage of blaster fire back at their attackers and picking them off one by one.

A few brave fools rushed the Jedi, and the older of the pair—who undoubtedly was Cal Kestis, her brother’s soul mate—raised a hand and the group sailed back, scattered like leaves on the wind until they collided hard with a duracrete wall. The boy, Ben, doused his blade and tossed the hilt to his buir, who then attached it to his weapon and created a double-bladed saber. Kestis moved in a blur of speed toward their pursuers and cut them down as easily as though they were training droids.

“That’s…” Arla trailed off.

“Really karking hot,” Myles said.

“Ugh, no, you di’kut.” Arla punched his shoulder. “I can’t think of my kih’vod’s runi that way.”

“No harm in looking,” Myles replied in a sing-song voice.

Before she could murder Jango’s idiot lieutenant, Arla noticed that the Jedi in question was staring directly at them.

“Whoa,” Myles said. “Can he see us at this distance?”

Kestis’s blades vanished and he clipped the hilt to his belt. His hands free, he began using ori'ramikad sign language. Injured civilians at my location. Send aid.

“Osik,” Arla muttered. “Okay, that’s a little hot. Let’s go.”

They flew down to the Jedi, who were already triaging the wounded children.

“Su’cuy,” Kestis greeted. The Jedi divided the hilt of his saber in two and handed one half to his ad. “We need to move fast. There’ll be more of them.”

“Two more squads, at least.” Ben clipped the weapon to his belt.

Myles grabbed his medkit and went to work while Arla surveyed the situation. 

“What happened?” Arla asked.

“The Elders laid a trap, and we sprung it.” Kestis grimaced. “We’ll tell you all about it when we’re outside the city.”

“Right.”

Things moved quickly after that. Arla carried a Twi’lek child who couldn’t be more than ten standard years old through the battle-scarred city. The group paused every so often when one of the Jedi raised a hand for silence. Of the various supercommando companies within the Haat’adë, Arla and her people were the most experienced with stealth, but watching the children of Melida/Daan tremble with fear of discovery by their elders made her want to abandon attempts at caution and go after the Elders guns blazing.

Arla Fett remembered all too well what it was like to be a child threatened by monsters who hunted the helpless. She wanted to abandon the shadows, pull out the heavy artillery, burn the entire city to the ground and salt the ashes. Fury seethed beneath her skin as they fled Zehava. The desire for blood must have shown on her face when she removed her buy’ce after they reached the Young’s camp, because the little general frowned at her.

“I understand your upset,” Ben said, “but ideally the Young would prefer someone be left alive to participate in the peace process.”

“We can help you import people who aren’t assholes to help grow your economy,” Myles said. Arla smacked the back of his buy’ce.

“Di’kut,” she said.

Trilla, Kestis’s youngest, giggled when Myles yelped. The girl had darted from a shadow and attached herself to her buir the moment they reached the outskirts of the camp. For the most part Trilla watched the proceedings with a solemn expression as they delivered their injured to the field hospital, as though she was composing a report to her tiny superiors.

“Di’kut,” Trilla repeated.

“No, sweetheart,” Kestis said. “We don’t say that. That’s a rude word.”

Trilla frowned and Arla chuckled. “It’s only a little rude. Don’t worry, Trill’ika. Your Ba’vodu Arla will teach you all the rude words when you’re older.”

“What that?” Trilla asked.

“Ba’vodu means Arla is your aunt,” Kestis said. “Her brother, Jango, is my soul mate.”

“Family,” Ben told her.

“Okay.” The adiik appeared unimpressed, and Myles cackled.

Arla turned to him. “Go get the ship. We want to get it here and under camouflage before dawn.”

“May I accompany you, Ser Myles?” Ben asked. Such fine manners—it was strange to see a Stewjon’ad with Coruscanta polish.

“Sure thing, General.” Myles grinned and saluted with a fist to his heart.

The two Jedi exchanged a long look and then nodded at each other.

“I go?” Trilla asked.

“You are going to bed, young lady,” Kestis informed her. 

Ben grinned and leaned in to kiss his sister’s cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

Myles and Ben left, and Arla followed Kestis to the camp’s barracks, which had once been a data archive. His family shared a pallet in a corner of a room already filled with sleeping children.

“Here, Beedee will sing for you.” Kestis tucked an old poncho around Trilla as his tiny droid settled beside her.

“Buir stay.”

“I need to speak with Ba’vodu Arla, first.”

The girl pouted but didn’t argue. Arla studied the sleeping Young, her lips pressed into a firm line. If it were up to her the Haat’adë would adopt every child on the planet and then nuke the Elders from orbit.

“This way,” Kestis said softly. He led her to an unoccupied outer reading room that had been breached by an explosive and left it exposed to the elements. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for inviting us. I wish we’d heard about it sooner.” She scowled. “I can’t believe the Republic abandoned them.”

“I’m not sure they know about the Young. I doubt that Ben’s Jetii dar’cabur told them much.”

Arla snarled a string of curses. “How could the Jetii leave him here?”

“I don’t know.” Kestis dropped into a chair beside a broken data terminal, grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe he’s Fallen—become dar’jetii. The important part now is that he’ll never hurt Ben again.”

Arla folded her arms as she leaned against a wall. “Damn right. Haat, Ijaa, Haa'it. Now tell me about the trap you sprung.”

“Right.” He tugged a hand through his hair and sighed. “Before the Elders began hunting them, the Young initially went into hiding because the children of the Melida and the Daan are put to work in weapons factories until they’re considered old enough to join their parents’ war. The Young have been raiding these factories to liberate the workers and put a dent in the Elders’ weapons production.”

“The Elders used those adë as bait?” Arla’s hands clenched into fists.

Kestis nodded. “We started evacuating the Young from the city two days ago, and the Elders know something’s up. Ben and I were confident that we could spring this particular trap and get the children out, so we did.”

“You’re crazy.”

Kestis shrugged, unaffected, and Arla rolled her eyes.

“And here I was hoping Jango would have a runi with more sense than he does.” Arla shook her head. “I heard his version of your conversation. What’s yours?”

The Jedi opened and shut his mouth several times, at a loss for words, and he blushed bright red.

“Haar’chak, I told him to go slow.” She grimaced and Kestis laughed.

“I suppose he did go slow. Slow for Jango, at least.” He smiled dryly. “Mando’adë are people of action. He was ready to adopt my adë and say the riduurok right then and there.”

Arla sighed and shook her head—that sounded like her di’kut brother.

“I know you agreed on cin vhetin.” Arla tilted her head. “Is your past going to bite us in the shebs?”

“I’m going to discuss it with him, and with all of you, as a family. It’s…” Kestis trailed off and snorted. “My ori’vodë used to call it karking Jetii osik.”

He held his head in his hands, as though exhaustion was a physical weight pressing him into the chair. It was the same weariness that plagued Ben and the rest of the Young. Kestis seemed worn down—emotionally and physically. His clothing had crossed the line from well-used to fraying at the edges.

One of her ori'ramikad mentors had taught her to study a target’s boots to take their measure. The Jedi’s boots had seen combat before—this wasn’t Cal Kestis’s first war.

Arla crossed to stand beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not alone, Cal’ika. We’ve got your back. Morut'yc.”

He released a shuddering breath and cleared his throat. “Vor entye.”

“No debt, vod’ika.” She smiled. “Come on. Myles will speed all the way to the ship and back, so he and Ben will be here soon.”

Jaster chuckled when Jango dove to answer Arla’s call when it came into the palace’s comm center.

“Did you find him?” Jango asked.

Arla’s image appeared unimpressed. “Su cuy’gar, vod. It’s nice to see you, too.”

Jango huffed, but before he could reply the holo switched to a wide angle to include Cal and what had to be his two children, Ben and Trilla.

Arla smirked. “At least your soul mate properly introduced himself. Maybe his good manners will rub off on you.”

“Su cuy’gar Jango, Mand’alor Mereel.” Cal smiled politely, but despite the poor quality of the image Jango was sure he saw his soul mate blush at Arla’s praise.

Jaster edged closer and nodded. “Su cuy’gar, Jetiisë. I’m afraid I won’t be accompanying my ad on the Melida/Daan mission, but I look forward to meeting you when you arrive on Manda’yaim.”

“What that?” The girl in Cal’s lap peered up at her buir.

Arla answered before him. “Manda’yaim is going to be your new home, Trill’ika.”

“After the Young achieve peace on Melida/Daan,” Ben said. The stoic general stood at parade rest next beside Cal.

“What’s your ETA?” Cal asked.

“We’re sending two full companies—my Grunts and Arla’s Bladedancers,” Jango said. “We leave in two hours, and we should be there in five days.”

Cal nodded. “Arla and Myles are coordinating with the leaders of the Young to continue evacuating the children from the city before you arrive.”

“We have three settlements outside Zehava,” Ben said. “I’ve provided Al’verdë Fett with their locations.”

“Ba’vodu Arla,” she corrected.

Ben blushed and cleared his throat. “’Lek, Ba’vodu.”

Jango and Jaster grinned like idiots, and then Jango cleared his throat. “Send me the location data and we’ll plan accordingly.”

“Yes, yes,” Jaster said. “And once that’s settled, I want to hear all about my new bu’adë.”

Some nights it felt as though Jaster barely had time to sleep since becoming Mand’alor. Tor Vizsla and Kyr’tsad were out there plotting Manda knew what, while Duke Kryze and his New Mandalorians fought his attempts to govern at every turn. It was exhausting. The few minutes of sleep he managed to catch usually happened in his office at his desk, slumped over piles of data pads, and it was rarely deep enough to dream.

Despite all that, he dozed off and found himself peering out of the window of an unfamiliar room, and his buy’ce displayed the frenetic hustle of Coruscanta. Ugh. He tried to avoid the planet, and when he did visit he spent most of his time in Little Keldabe.

“Greetings, friend. How may I help you?"

Jaster removed his bucket at the soft voice and turned to find a stunning Minashee male standing in the middle of a sitting room. Mesh’la —warm golden skin, long, dark brown hair pulled up in a top knot with a hint of gray at the temples. Jaster might be a grandfather now—or would be soon—but he wasn’t dead. He was just too busy for anything other than a one-night fling.

Jaster noticed the man’s Jedi robes as an afterthought and reined in his lust accordingly.

“Greetings, Master Jetii. I don’t know why I’m here, unless the ka’ra sent you to save me from reading the pile of reports on my desk.”

“I’m afraid I was just suffering a similar fate.” He gestured to the table behind him which was littered with data pads.

“You have my sympathy. I’m Jaster Mereel, he/him.”

“Sifo-Dyas, also he/him. Would you care to sit while we both enjoy avoiding our paperwork?”

Jaster chuckled. “Thank you.” He set his bucket in a bare spot on the table and chose a free armchair.

“I have never met a Mandalorian before.” Sifo-Dyas gracefully settled onto the couch across from Jaster.

“I had never met a Jetii, either, until recently.”

“Oh?” He picked up his tea cup and then frowned when he realized it was empty.

“My son was blessed to find his soul mate, but was surprised to learn that his match is a Jetii with two Jetii children.”

Sifo-Dyas’s brow furrowed. “That is unusual.”

“His soul mate said that he and his son have left your Order. His daughter is too young, she’s an adiik.” Jaster searched his memory for the correct term—he was fluent in Basic but he didn’t speak it often outside of contracts for his supercommando company. “A toddler? Older than three standard years, though it’s difficult to accurately judge her age. She’s had a difficult life.”

“Ah. Then it is fortunate that she has found a new life with your family.” He reached for his teapot and sighed when he found it empty as well. “Would you like a cup? I’ll make a fresh pot.”

“Thank you. Most Mandalorians prefer shig to tea.”

“Shig?” The Jedi rose and crossed to the suite’s kitchenette.

“It’s a similar drink, made from local herbs. It has a citrus kick. I’d be happy to brew some for you if you visit my home the next time you’re avoiding paperwork.”

Jaster smiled and his host chuckled. He watched Sifo-Dyas’s hands as he worked—the Jedi’s movements were fluid, elegant, and Jaster recognized the warrior beneath the polish. He moved like one of Arla’s kal’redulë—warriors who specialized in fighting with knives and beskadë.

“I would like to try it,” Sifo-Dyas said. “This tea is an Alderaanian blend and it has citrus undertones. You’ll have to tell me how it compares to your shig.”

He nodded. “The New Mandalorians are addicted to tea. Anything that makes them seem more like ‘civilized’ core worlders and not savages like the rest of us.”

“Your people are divided?”

“And have been since the Dral’han.” Jaster grimaced—he would have to assign security to Jango’s soul mate. There were bound to be plenty of Mandalorians who would be unhappy about the Mand’alor’s son sharing a soul bond with a Jedi, Death Watch in particular. “Your people call it the Excision. It’s the reason most of Mandalore is uninhabitable.”

This time the Jedi grimaced. “I would apologize, but I know mere words can’t heal a wound that deep. My people are divided as well. We are meant to be peacekeepers, but the senate increasingly asks us to be their attack dogs. I’ve seen a terrible future on the horizon if this continues, though…”

“Though?” Jaster prompted.

“Your son found his soul mate recently? Days ago?”

“Yes. How did you know? Jetii sorcery?”

Sifo-Dyas chuckled. “The Force is not magic. I sensed a change, a positive one. Perhaps this bond between our people was the source. A new beginning.”

“I had been thinking of it as your loss is our gain, but that sounds more pleasant. Do you have adë? A padawan, I think they called it.”

The Jedi returned with a new pot and set it between them to let it steep. “No. My health hasn’t permitted me to take a padawan. My visions can be debilitating.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I never thought about children until I adopted Jango and Arla. Now I can’t imagine my life without them.” Jaster smiled fondly and leaned back in his chair. “They say Mandalorians will adopt anything that’s not nailed down, and that’s close to the truth. We believe that family is more than blood. True Mandalorians always help children in need. Our foundlings are our future.”

“Jedi are similar. Many children are brought to our temple regardless of their ability to use the Force. We accept all of them, and ensure that Force-null children are matched with loving families. We raise Force-sensitive children together in our crèche. That way, all Jedi are family.”

Jaster’s brow furrowed. “Then why do you send your children away when they hit a certain age? My grandson was sent away to be a farmer because a teacher hadn’t chosen him, and as soon as he arrived at his new posting he was kidnapped and enslaved.”

Sifo-Dyas’s eyes widened. “That should never have happened. Was his chaperone killed by the slavers?”

“He said he’d been sent alone on the transport. There was another Jetii aboard the ship, but he claimed that Ben’ika wasn’t part of his mission. No Mandalorian would ignore a child in that situation.”

“No Jedi should behave that way in that situation.” He sighed wearily. “Our younglings are precious. I’m not a member of the Council of Reassignment, but I know that what you’re describing is most unusual and…” He trailed off and his eyes widened in alarm. “Padawan Kenobi. Your grandson is Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

“Not anymore. In the Stewjoni dialect of Mando’a, Obi-Wan Kenobi means ‘no one, child of no clan.’ When he was adopted he took a new name and his buir’s—his parent’s—clan.”

Sifo-Dyas nodded slowly, his gaze unfixed as though lost in thought. After a few moments he inhaled a sharp breath and turned to Jaster. “Do you have a soul mark?”

“Me?” Jaster blinked in surprise. “It’s been dormant since I was a kid. Gave up on it years ago. Why?”

Sifo-Dyas pushed back the sleeve of his robes. “Oh my,” he whispered.

It couldn’t be. He removed his gauntlet and vambrace and rolled up the kute beneath. The blurry mark had filled in, but his mind couldn’t make sense of it. Jango’s mark had become a mythosaur, but Jaster’s almost reminded him of the Vizsla’s—and Kyr’tsad’s—symbol.

“What is it?” Jaster asked.

Sifo-Dyas rose and approached him, perching on the edge of the table as he gently touched Jaster’s mark. “It’s the symbol of the Jedi Order. My bond mate and I—our marks filled in the wings years ago, when we were teens, but the sword that unifies them was missing. We never considered that the mark was incomplete, but it appears—”

“That I’m the sword? Haar'chak, Arla is going to have a field day with that one. We’ll never hear the end of it. Who is your bond mate?”

“Master Yan Dooku. He’s en route to Melida/Daan.”

“So is Jango, and Arla is already there.” Jaster tilted his head. “Once their business is completed they’re returning home with Jango’s new family. Perhaps you and Master Dooku would care to visit Mandalore then?”

“I think a visit would be lovely.” Sifo-Dyas smiled, and Jaster’s heart skipped a beat.

“Jate.” He grinned. “I must say, I’ve spent the last few days listening to my son wax poetic about how beautiful his soul mate is. Are all Jetii beautiful, or are Jango and I blessed?”

“Flatterer.” Sifo-Dyas laughed and patted his hand. “You and Yan are going to get along splendidly.”

The leaders of the Young broke into three teams—Cerasi and Arla, Nield and Myles, and Ben and Cal. Ben and Cal were assigned site Aurek, centered inside an abandoned suburb of the capital city that the Young had turned into a series of hidden greenhouses and hydroponics labs to grow fresh food.

Because the Elders had increased the number of patrols in the city and the surrounding walls, the teams could only travel by night. Ben had sprained his ankle during their last run and Cal had guided him into a healing trance when they returned to camp. Trilla clung to Ben during her afternoon nap, and Cal meditated beside them. In a few hours he and Ben would set out for Zehava to evacuate three more groups.

If Cal hadn’t been meditating, he might have missed the Jedi’s arrival in orbit. The meditation magnified his senses, and he was startled by the inquisitive but polite knock against his shields. Cal nearly burst into tears—a real Jedi. A master, judging by the strength of the contact. With Cere cut off from the Force, Cal hadn’t felt the presence of a master Jedi since Master Tapal died.

Cal hadn’t been shielding as strongly as usual in order to foster his bonds with Ben and Trilla, so it was simple to relax his shields just enough to convey his location to the Jedi with a warning not to contact Zehava because it was unsafe. Cal opened his eyes and peered at his children. If this was Ben’s former master, Cal wanted a few words with the bastard. If this was another Jedi, Cal wanted to know why they were here. As far as he could tell, in the original timeline the Jedi had only sent someone to Melida/Daan after the Young took control of the communications center and Ben called the Temple for help. That hadn’t happened this time.

Cal rose and Trilla’s eyes cracked open. “Who that?”

“I don’t know yet, sweetie.” He leaned down and brushed the hair out of her face. “Go back to sleep. I need you here to protect Ben.”

“’Lek, Buir.” She snuggled closer and Cal reached out to nudge Ben more deeply into his trance.

“Beedee, stay with them.”

The droid nodded from his perch at the head of the cot, and Cal made his way outside.

His new comm beeped and displayed Arla’s ID. “There’s an unidentified ship inbound to your location.”

“I know. It’s piloted by a Jedi.”

“What do they want?”

“Probably looking for Ben’ika, though the timing’s odd. He was on his own for seven months before I arrived.”

“If that’s the shabuir who abandoned him, keep him there. There’s a line forming to kick his shebs.”

“Right, and I have first dibs.” Cal smiled sadly. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“Koyacyi, Cal’ika.”

Cal cut the call as he stepped into the afternoon sunlight. He studied the approaching ship and hoped the Elders hadn’t tracked it. A Jedi starfighter. Kriff—the last one he’d seen had been a wreck on Bracca. Cal’s throat tightened and he shared his grief with the Force. The fighter landed and Cal’s tenuous calm was shaken the moment its pilot emerged.

Count Dooku.  

His panicked instincts screamed for him to fight, to protect the children, but he clumsily shoved the feelings into the Force. Here and now. Focus on the here and now. This wasn’t the Dooku who abandoned the Order and became Darth Tyranus. That Fall was many years away—Cal might be able to save him, too.

That was just karking weird.

Cal bowed politely. “Master Dooku. What brings you to Melida/Daan?”

Dooku bowed in return. “I am here to retrieve a lost youngling. I’m afraid you have me at a loss, Knight…?”

“Kestis. Cal Kestis, he/him.”

“Knight Kestis. I was unaware that the Council sent anyone to recover Padawan Kenobi.”

“They didn’t. The Force brought me here.” Cal cocked his head. “The Council didn’t send you?”

Dooku’s brow furrowed with irritation at his slip and Cal swallowed hard—the man might not have Fallen, but the master of Makashi was still more than capable of kicking Cal’s ass. Had Qui-Gon sent his master here to clean up his mess? After seven months? Had no one at the temple cared about Obi-Wan’s welfare all that time?

Cal straightened, squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. “I see. Did Master Jinn inform the council of the details of why he chose to abandon his 13-year-old padawan in the middle of an active war zone without a weapon or even the most basic survival supplies?”

“He claimed that Padawan Kenobi chose to leave the Order due to an attachment to a local girl.”

Cal’s jaw dropped. “And the Council accepted that? No investigation necessary?”

“It would appear so.”

Shit. Jango was going to kill Qui-Gon Jinn and Cal wasn’t sure he wanted to stop him. Master Tapal would never have treated Cal that way.

“I assume by your displeased expression that this was not the case?” Master Dooku asked.

“If the local girl in question is Cerasi, who is one of the leaders of the Young, a faction of children who banded together to stop the endless war perpetuated by their parents, then I suppose that could be true, from a certain point of view. But I’d really like to know how Master Jinn justified abandoning a temple-trained child on an outer rim planet dangerously close to Hutt-controlled space where Force-sensitive children are highly prized on the slave market? Or why he prioritized saving the life of one Jedi over staying to aid the Young, who were—and still are—being hunted and killed by the Elders? Master Jinn knew what was happening here and he did nothing. Padawan Kenobi, on the other hand, has spent the last seven months as the general of an army of child soldiers. He’s seen horrors that no one should witness, and it wasn’t due to a teenage crush. He followed the will of the Force.”

Master Dooku closed his eyes and sighed. “It appears that we have much to discuss, Knight Kestis.”

You have no idea, Count Dooku. Cal peered past him. “Does your ship have emergency medical supplies? Extra rations? We have aid on the way but they won’t arrive for two more days.”

“Aid? From the Republic?”

“No, from Mand’alor Jaster Mereel.”

Cal felt the Jedi reach for the Force to determine the truth, and then Dooku’s eyes widened. “Very well. Your charges are welcome to my supplies.”

Jedi Master Yan Dooku followed the knight through the Young’s settlement and wondered how his padawan could have erred on such a massive scale. Unfortunately he knew all too well what, or rather who, was the main factor that had influenced Qui-Gon’s poor decisions—Master Tahl. The fact that the two were pair bonded was one of the worst kept secrets of the temple, and Qui-Gon had chosen saving her life over doing his duty. Yan swallowed a sigh, knowing that they would all have to endure one of Master Yoda’s speeches on attachment because of this.

The Order hadn’t always forbidden attachments. Before the Reformation, pair bonds and soul bonds were common, even respected, but the current Order forbade such relationships. It was why Yan and Sy kept their connection a carefully guarded secret.

The Young’s soldiers grudgingly accepted Knight Kestis’s presence among them, but they watched Yan with obvious distrust. As a rule, children were uncomfortable around Yan, and he had never felt it necessary to remedy that—he preferred interacting with children when they were old enough to train as padawans. But these children had been betrayed by the adults around them, the very people who should have been caring for and protecting them. Qui-Gon’s abandonment of his padawan had only further cemented that distrust.

“Do you have any skill at healing?” Kestis asked.

“Very little,” Yan admitted.

The knight grimaced slightly and nodded. “I only had basic training. We’ll make do.”

There was something unusual about the young man’s Force signature—Yan suspected that he was a Jedi Shadow. It would explain his presence in the outer rim and his knowledge of the slave trade, though he was young to be working on his own. Shadows almost always operated in pairs or teams for their own safety. Indeed, Kestis seemed young to be a knight, as most humans were senior padawans at his age, but there was no doubting that he carried himself with the strength and confidence of a Jedi who had completed his trials. Perhaps he was a variety of near-human who aged slowly.

He led Yan into the field hospital and he was nearly overwhelmed by the scent of festering wounds. Dozens of children laid on cots, suffering from a variety of injuries and ailments.

Kestis approached a scrawny female Zabrak. “Doc, what’s your status?”

“The new supplies you brought stabilized a few of my worse-off patients.” She turned and eyed Yan. “This the new Jedi?”

“Yes, this is Master Dooku,” Kestis introduced, and Yan bowed.

The young medic nodded in return. “Thank you for the supplies. You’re not going to cut and run on us too, are you?”

“I intend to offer whatever aid I can.”

“Good.”

Ben woke to Cal gently shaking his shoulder. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

“Are the Haat’adë here?” Ben scrubbed his eyes and sat up. Cal sat beside him and pressed a canteen into his hands.

“No. A Jedi arrived looking for you. Master Dooku, your former grandmaster.”

He jolted, suddenly completely awake. “Did you tell him? About…?”

Cal shook his head. “Not yet. I’m waiting for the right opportunity. It’s not the kind of news you lead with.”

“I understand. Has he said anything about me?”

“Well, apparently Master Jinn left the Young out of his report, and said that you left the Order to be with a girl.”

Ben wrinkled his nose. “Cerasi? She’s my friend, but not like that.”

“Good. I’m too young to be a ba’buir.”

Ben giggled as Cal hugged him and ruffled his hair, but then he sobered. “He isn’t going to make me go back, is he? Would they send me to the AgriCorps again?”

“No, you’re my padawan, and this is an independent world and you’ve been adopted by Mandalorian tradition. Plus, considering that my soul mate is the child of Mand’alor Mereel, the Jedi would cause a diplomatic mess if they tried.”

“Good.”

“Come on, General. I left him in the mess tent being glared at by your troops, and you need to get some food into you before our next run.”

When they reached the mess tent, Trilla made a beeline for Master Dooku and immediately crawled into the man’s lap. The stoic master looked terrified, and Ben giggled.

“Beedee, take a holo,” he said. The droid beeped an affirmative.

Cal snickered. “Nice. Go save the poor man, I’ll grab food.”

Ben approached the makeshift table and bowed. “Master Dooku. I’m Ben Kestis, and I see you’ve met my sister, Trilla.”

Trilla sucked her thumb with one hand and patted the Jedi’s chest with the other. “Ba’buir.”

“Jaster is our ba’buir, not Master Dooku.”

Trilla huffed and rolled her eyes. “Is Ba’buir Doo.”

The Jedi master made a choked noise and Ben fought the urge to laugh at the man’s plight. Ben scratched at the scar on his scalp where his padawan braid had been. “I guess it could be true, from a certain point of view.”

“This is a Mandalorian word?” Master Dooku asked.

“It means grandparent,” Ben said. “I was briefly your grandpadawan, and Trilla is my adopted sister. Perhaps she picked up on that. She’s very intuitive. I suspect she has a strong connection with the Unifying Force.”

“Perhaps.”

Cal arrived with rations and water. He divided the portions and then scooped Trilla up and settled her in his own lap.

“Buir, no!” Trilla whined.

“Sorry, ad’ika. Master Dooku is allergic to younglings.” Cal unwrapped her ration and handed her the bar, which she accepted with a frown.

Ben giggled. “Master Yoda used to tell me stories about you when you were a padawan, Master Dooku.”

“Did he now?” He placed his ration bar in front of Ben.

“No thank you, Master. I’m fine with one bar.”

“Ben,” Cal said, and Ben winced. “What’s the rule about food?”

“Always eat when you can because you don’t know when your next battle will happen.” He tilted his head. “Doesn’t that apply to Master Dooku as well? He shouldn’t give away his ration if he’s coming with us tonight.”

“Master Dooku hasn’t been fighting a war for the past seven months.”

“Indeed.” Master Dooku nodded. “Knight Kestis shared some of your story with me. Could you tell me how you came to be here?”

“Yes, Master.”

Between bites of his rations, Ben summarized how he’d aged out and the events that followed. Whenever he tried to leave out the more unpleasant details Cal gently encouraged him to tell the whole story, and even a crecheling could sense Master Dooku’s disappointment in the tale.

When Ben finished, Master Dooku folded his hands. “Young Ben, I have a suspicion of what set you on this difficult path, and if I am correct…” He paused and grimaced. Trilla used the distraction to worm her way out of Cal’s grip and return to Dooku’s lap.

She patted his arm. “Is okay, Ba’buir Doo.”

“Jaster is your ba’buir, sweetie,” Cal said. “We saw him on the holocall, remember?”

Trilla huffed. “Ba’buir Jaster, Ba’buir Doo, and Ba’buir Sy.”

She appeared immune to the shock that rippled around the table.

“Master Sifo-Dyas?” Cal asked.

Master Dooku cleared his throat. “Master Sifo-Dyas was the one who asked me to come here and seek out Ben. Perhaps the young one is picking up on that.”

Ben and Cal shared a look, and Cal cleared his throat. “You and Master Sifo-Dyas were in the crèche together, right?”

“We were,” Master Dooku intoned. “We have been friends for many years.”

“Has he been having visions of the Jedi fighting a war?” Cal asked. “Against a droid army? Or alongside soldiers in white armor?”

Another shockwave rippled through the Force. “You’ve had the same visions?” Master Dooku asked.

“No, I haven’t had visions of the war. I fought in it.” He turned to Ben. “You’d better make your rounds before we leave. Take Trilla with you.”

“Buir, no!” Trilla said.

“Buir, yes.” Cal smiled as Ben rescued Master Dooku from Trilla. “Beedee, go with them.”

As Ben walked away he heard Cal offering to meditate with Master Dooku. “I’ll share my memories, but they won’t make sense to you until I reach the end.”

At the end of the longest day Yan had endured in his life, he returned to his ship and sat in the cockpit, staring numbly at the silent control panels.

In truth, he hadn’t known what to expect when he arrived on Melida/Daan. He’d accessed Qui-Gon’s report to the council and knew that there was a deeper story written between the few lines it contained. He expected to find a frightened boy desperate to return home after having made a poor choice.

Instead, Yan found a general coordinating an army of child soldiers. Ben and the Young were veterans of war—a war that Qui-Gon could have ended seven months ago had he chosen to stay and aid them as the Force clearly willed. The conditions the children lived in beneath the streets of Zehava were appalling, and escorting them out of the city had been harrowing.

Yan, Sy, and Master Kostana had often speculated what the Jedi of the Army of Light might have been like—Jedi who wore armor, who commanded armies in wars against the Sith. Now he knew part of that answer, having witnessed Jedi soldiers in battle in the form of Cal and Ben Kestis. A twenty-three-year-old knight and his fourteen-year-old padawan. 

I’ve lived in a galaxy without Jedi.

Yan shuddered, haunted by the memories shared by Cal Kestis. Cal, too, had been alone, grieving, and so very like the boy the Force had sent the knight through time to save. Cal had shown him many horrifying truths—and yes, the Force confirmed that each terrible detail was true.

Cal’s memories combined with Yan’s own studies confirmed his worst fears—that nearly every reform meant to strengthen the Order had weakened it. The Jedi allowed themselves to become tools of the senate, and the Sith within it. The line of Bane continued under their very noses and they were too blind to see it, so convinced of their great victory that they refused to acknowledge the signs of their ancient enemy’s return.

Force. Master Kostana, had always suspected that the Sith had survived the last war, but knowing how deeply embedded they had become within the Republic… Yan swallowed hard and traced the comm controls. He desperately needed to speak with Sy—not to tell him what he’d learned, because he agreed with Kestis that none of this information could even be hinted at over comms, no matter how encrypted the connection. 

Yan needed to see Sy’s face and hear his voice, because he could not scour clean the thought of his beloved Sifo-Dyas dying on a moon above Oba Diah after Yan himself had given the order to murder him. His Sy, his treasured soul mate.

Count Dooku. Darth Tyranus. A monster who was complicit in the death of the entire Jedi Order. How could he have fallen so far?

Do better, Kestis had told him. This was their chance to change everything, to save everyone.

Yan exhaled and punched in Sy’s comm code. He had no idea what time it was on Coruscant, but Sy answered with a smile.

“Master Dooku. Have you arrived at your destination?”

The tightness in Yan’s chest eased as he politely bowed his head. “I have. I’m attaching a report of my initial findings for the high council.” Properly sanitized findings, that mentioned nothing of Mandalorians and time traveling knights. “They do not reflect well on Master Jinn.”

“I had suspected as much.”

“My young padawan friend has asked after Master Tahl’s health. Is she still in the Halls of Healing?”

Sy’s holo nodded. “She is. Her body has recovered but she has yet to regain consciousness.”

“I will pass on the news. Are things well at the Temple?”

“Business as usual. Will you be returning soon with your new friend?”

“No. I have decided to fulfill the original mission objective and negotiate peace between the warring factions.”

“That is good to hear. I’m certain the Force will be with you in your efforts.” Sy paused and winced in pain.

“Are you unwell?” Yan asked.

“That old sparring scar is bothering me.”

Yan cocked an eyebrow—a soul mate matter, then. One he couldn’t speak about over the comm. Interesting. “You were the one who insisted that lowering the intensity on our sabers wasn’t necessary for that spar.”

“You were the one who was supposed to be responsible enough to prevent such foolishness.”

“A good thing, then, that we have gained wisdom with age.”

“Indeed.” Sy bowed. “I look forward to hearing more about your progress there. May the Force be with you.”

“And with you, old friend.”

The call ended and Yan sighed as Sy’s image vanished. Under normal conditions Yan would have sought his soul mate out through their bond to learn more, but there was much work to do. Instead, he rolled up his sleeve to view his soul mark and flinched in shock—it had changed. A third detail had filled in—the sword connecting the wings of the symbol of the Jedi Order.

Yan and Sy had a third soul mate, and Sy had met them. Force , he didn’t think he could handle more surprises… That development would have to wait.

Knight Kestis had suggested that Yan contact a Shadow. The High Council was too connected to the senate to risk informing them about the Sith’s presence, but the Shadows were perfectly equipped to investigate the matter, and Yan had just the right agent in mind. 

He composed and sent a quick message, and then the only task left was to call a certain meddling troll.

“Greetings, master mine,” Yan intoned.

Yoda’s ears rose in surprise. “Greetings, my young padawan. Long has it been, since last we spoke. Completed, your mission is?”

“Indeed. I sent my report before leaving for my current location.”

“Oh? Not returning to the temple, are you?” Yoda’s ears fell as his wrinkled brow furrowed with annoyance.

“It may be some time before I do. I decided to look into the welfare of my grandpadawan and traveled to Melida/Daan.”

Now that got the gremlin’s attention. “Found young Obi-Wan, have you? Well, is he?”

“I have submitted a report of my findings. The boy has acquired a new family and will not be returning to the Order.” Yan leaned forward and frowned at his master. “He had quite an extraordinary tale to tell. He’s a remarkable child—what he lacks in strength in the Force he more than makes up for with a clever mind and steadfast resolve. I find it odd that an initiate of his quality was not matched with a master, and that he had been so poorly matched with the AgriCorps when the EduCorps or Explorer Corps would have been better suited. I sent my thoughts on the matter to the Council of Reassignment.”

Yoda’s ears continued to droop as though someone had turned up the gravity in the troll’s quarters. Good.

“On a personal note, I understand why you would want such a remarkable boy for our lineage, but forcing him into Qui-Gon’s path is unacceptable. Responsibility for a child is not a substitute for a mind healer. Qui-Gon needs therapy, not a padawan.”

“Good things I saw for them. Well matched, they are.”

“Oh, but the future is always in motion, master mine.” Yan allowed himself a tight grin at feeding the troll’s favorite words to him—he hoped they tasted awful. “Your actions caused Obi-Wan great suffering, and now the Order has lost a promising student. To begin to make amends, you will ground Qui-Gon from further missions and order him to complete mandatory mind healing sessions until he is cleared by the Halls of Healing. No excuses.”

“Giving me orders, are you?”

“Be grateful that I’m having this conversation with you and not the entire high council. I have no doubt that they would be less forgiving of your actions.”

Yoda sighed. “Very well. Done, it will be.”

“Thank you. May the Force be with you, Master.”

Jedi Shadow Feemor was bored. He swirled the dregs of the engine degreaser masquerading as alcohol in the bottom of his mug and glanced at his chrono again. The cantina was nearly empty at this hour, when even the most determined drunks had given up and gone home.

“He’s not coming,” Master Tholme said over the comm.

“Yeah. Figured that out an hour ago.” Feemor slid the mug away and debated ordering another. The informant was three hours late to their meeting, which didn’t bode well for the man or their investigation. He’d probably either run or gotten caught.

“Does that mean we can leave?” Padawan Vos asked in the background, followed by the sound of a jaw-cracking yawn. The corners of Feemor’s mouth twitched—the kid would make a good shadow one day, but he had a lot to learn.

“Might as well. See you soon.” Feemor rose and tossed the bartender a cred stick to cover his tab. 

The safehouse was a short walk away from the cantina, and when he arrived Feemor was immediately set upon by a bundle of anxious teenage Kiffar.

“What does this mean?” Quinlan thrust Feemor’s private comm into his face.

Feemor fixed him with an unimpressed look before turning to Master Tholme, who shrugged. “I did warn you. If you want to keep him out of something you have to cover it with glitter and hot sauce.”

“That punishes me as much as him.” Feemor grabbed the comm and used the Force to flick Quinlan’s forehead.

He crossed to flop down into an empty chair and then propped his boots on the table as he accessed the message in question—if nothing else, the kid was a good slicer. Quinlan already cracked the encryption, and Feemor frowned at the text. 

Grandpadawan. History has repeated itself, and I require your aid with an urgent lineage matter with your brother.

“Is it a code?” Quinlan asked.

“Not as such, no.”

Tholme tossed a datapad to Feemor, who accessed the shadows’ database and searched for new information on Xanatos. The last intel he’d heard was about that Offworld Mining debacle, but that was months ago. Feemor had no idea why Master Dooku would contact him about Xanatos now. He hardly considered the man a brother, particularly considering that Xani was the reason Qui-Gon repudiated him—

Wait. Something niggled at the back of his thoughts, like an itch in the Force. Grandpadawan. History has repeated itself.

After Qui-Gon cut Feemor out of his life, Master Dooku had reached out to reassure him that he would always consider Feemor to be part of their lineage. If history had repeated itself, that meant Qui-Gon had repudiated someone else. Someone new. He skimmed through Qui-Gon’s recent mission files and slowly sat up in horror, his boots thumping to the floor.

That son of a bitch.

“Fee?” Tholme asked.

“Hey, kid.” Feemor turned to Quinlan. “Why were you going on about Melida/Daan the other day?”

“Because that’s where that Jinn jerk left Obi-Wan.” Quinlan scowled, and then perked up. “Wait, does that message mean we can go get him?”

“Yeah.” Feemor shoved the comm and data pad into an inner pocket of his synthleather duster. “We’re not getting anywhere here. Let’s wrap this up and get underway.”

Quinlan cheered, pumped his fist and bolted into the other room to pack his gear, and Feemor turned to Tholme. “Something’s up. Dooku wouldn’t contact me for a simple retrieval.”

“Noted.” Tholme nodded. “We’ll keep it off the record until we know more.”

“Good. I have a bad feeling about this.”

Chapter Text

At twenty-three standard years old, Jango Fett was already a veteran of many battles. He led his own company of supercommandos, the Grunts, composed of young Mandalorians eager to prove themselves. He was fearless in battle, but now, as his ship approached the encampment where his soul mate waited, Jango was terrified.

Real. His soul mate was real, the man’s children were real, and he would meet all of them in a matter of moments. What if they didn’t like him? When they arrived in the system he received Arla’s report mentioning the arrival of a Jedi Master. What if Cal and his children decided to return to the Jedi Order instead of joining Jango on Mandalore?

The ship’s ramp lowered and Jango spotted the leaders of the Young waiting. Such brave adë. He couldn’t begin to understand the horrors they had lived through, but he was determined to ensure that the Young enjoyed a lasting peace.

Jango saluted the three leaders, removed his helmet and hooked it to his belt.

“Welcome to Melida/Daan, Ven’alor Fett,” Cerasi greeted.

“Thank you, Ser Cerasi. Ser Nield. General Ben.” Jango withdrew a data pad and handed it to the young woman. “This is a co-signed copy of the final agreement between the Young and the Haat Mando’adë ori’ramikadë.”

The Haat’adë were more than happy to help for free, but even though Melida/Daan wasn’t a Republic world, the Republic would be wary of any Mandalorian involvement. A solid legal document would do much to calm any ruffled feathers in the senate.

Cerasi examined it and nodded. “If your lieutenants will come with me, we'll begin coordinating relief efforts and assigning teams for the joint task force.” Her serious expression vanished with an impish grin. “I’m sure you’re eager to speak with your new family.”

Jango nodded, and Cerasi led the others away. He smiled softly at Ben. “Su’cuy, ad’ika.”

“Thank you for coming,” Ben said. “Your help will save many lives.”

“Children are the future, protecting them is part of our creed.”

“This is the Way.” Ben spoke the phrase slowly but sincerely, as though testing each word. Jango’s heart swelled with pride.

“Jate. Who is your friend?” Jango nodded to the droid perched on the boy’s shoulder like a pet shriek-hawk.

“This is BD-1, he/him.”

The droid whistled a greeting and Jango smiled. “Well met. Will you introduce me to your buir and kih’vod, too?”

“Of course.”

Jango’s runi stood to the side, away from the Young organizing the disembarking Manadalorians. A stern, middle-aged Jedi stood a polite distance from Cal, and Ben pointed him out to Jango.

“That’s Master Dooku. He’s my grandmaster—it’s like a Jedi ba’buir. He’s going to negotiate the peace agreement.”

Jango paused and saluted the Jedi, who bowed in reply. Then, a few steps later, Jango was finally face to face with his soul mate.

Mesh’la. He’d watched Arla’s footage of Cal fighting the Elders dozens of times and marveled at Cal’s skill and grace. The late morning sunlight caught the metallic highlights in Cal’s copper hair—a Stewjoni trait—and Jango swallowed hard at the memory of Jaster’s voice. 

“I’m counting on you, ner ad.”

Jango’s heart pounded and he prayed to the Manda for guidance so he didn’t say the wrong thing and completely screw this up.

Cal smiled. “Hello, Jan’ika.”

“Cyare,” Jango breathed.

The child on Cal’s hip studied them both, and then nodded. “Jan’buir.”

Jango and Cal both flinched in surprise, and turned in unison to Arla, who grinned and waved from her spot at the other end of the landing area. Troublemaker.

Cal chuckled at Trilla. “I see you’ve learned more Mando’a from your ba’vodu.”

Trilla nodded. “’Lek, Buir.”

“I brought something for you. Both of you.” Jango pulled the plush strill toy from his satchel. “This is for you, Trill’ika.”

“Thank you.” Her dark eyes widened as she stroked the toy’s soft amber fur. “What is?”

“That’s a strill,” Cal said. “They live on Manda’yaim.”

“New home?”

“Yes,” Cal said. “That’s our new home, after we help Cerasi and Nield.”

Trilla nodded. “Okay. Down now, please. I show Ba’buir Doo.”

So serious, just like her brother, General Ben. Cal set her down, and she trotted over to the Jedi to show off her toy. Jango cleared his throat—kriff, his palms were sweating inside his gauntlets.

“This is for you.” He withdrew a bundle and handed it to his soul mate. “It’s a modified birikad, for Trill’ika.” Anxious, he continued his explanation in rambling Mando’a. “It’s made from armorweave, since it seems like the pair of you are trouble magnets. I spoke with a few mind healers about how best to help the adë deal with the trauma they’ve experienced here. They said that Trilla will look for constant comfort and reassurance from the people she trusts as she adjusts to her new life, and a birikad will help with that for now. I got one for myself, too, and—”

Cal cupped Jango’s face in his hands and pulled him in for a kiss. Jango’s blood heated at the taste of his soul mate’s lips, and he chased the kiss until they were interrupted by the cheers and whoops of their Mandalorian audience.

Cal blushed. “Thank you. For the gifts. That was very thoughtful.”

Jango smiled a dopey grin and he felt weak in the knees—that was even better than he’d dreamed.

Yan watched with barely concealed amusement as the Mand’alor’s son followed Knight Kestis like a lovesick pup through the Young’s camp. Fett stayed within arm’s reach at all times, his hand resting at Cal’s elbow or the small of the knight’s back. Many years ago, Yan had been guilty of hovering around his own soul mate when he and Sifo-Dyas were away from the Temple. Sy had quickly tired of it and relished in reminding Yan that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

Fett was in for a surprise the first time he and Kestis sparred.

“Ba’buir Doo!”

“Yes, young one?” He peered down at Trilla, who clung to his hand as she led him on her own path through the camp.

“Eat now?” She pointed toward a group of Mandalorians who had set up a cooking station near the mess tent.

“Yes, I believe it may be time for mid-meal.”

“Up, please.”

“As you wish.” Yan knelt and gathered up Trilla and her stuffed toy.

Despite his misgivings about younglings, he found it simplest to indulge the child, as her favor seemed to earn him goodwill from the Young. Plus, Trilla was a surprisingly agreeable youngling for her age. She asked many questions and listened to his answers with a solemn focus, her small brow furrowed with concentration, but for the most part she was content to spend their time together quietly absorbing comfort from his presence in the Force.

Knight Kestis had challenged him to do better—to be better—and having glimpsed young Trilla’s future motivated Yan to ensure that the child was well cared for. Yan and the youngling wouldn’t suffer the dark fates of their future counterparts.

Yan joined the queue for whatever meal the Mandalorians were serving—some sort of noodle-based stew, judging by the beige, lumpy appearance.

“Jetii.” The Mando guarding the pot studied Yan with suspicion.

“What that?” Trilla pointed as another Mando scooped a portion into the bowl of the child ahead of them.

“This is beginner tiingilar,” the server explained. “The dish is usually spicy, but we made a mild batch for the adë. I can add spices to yours, Jetii.”

“Perhaps another time,” Yan said. “This little one enjoys helping me finish my food.”

“I help Ba’buir Doo,” Trilla intoned with a solemn nod.

By claiming that they had been given too much, Cal and Yan had coaxed Trilla into “helping” them finish their meals. The strategy had been invented by Cal, who first noticed that while all of the Young were malnourished, they were wary of accepting additional portions outright, as though doing so was some sort of trap. Apparently the Elders offered food to homeless or orphaned children to gain their trust before forcing them to work in the factories.

“Strill eat this?” Trilla asked.

The server laughed. “Strill prefer meat, but they’ll eat anything, like trash compactors.”

“Okay.” Trilla nodded. “Thank you.”

Yan bowed and accepted two bowls, and with some assistance from the Force he balanced the food and the youngling until he located a place to sit in the mess tent. He placed Trilla on the seat beside him, and she in turn placed her toy on the seat beside her. She watched Yan sample the food first and waited for his approval. He nodded—it was bland enough for her consumption, and it would also be warm and filling.

A few familiar members of the Young soon joined them.

“Ser Spanner.” Yan nodded to the Pantoran girl with pale lavender skin and white hair. “How are you finding the Mandalorians?”

“They seem to know their specs.” Spanner shrugged. “They’re kind of skittish, though.”

“They’re likely being cautious,” Yan said. “Mandalorians are familiar with the effects of battle trauma. They don’t wish to upset you.”

Spanner hummed thoughtfully, and Trilla used the distraction to help herself to a spoonful of Yan’s food.

“I help,” she said.

“I see. Finish yours first, young one.”

“Okay.” Trilla turned to the mechanic. “Spanner, look! I have strill.”

The youngling set her toy on the table for the older child’s inspection. While the children chatted, Yan focused on eating just enough of his meal to maintain his energy, which would allow Trilla to finish the rest. True to form, the youngling finished her portion and his.

Arla Fett found them after they left the mess tent. “Family comm time, come with me.” She scooped Trilla up and then smirked at Yan. “You too, Jetii.”

“Oh?”

“Jaster asked for you.” She turned and headed toward her brother’s ship, and Yan followed. “I feel like I should apologize in advance. He’s a giant history nerd, and he probably wants to pester you with questions about the Jetii archives.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “I am well acquainted with the Head Archivist, Madam Jocasta Nu. We were crèchemates. I could pass on her comm information.”

Arla chuckled. “You’d win his undying devotion but he’d never stop bothering you.”

“I might question him in return. I’ve been reading the copy of Mand’alor Mereel’s supercommando codex that you shared. It’s quite interesting.”

“Ugh. It’s as dry as the Sundari desert.” Arla dramatically rolled her eyes and tickled Trilla, who shrieked with glee. “You can trade personal comm codes and talk nerdy to your hearts’ content.”

She jested, but Yan would truly enjoy the chance to discuss the history of the Sith wars from a Mandalorian perspective. Master Kostana would enjoy it as well, considering that she had taken Sy and Yan on several archaeological expeditions to sites that had ties to both the Sith and Mandalorian empires.

Arla, Trilla and Yan boarded the Ven’alor’s ship and joined Fett, Knight Kestis and Ben in the comm center. Cal’s droid, BD-1, was plugged into the controls, likely to supply additional encryption for the call.

Mand’alor Jaster Mereel, he/him, was a middle-aged human with a broad, pleasant face, a bright smile and a nose that had been broken at least twice. Even across the vast distance separating them, Yan sensed the man’s deep loyalty and devotion to his family and his people.

Yan observed while the Fetts gave their reports, followed by Ben and finally Cal. Trilla roamed from lap to lap until finally settling in Yan’s, where she promptly fell asleep, hugging her plush toy.

Mereel turned his attention to Yan and cleared his throat. “Master Dooku. I recently met a dear friend of yours.”

“Oh?” Yan blinked in surprise. A Shadow, perhaps? He couldn’t imagine any other Jedi coming into contact with the Mand’alor.

“Yes. He…” Mereel cleared his throat, and for a moment Yan could swear the man was blushing. “We had a lovely conversation over tea.”

Oh. Oh, dear. He breathed deep and released his shock and anxiety into the Force.

“You met Sy?” Yan asked, his expression mild. Jaster nodded.

Trilla stirred in Yan’s lap and yawned. “Ba’buir Sy?”

His lips twitched—a very intuitive child, indeed. Perhaps Sy could teach her how to hone her gift. “Yes, young one. Though we won’t see Ba’buir Sy and Ba’buir Jaster until our work here is complete.”

Trilla nodded. “We help Cici and Nield first.”

“Buir?” Jango asked. The young man’s voice leapt a startled octave, and Jaster smiled sheepishly at his son’s surprise.

“He did mention trying to contact you,” Jaster said, “but he couldn’t explain using the Jetii’s comms and—”

“And I haven’t slept since I arrived, so he couldn’t contact me through the bond. I understand.”

Jaster nodded. “He submitted the paperwork for a six-month sabbatical to ‘meditate on recent changes in the Force.’ He’ll travel here as soon as the council believes him settled.”

“Clever. Well, if you will excuse us, Mand’alor, I believe I have some matters to discuss with your family.”

“Of course, Master Dooku. I hope to speak again soon.”  

The transmission ended, and the room turned to Yan—except for Trilla, who returned to her nap.

“Master Sifo-Dyas and I are soul mates,” Yan explained. “The Order does not require soul bonds to be broken, but it is encouraged that Jedi with such connections voluntarily break them to avoid attachment.”

“Why?” Arla asked, clearly horrified by the idea.

“It is a policy created after the last Sith war. The Order underwent a number of reformations aimed at preventing further wars, and specifically to prevent Jedi from falling to the Dark Side.” Yan sighed and stroked Trilla’s hair as he thought of torture her future self had endured at the hands of the Sith. “I recently learned that these reforms caused more harm than good. The Jedi have much to learn from our mistakes.”

“You didn’t break your bond.” Ben radiated amazement in the Force. “You hid it from Master Yoda?”

“I did. I still do.” He turned to Knight Kestis. “We will meditate on the importance of these bonds, but it does seem that the Force wishes our two people to work together.”

“As family,” Jango said.

Yan nodded. “As family.”

He would have to contact his sister—Jenza would be amused by his new Mandalorian family, though the other noble houses of Serenno would surely be scandalized.

Cal emerged from the sonic shower and frowned at his reflection in the ’fresher’s mirror. He needed to shave, but Jango’s kit wasn’t meant for a Stewjoni’s unique hair. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find the right tools on Mandalore, and he resigned himself to continued scruffiness for now.

He kept his old boots, but he donned the clothes Jango had brought for him—a new coverall and fresh underclothes. New clothing was a luxury Cal rarely indulged in, because the work that the Mantis’s crew performed didn’t exactly pay well (or at all). He was used to wearing something until the patches disintegrated.

Cal emerged into the quiet cabin. Ben and Trilla were asleep, curled up together in the bunk, and BD was powered down in his recharge cycle. The Mandalorians had opened their ships up to the Young, offering the children access to refreshers, med bays and clean, secure bunks. Jango had, of course, offered to share his quarters with Cal and his family.

Jango sat at his desk, scowling at a datapad, and Cal smiled. During his time with the vodë of the GAR he’d learned that each clone was unique, but having spent the day with Jango he was surprised how much of him he recognized from them.

“All yours,” Cal said.

Jango set the datapad aside and rose. He paused and anxious uncertainty clouded his expression as he appeared to struggle for words. Cal closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around his soul mate. Closing his eyes, he marveled in the feel of their connection in the Force—a sense of wholeness settled over him, as though reunited with a piece of himself he hadn’t known was missing.

“Cyare.” Cal sighed the endearment against Jango’s skin, and his soul mate shivered. “I traveled a long way to find you. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Vor’e, ner runi.” He stroked a hand up Cal’s back and affectionately squeezed the back of his neck. “We’ll have more room when we return home.”

“I don’t know, this is pretty spacious compared to the quarters I’ve stayed in on some ships.” Cal grinned, and Jango pressed their foreheads together.

This was a different ship than the one Cal had visited during their first shared dream. This ship was larger—a light cruiser meant to carry several commando squads—but the quarters weren't built for comfort or luxury.

Jango smiled dryly. “We’re not going to manage any time alone, are we?”

“Maybe when the adë turn twenty?” Cal teased, and Jango huffed a laugh. “It’s for the best. I want to take things slow. I don’t have much relationship experience.”

“No?”

Cal blushed. “Or any, really.”

On Bracca he’d been too afraid of discovery to let anyone close, and after that the only potential partner he had on the Stinger Mantis was Merrin. They kissed once on a dare, when they were both very, very drunk, and decided to never do it again. Cal and Merrin considered each other siblings, and that was the end of that.

Jango moaned and then quickly cleared his throat. “We’ll take things at your pace.”

“Thank you. Go on,” Cal said. “Clean up so we can get some sleep.”

Jango nodded and reluctantly drew away. “I’ll be quick.”

The room didn’t have a sense of Jango—he didn’t often travel on this ship—and Cal paused before the footlocker where his beskar’gam was stored. His fingers twitched with the urge to read Jango’s armor, but it would be a violation of his soul mate’s privacy. Cal released his curiosity into the Force.

The bunk was wider than standard, meant to hold a warrior in full beskar’gam, so there was enough room for two skinny younglings and a wiry Jedi. As Cal eased into the bunk beside the sleeping children he could almost hear Merrin complaining about being jostled by his bony elbows as they crammed around the table for a meal on the Mantis.

Ben and Trilla shifted toward Cal as he draped an arm over them, closed his eyes and drifted toward sleep. A few minutes later he was dimly aware of Jango moving around the room after his turn in the ’fresher. Cal smiled as his soul mate draped a blanket over the three of them.

“Ner runi.” Jango leaned down and murmured the endearment against Cal’s hair. “Cuun aliit. Mhi ba'juri verdë.”

“Mhi ba'juri verdë,” Cal repeated. Tiny warriors, who had already endured so much.

“Rest now, cyare. I’ve got this watch.”

Smiling softly, Cal fell asleep feeling safe and loved, his adë in his arms and his soul mate guarding his back.

The Haat’adë spent their first night on Melida/Daan looking after the needs of the Young, ensuring that the weary soldiers were fed, clothed, and given medical treatment. Meanwhile, a holorecording of the leaders of the Young was broadcast to every screen within Zehava. Their offer was simple—the Melida and the Daan had until sunrise to get their affairs in order and prepare for their unconditional surrender. Any troops who surrendered peacefully would be taken into custody by the Young and given the opportunity to be a part of the planet’s new government.

Any troops who refused to surrender would be pacified by the Haat’adë supercommandos. They promised to shoot to stun or wound, because the children of Melida/Daan had experienced more than enough death, but any idiot who chose the stick instead of the carrot was guaranteed to have a very bad day.

Cerasi and Nield worked with Master Dooku and Arla’s company to aid civilians and disarm surrendering troops.

Cal and Ben hunted with Jango and his Grunts. Any doubts among Jango’s people about whether or not the two Jedi would fit in were immediately dispelled by witnessing the pair in combat. Jedi might be peacekeepers, but Cal and Ben Kestis were warriors.

Mandokarla, the Grunts whispered in approval. Word—and buy’ce footage—quickly spread from there.

Most of Zehava fell by midday—the Melida and the Daan were skilled at killing each other and the Young, but they were no match for the Haat’adë. By sunset the leaders of both factions of Elders were captured. The Young informed them that they had one chance to be a part of the world’s brighter future, and if they blew said chance their voices would go unheard. 

Between the Mandalorian guards and Master Dooku’s no-nonsense glare, the Elders were surprisingly well behaved when the peace talks began.

As one of the leaders of the Young, Ben’s attendance at the peace talks was required. The process was slow-going and all-around frustrating as the Elders predictably refused to make any compromises, but Master Dooku kept all parties on track. Watching him mediate was the most interesting part of the process for Ben.

At the end of the third day of peace talks Ben felt something brush against his mental shields, and then the presence proceeded to bat at him like a persistent loth-kitten demanding attention.

“Quinlan,” Ben blurted.

“Is something the matter, Padawan?” Master Dooku asked. Judging by the amused twitch at the corners of his mouth, the Jedi already knew what had happened.

“I would like to request a recess until tomorrow.”

Master Dooku looked to Nield and Cerasi, who stared at Ben as though he’d grown a second head, but each leader nodded their approval. At this point the leaders of the Melida and Daan had been prohibited from speaking unless they had something constructive to share, and both were sulking in silence.

“Very well, we are adjourned until tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you!” Ben bolted from the room and sprinted out of the building.

Jango waited just outside and caught him. “Ben! Hop on, I’ll fly us over.”

He clung to his future buir as Jango engaged his jetpack and flew them to Zehava’s new—or at least newly repaired—spaceport. The moment they landed Ben took off toward the ship that had just landed. The ship’s boarding ramp lowered and a Kiffar-shaped missile zoomed toward him.

“OBI-WAN KENOBI, YOU WHORE!” Quinlan howled as he latched onto Ben and held him tight. “Why the fuck haven’t you commed me? It’s been over a year! You asshole!”

Ben buried his face into his friend’s chest and cursed—how had Quin gotten so much kriffing taller than him?

“I was enslaved, you dick. And then I was fighting a war.”

“How the fuck—”

“Stop cussing.”

Both boys turned toward Master Tholme and muttered, “Sorry, Master,” in unison. Tholme smiled and embraced both boys, and Ben melted as the familiar calm of the man’s Force presence settled over them. Being surrounded by Quinlan and Master Tholme in the Force felt like coming home.

“Why are you here?” Ben stared up at them, stunned by their presence.

“Master Dooku sent a cryptic message to Fee, so we’re here,” Quinlan said.

“Fee?” Ben asked.

“Feemor.” Quinlan nodded in the direction of the ship. “He’s the tall, skinny dork who thinks that coat makes him look cool. Ow, hey!” Quinlan yelped and rubbed the back of his head.

Ben turned and spied a lanky human with shaggy blond hair and a dark brown synthleather duster.

“Kid, you have no ground to question anyone else’s fashion.”

“Oh, yeah, well at least I—”

Ben slapped his hand over Quin’s mouth to stop him from saying something ill-advised, and true to form, Quinlan licked him. Ben laughed, and the sound dissolved into tears. Quin was here, really here. The last time he’d spoken to him, Ben had been an initiate days away from washing out to the AgriCorps. How could he even begin to explain everything that had happened since then?

Quinlan hugged him and patted his back. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re here now, Obes. We’re going to take you home.”

Ben shook his head as he felt Jango’s irritation surge. “I’m not going back to the temple. I left the Order.”

“Ben has a new family now.” Jango stepped forward, his arms folded and his hands thankfully away from his blasters.

“Ben?” Quinlan asked.

“This is Jango Fett, he/him, son of Mand’alor Jaster Mereel,” Ben said. “His soul mate is my buir—my parent—Cal Kestis. Cal adopted me, and now I have a name and a clan again. I’m no longer ‘no one.’”

Quinlan placed his hands on Ben’s shoulders and squeezed. “You were always someone to me.”

Ben blushed and smiled. “Thank you, Quin.”

“Master Dooku would like you to join us at the Young’s headquarters,” Jango said. “Ben and I will escort you there.”

“Thank you, Ser Fett. I am Master Tholme, he/him, the youngling with the poor manners is my padawan, Quinlan Vos, he/him, and our companion is Knight Feemor, he/him.”

“Well met, Jetiisë.”

“Come on, you have to meet my little sister.” Ben pulled Quinlan along but then he paused to hug Jango. “Vor entye, Jan’buir.”

“N’entye, ad’ika.” Jango’s irritation vanished and was replaced with pride as he ruffled Ben’s hair.

At first, Feemor wasn’t certain why his grandmaster had contacted him. The situation on Melida/Daan was nearly resolved—a few more days of negotiations and the peace agreement would be finalized. Padawan Kenobi—or rather, Padawan Kestis—had survived the consequences of Qui-Gon’s abandonment and found a new family outside of the Order. He didn’t need Feemor’s support, though the poor kid certainly had it.

But then the Stewjoni knight—Cal Kestis—sat everyone down for a group meditation and turned Feemor’s world upside down.

Sith. In the senate.

To make matters worse, Knight Kestis pulled Feemor aside afterward and told him—and only him—the Sith apprentice’s name and true identity, and every suspicion he had about the Sith master.

“The Shadows are the only ones who can handle this,” Cal said. “The High Council is too tied to the senate. If this leaks, they’ll both vanish and we won’t get another shot.”

“I understand. Why not tell Master Tholme?” Feemor asked.

The knight wiggled his gloved fingers. “Because I have psychometry, and I understand how Quinlan thinks. If I told Master Tholme, Quinlan would do everything in his power to learn the Sith’s identity. And then he would do something monumentally stupid, because he’s Quinlan Vos.”

Feemor barked a sharp laugh. “Right. I’ll take care of it. Please tell me you don’t have anything else for me.”

“Sorry, but I do have another favor to ask. But before that…” Cal turned and smiled fondly at Ben and Quinlan as they wrestled in a hand-to-hand spar in front of an audience of Mandalorians. “Master Dooku said you knew Xanatos.”

“Xani was my padawan brother. Why?”

“He kidnapped Ben from Bandomeer, locked a bomb collar around his neck and sent him to work as a slave in a deep sea ionite mine. Called him ‘little brother.’ Somehow none of those particular details showed up in Jinn’s report to the council.”

Feemor spat a series of Huttese curses. “I read that report. You’re right.”

“When I was an initiate, my best friend Caleb and I sliced into General Kenobi’s personnel file. The reports during the first few years of his apprenticeship with Jinn were just as slim until the general started writing them himself.”

Feemor rubbed his eyes and longed for a stiff drink. He bet the Mandos had something that would burn like distilled engine fuel.

“Qui-Gon was my second master,” Feemor said. “He took over after my first master died. He was good to me, and then Xani.” He grimaced. “He was too good to Xani. Spoiled him.”

“I don’t know what happened to him in my timeline, but he’s dangerous.”

“I’ll speak with the Shadows. What’s the favor?”

Cal huffed an odd laugh. “Have you ever heard of a planet called Rattatak?”

Melidaan emerged as an independent world dedicated to peace—but not pacifism, particularly considering how close they were to Hutt space. The new government hired the Haat’adë as security consultants to train a new police and planetary defense force, and as payment for their initial contract the Mandalorians were granted a former suburb to settle. At Master Dooku’s suggestion, the new Melidaan government also planned to reach out to Alderaan’s freed people resettlement program to discuss making the planet a sanctuary for former slaves.

The future looked bright for Melidaan, and as Ben watched the planet shrink behind them as he headed toward his new life on Mandalore, the Force felt bright as well.

Chapter Text

Feemor considered it complete bullshit that he finally had the peace, quiet and personal space that came with being alone on the ship but he couldn’t achieve decent sleep thanks to the nightmares Cal Kestis had planted in his head. The sooner they eliminated the Sith problem, the better, and afterward he was taking a vacation.

Tholme and Quinlan traveled to Mandalore with the others because a padawan absolutely could not be involved with hunting the Sith. Fortunately the Mandos seemed to love kids, even foul-mouthed, hyperactive Kiffar younglings with no boundaries. It helped that Ben Kestis clearly loved his crèchemate, and the Mandos adored Ben.

Poor Tholme—he was going to need a vacation after this, too.

The proximity alarm sounded and Feemor eased the ship out of hyperspace. He kept to the edge of the system out of an abundance of caution and scanned for possible threats. Even the Shadows didn’t venture this far into the Outer Rim—no wonder no one had ever found Knight Narec in Cal’s timeline.

Rattatak was nowhere near the system where Narec had been reported missing, and the backwater planet was home to pirates, slavers and, according to Cal, one future Sith acolyte. It was the last place a Jedi should be without backup, so of course it was the first place Cal sent Feemor.

Thanks, kid.

He slipped into a light meditation and reached out in search of the missing knight. Narec’s response was quick, startled and polite.

“Huh.” Feemor opened his eyes and dragged a hand through his hair. “Kinda wished you were wrong about all this,” he muttered as he headed toward the planet. Things would be much simpler if Cal’s visions were figments of a disturbed mind.

Jedi Knight Ky Narec was a human in his late thirties with thinning sandy brown hair and a face that was kind but lined with exhaustion. He waited at the bottom of the ramp, and with one hand he steadied the pack slung over his shoulder while the other hand rested on the head of a youngling who was almost entirely hidden within the knight’s cloak.

Feemor bowed. “Greetings, I am Knight Feemor, he/him.”

“Well met.” Narec bowed and smiled. “I am Knight Ky Narec, he/him, and this is my padawan, Asajj, she/her. Asajj saved my life after I crashed.”

The cloak shifted just enough for Feemor to glimpse a scrawny Dathomiran girl with pale hair and wary eyes. Feemor fought the urge to frown as Cal’s memory flashed through his thoughts—the slowly spinning holo image of Asajj Ventress, Sith Acolyte, shoulders squared as she snarled at the camera while wielding a scarlet blade in each hand.

Not this time.

“Welcome aboard.” Feemor waved them up the ramp. “We can exchange pleasantries once we’re safely on the way to Coruscant.”

He’d let the girl sleep in Quinlan’s bunk. Feemor smirked—he could almost hear the kid’s indignant squawk now.

Arla Fett hated sand.

Maybe it was a holdover from growing up on a farm. She’d spent her formative years on Concord Dawn, focused on coaxing life from soil that was only slightly less devastated than the blasted land that covered much of Manda’yaim. Sand reminded her of the desert surrounding Sundari, and she karking hated Sundari.

Maybe it was because sand was a nightmare for anyone in armor, not to mention how it jammed blasters and gummed up other equipment. Contracts on desert planets were always more trouble than they were worth.

Arla hated Tatooine in particular for several reasons, but most of those had to do with the shabuirë Hutts. She would rather be anywhere other than Tatooine, but her brother’s soul mate had asked her for a favor, and that favor required a return to the cursed dustball after she’d just kriffing left it.

But then the ka’ra smiled upon Arla, because Gardulla the Hutt was offworld with her entire entourage, enjoying a pleasure cruise on her yacht. Instead of a simple locate and rescue for one slave, Arla and her company of ori’ramikadë could rescue every slave on the yacht and then blow the ship. Best of all—no sand involved.

The attack went shockingly well. Arla’s people were used to hitting Kyr’tsad ships, which were harder targets than Gardulla’s yacht. The Hutt ship was disabled before it could call for help, and the Haat'adë boarded and swept through it.

While her verdë swept the ship Arla made her way toward the engines to plant the explosives. She sliced the lock, breached the main engine compartment and was promptly clocked in the buy’ce by a wrench. Ears ringing, she dodged a second blow and grabbed the makeshift weapon before her attacker could strike again.

A slave woman bared her teeth and tried to sweep Arla’s legs—the move would have worked on someone not wearing full beskar’gam, and she was impressed.

“I’m not here to harm you.”

“Poodoo,” the slave snarled. “Your kind work for the masters.”

“No, sleemos like Death Watch work for the Hutts. My people don’t work for slavers.” She raised her hands. “I’m Arla Fett, she/her. I’m here to rescue you.”

“Why?” Her grip tightened on the wrench, her weight shifted into a defensive stance and her eyes narrowed.

The breath huffed from Arla’s lungs. Oh. Oh no. She regretted relentlessly teasing her kih’vod about his soul mate, because the ka’ra turned around and placed this stunning warrior with soulful eyes and a beskar spine in her path.

Arla swallowed hard and cleared her throat. “Because it’s the right thing to do. Many members of the Haat Mando’adë are freed people. But we’re on this ship in particular because my brother’s soul mate—a Jetii—had a vision about the future of one of Gardulla’s slaves.”

“What kind of vision?”

“Something about a great Jetii being born to someone owned by Gardulla. Cal—that’s my brother’s soul mate—wanted to help the child and their family.”

“So you care nothing for our suffering, only for the fate of one child?”

“Children are the future. This is the Way.” Arla squared her shoulders. “My people don’t have the resources yet, but we want to challenge the Hutts and anyone else who would keep slaves. I swear to you that the Haat’adë will bring freedom to Tatooine. Haat, Ijaa, Haa'it.” She raised her fist to her heart in a salute, and the woman's expression softened.

“Then I accept your offer. I am Shmi Skywalker, she/her. Together we will bring rain to the desert.”

Arla grinned and her heart soared. “Let’s get started.”

“Alor, this is a report on what we gathered of the Fetts’ mission to Melida/Daan.”

Tor took the data pad and waved the advisor away, and the man stepped back and stood at attention. The news was almost too ridiculous to believe—that insolent whelp Jango Fett had a Jetii soul mate. He swiped through blurry holos and grainy buy’ce footage until he settled on a video of Fett speaking to a Stewjon’ad wearing a poncho.

“This is the Jetii?” Tor asked. He didn’t look like much—pretty, in a rumpled sort of way, but lacking the stoic menace exuded by most Jetiisë.

“The Jet’buir, Cal Kestis. There is also footage of his two Jet’ikë.”

Three Jetii? A vein twitched as his jaw clenched. “Why am I just hearing about this now?”

“Apologies, Alor. The older Jet'ika was one of the leaders of the adë on Melida/Daan. He was their al'verdë. The younger one is an adiik.”

Tor nodded as he searched for an image of the Jet’ikë. The footage continued to be of poor quality—they needed better contacts within Mereel’s people, but his spies never seemed to last long. Competent help was hard to find.

The older Jet’ika was small and skinny but fierce in battle. Tor settled on an image of the child’s face and his heart skipped a beat. He reached for the holo and his fingers brushed the boy’s cheek. The eyes, the nose, the contours of his face…

“Bev’ika,” he murmured. Beviin, his first riduur, his clever, vicious Stewjon’ad verd who had marched ahead after giving birth.

The Dha’kad shivered at his hip and the room chilled as Tor’s hands clenched into fists. “What is this Jet’ika’s name?”

“Ben, clan Kestis.”

Ben. Be’nari. Their child of action, destined to one day rule Manda’yaim. The child who drowned in a Stewjoni river.

The child whose body had never been found.

“Leave me. Now.”

“Elek, Alor.”

Tor breathed deep and his eyes squeezed shut as he struggled to speak with the Manda. Frustrated, he hurled a datapad against the wall.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

“I know a great many things.”

Tor whirled toward his ancestor’s ghost and snarled at Tarre Vizsla. “You knew he lived and didn’t tell me. Why?”

“He was safe with the Jedi.”

“He would have been safer with his family!”

Tarre’s buy’ce tilted. “Would he? Perhaps you should ask your riduur why she didn’t tell you that the child lived.”

Tor reared back in shock. “Kes knew?”

“She objected to the fact that Be’nari could sense my presence and speak with the Manda, while Pre cannot.”

Tor nodded slowly—Pre, his second born son by Kes, wasn’t touched by the ka’ra. Not every Mand’alor who wielded the Dha’kad could speak with the Manda, and the lack of the ability wouldn’t affect Pre’s ability to lead. But Kes was every bit as cruel as Tor in her ambition…

“I will handle Kes, and I will reclaim my son. It’s time I took care of Mereel and his brats once and for all.” Tor strode to his desk and commed his second in command. “Gather our verdë. I’m moving up the Galidraan mission.”

Chapter Text

Though it wasn’t his focus within the Order, Jedi Master Yan Dooku considered himself something of a historian. It was almost to be expected considering the company he kept—one of Yan’s crèchemates, Jocasta Nu, was the current chief librarian of the temple archives, and his bondmate’s master had dragged both Yan and Sy from one archeological site to another across the galaxy in search of forgotten lore.

As such, he was familiar with the tale of the Mandalorian Excision that had occurred nearly seven hundred years prior. It was a cautionary tale of political overreach and blind obedience on behalf of the Jedi Order. On the senate’s orders, the Jedi had aided in bombarding the Mandalorian system based not on what the Mandalorians had done or planned to do, but on what they might do. The Republic feared that a strong Mandalore meant a return to the sector’s violent past. 

Now, looking down at the Mandalorian homeworld, Yan was disgusted by the devastation caused by his brethren. The planet was half dead—entire swaths of continents that had once been covered with forest and farmland were now arid deserts. Some of the damage was due to the Mandalorians’ violent history, but the Order had also been responsible for this destruction. The Force seemed to weep for the loss of the ecosystems that once had thrived across the broken world.

“The Empire was worse,” Cal murmured beside him. The droid perched on his whistled mournfully in agreement.

“Oh?” Yan’s brow rose—his mind rebelled at the thought of imagining a worse situation than this. He turned to the young knight, who observed the view with a drawn, haunted expression.

“The planet’s healing. Though it’d heal faster with help from the AgriCorps. We owe them that much.” Cal rubbed the back of his neck. “The Empire left nothing after their purge of Mandalore. The entire planet was sand and glass—uninhabitable wasteland.”

Yan’s stomach turned. The Empire. The Sith Empire that Yan had helped forge in the nightmare future Kestis had endured. While it seemed unthinkable that the Jedi Order Yan had devoted his life to could have been wilfully complicit in the devastation that the Mandalorian Excision had caused, the memories that Cal Kestis had shared with him in their meditations had showed all too clearly just how far the Order would bend to follow the will of the senate.

Mandalore was the first step in their new path to a better future. He stroked his beard as he regarded the planet—Qui-Gon had a number of contacts within the AgriCorps. Perhaps when his prodigal padawan pulled his head out of his ass he could do some good here. Qui-Gon’s connection to the Living Force was well suited to the sort of healing that the planet desperately needed.

Yan nodded. “We will see matters put right.”

They turned at the sound of approaching bootsteps. Jango Fett saluted them, or as close to a Mandalorian salute as he could manage with little Trilla strapped to his chest in her birikad, fast asleep. Since departing Melidaan the youngling alternated between periods of hypervigilance where she demanded to know everything about their destination and her new surroundings followed by exhaustion and deep sleep.

“We’ve been cleared to land at the palace compound in Keldabe,” Fett said. “You should strap in for the landing. Kyr'tsad targets ships with Haat’adë markings.”

“Thank you, Ven’alor Fett.” Yan inclined his head in a respectful nod—he had quickly discovered that Mandalorians saw bowing as a sign of weakness.

“Here, I’ll take her,” Cal said. Fett nodded and handed him the youngling, who grumbled in sleepy protest. Cal smiled and stroked her dark hair.

Fett grinned at the sight like a lovesick pup before heading for the cockpit. Yan and Cal returned to the ship’s lounge where Ben frowned at a datapad.

“The answer is besh.” Padawan Vos peered over the younger boy’s shoulder.

“No, it isn’t.” Ben nudged his friend away, which only resulted in Vos flopping forward and splaying himself over Ben’s back like a Kiffar-shaped cloak.

“Is too,” Vos said. “I’ve already taken this class, I’m an expert.”

“What class is that?” Master Tholme asked from his spot at the lounge’s table. 

Tholme held a cup of shig, a Mandalorian drink similar to tea, though judging by his weary expression he wished for something stronger. Padawan Vos was a well known agent of chaos in the temple under the best circumstances, but being reunited with his wayward crechemate had increased the boy’s antics. To his credit, young Ben weathered the storm of anxious affection with a surprising amount of patience.

“Astronavigation.” Ben was behind in his padawan courses, and he had also been gifted a number of Mandalorian educational modules.

Yan had been impressed by how quickly and eagerly the boy dove into his studies. Cal had also acquired a number of courses for himself, since his temple education had been cut terribly short. Yan was intrigued by how different the young knight was compared to the Jedi of the current Order. In many ways, Cal Kestis was a throwback to the pre-reformation days of the Army of Light—a Jedi warrior skilled at battle and waging war against the Sith.

“Don’t listen to him, Ben,” Tholme said. “Quinlan barely passed that course.”

Vos squawked indignantly, straightened and folded his arms. “That wasn’t my fault! Master Kepurnikas subtracted points from my final grade because he said I used psychometry during the test.”

Cal snorted. “That’s not how psychometry works.”

“I know.” Vos threw his hands up in disgust.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” Tholme asked.

“I had it handled.” Vos scowled, and Ben paused in his studies to squeeze his friend’s shoulder.

“Everyone is to strap in for landing,” Yan said, attempting to head off any further histrionics. “We have been cleared to land at the palace.” He helped Cal secure Trilla before selecting his own seat.

“Yes, Master Dooku.” Ben stowed the datapad in a pocket and dragged his companion over to the jump seats. “Come on.”

“Palace, huh?” Vos poked Ben after the pair strapped in. “Are you royalty now?”

“No,” Ben said.

“Sort of,” Cal said. “Jango’s father is the mand’alor—it means sole ruler. It’s not really an inherited position but Jango is expected to succeed him when he retires. If you allow Jango to adopt you…” He trailed off as the boy’s eyes widened.

“But…we’re Jedi, we can’t be royalty,” Ben protested.

“It is said that Tarre Vizsla left the Jedi Order when he became the mand’alor,” Yan said. “You should have many years before you may be faced with a similar choice, Ben.”

Master Tholme caught Yan’s gaze and cocked an eyebrow, and Yan replied with a slight shake of his head. Cal Kestis may have traveled through time to save the Jedi Order, but the current leadership was unlikely to thank him for it. They were far more likely to ostracize Cal, Ben, and Trilla in the name of avoiding encouraging Cal’s attachment to his soul mate. Yan had already decided that he and Sifo-Dyas would mentor Kestis and his adopted children, regardless of the council’s decisions. Kestis was young and had earned a field knighting, but there were gaps in his education and training. A master’s advice would be useful to him as he continued to grow as a knight.

The ship encountered no resistance while landing, and Yan hung back with Tholme and Vos to monitor the situation as Fett led his new family off the ship. The corners of Yan’s mouth twitched with amusement at the Mandalorian “palace”—fortress would be a more accurate description, for the building and its surrounding compound was clearly designed to defend against attack, unlike the design of the stately noble homes of Serenno intended to display a family’s wealth and influence.

Yan had expected to see Mandalorians wearing their traditional beskar’gam, but he noted several workers in the docking area who wore only pieces of armor with their uniforms. He had studied Mand’alor Mereel’s supercommando codex during their journey, and it was a fascinating insight into Mandalorian culture, past and present.

An honor guard waited at the entrance to the landing bay, and Yan recognized the mand’alor’s red and gray armor. His helmet was hooked to his belt, and the Force lightened and filled Yan with comforting warmth when he met the gaze of Jaster Mereel, the missing third of his soul bond. They hadn’t been able to speak much since the discovery of their soul mate status—their schedules never seemed to align for more than a few moments to allow for long comm calls, and their sleep schedules hadn’t overlapped for any shared dreams.

Mereel smiled at Yan before turning his focus to his son. “Su’cuy, Jan’ika. Will you introduce me to your runi?”

Jango saluted him. “Su’cuy, Buir. This is Cal, clan Kestis, and his adë, Ben and Trilla.” Cal’s droid whistled for attention from his perch on the knight’s shoulder, and Jango smirked. “And that little terror is BD-1.”

The droid squealed, offended, and Cal laughed. “Su cuy’gar, Mand’alor.” He saluted with his free hand while Trilla gripped the other. Ben saluted, the unfamiliar motion slightly jerky, and Trilla looked from her sibling to the mand’alor.

The youngling stepped forward and held out her plush toy. “Ba’buir Jaster. I have strill.”

Mereel beamed as though his Life Day had come early. He knelt and studied the offered toy. “That’s a very nice strill, ner bu’ad.”

Trilla nodded and eased forward to hug him, and Mereel broadcast pure joy into the Force as he embraced his soon-to-be grandchild. The Jedi had noted that when not wearing their armor, the emotions of the Mandalorians who came to the aid of the Young on Melidaan seemed stronger than those of average sentients, quite loud in the Force. Master Tholme speculated that the beskar that comprised their armor could have dampening qualities, though Yan wondered if the phenomenon was simply due to a change in mindset. The Mandalorians were tightly guarded when fully armored and prepared for battle, but boisterous and open when relaxed.

Trilla returned to Cal and raised her arms in a request to be carried. He scooped her up and then turned toward Yan.

“Mand’alor, this is Jedi Master Dooku, Master Tholme, and Padawan Vos.”

Mereel rose and straightened. “Welcome to Manda’yaim, Jetiisë.”

“We are grateful for your hospitality, Mand’alor Mereel,” Yan said. “We hope that the bond between Ven’alor Fett and Knight Kestis will be an opportunity for a new era of peace between our people.”

“That is my wish as well, Master Dooku. I believe that you and I have much to learn from each other.” The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement, and Yan felt the man’s interest and attraction through their soul bond.

Cheeky —no wonder Mereel got on so well with Sy. Yan was bound to be outnumbered when Sy arrived in two days.

“Ven’alor Fett provided me with a copy of your supercommando codex,” Yan said. “It’s quite intriguing. I would like to discuss the source material you studied to compose it.”

The man’s presence blazed like a beacon but then was doused as he sighed. “Unfortunately I have a council meeting to attend now, but I look forward to speaking over dinner.”

Jango groaned, the sound reminiscent of a youngling dreading sitting through a history lesson, and the mand’alor favored his son with a fond expression.

“In the meantime,” Mereel continued, “Jango will show you to your guest quarters.”

Jango held onto his composure with an iron grip as he escorted the group to the mand’alor’s private wing of the palace. Excitement buzzed beneath his skin—his runi was here. All Jango had to do now was drop the other Jetiisë off in their quarters and he would finally have his new family safe and secure in their home. Cal and the adë needed time to heal from their time on Melidaan. Ben’ika had proved his skill and bravery more than any verd’goten ever could, and now the ad needed rest and support.

Any other guests would stay in the visitor’s wing of the palace, but it was best to keep the Jetiisë close in case any of the verdë decided to be idiots and confront them. Plus he knew that Jas’buir wanted to keep Master Dooku close for reasons Jango refused to think about.

Ben tried and failed to keep his rambunctious Jet’vod in line, and Vos asked endless questions and appeared to want to touch everything as they made their way through the palace. His Jet’buir, Tholme, nabbed Vos by the collar and dragged him away a few times when the verdë accompanying them tensed because the boy reached for sensitive items—tapestries of ancient battles, displays of historical artifacts.

When they reached the Jetiisë quarters, Jango was very glad to leave Vos in the care of his teacher, if only for a few hours before dinner.

His heart pounded as he led Cal and the adë to the entrance to his quarters. The verdë with them saluted Jango and peeled off to continue their patrols.

“These are my rooms—our rooms.” Jango opened the door and ushered them inside. “The doors are already keyed to your biometrics. There’s a kitchenette and a sitting area here, the ’fresher’s through there, and my bedroom is there.” 

Cal’s droid hopped down and pattered around the room, pausing to scan several random items. Trilla asked Cal to set her down and then she trailed after BD-1, investigating the things he’d shown interest in. Jango had a crew clean and child-proof the rooms before their arrival so the area should be safe for the pair to explore.

Jango stopped next to a door. “This is your room. I had my office converted into a bedroom for the three of you.”

The door opened and he stood back as they entered, fighting the anxious urge to fidget. “I thought—it’s temporary, while you adjust. You’ve all been through a trauma and feel safer together, but in time it can be Trilla’s room. Ben’ika is old enough for his own quarters and there’s a suite across the hall he can have when he’s ready.”

Cal turned and cocked a ginger eyebrow at Jango, who cleared his throat and tugged at the neck of his kute.

“I thought, cyare, when you’re ready,” Jango stammered, “after we’ve said the riddurok, you could stay with me.”

Cal smiled and crossed to him, and he pressed their foreheads together in a mirshmure'cya. “I’d like that.”

“Gross.” Ben wrinkled his nose, and Jango laughed.

“You think so now, ad’ika, but you’ll understand when you find your soul mate.”

“I’m not sure I want one,” Ben said. “It seems very dramatic.”

“It is,” Cal said. “But it’s worth it.”

Jango’s heart soared and he grinned like a lovesick di’kut. “You need armor,” he blurted. “You and Ben’ika.”

“I want,” Trilla said.

Jango looked to Cal and shrugged. “The armorer might agree to a piece of plastoid for Trill’ika if you approve.”

Cal nodded. “A vambrace maybe, with her own comm. It would help us track her when she does her disappearing act.”

Ben frowned as he picked through the clothing in the wardrobe, probably looking for Jetii garb, which he absolutely wasn’t getting if Jango could help it. A verd deserved armor, not beige bathrobes. Jas’buir was going to have a battle ahead convincing his own Jet’runisë to wear beskar’gam.

Trilla discovered the collection of plush toys Jango had ordered for her, and she picked up a floppy blue bird and brought it to him.

“Jan’buir, what is it?”

Jango grinned as his heart soared—he would never tire of hearing her call him that—and knelt. “That is a jai'galaar, a shriek-hawk. They lived all over Manda’yaim before the Dral'Han.”

BD-1 scanned the toy, and the pair hurried back to the toy chest to choose another. Cal smiled and sidled closer to Jango.

“Vor’e, cyare,” Cal said.

“N’entye. We have an appointment with the armorer after we get the adë cleaned up and fed.”

Cal’s brow rose. “Trying to get me into beskar’gam already?”

Jango grinned. “Can’t exchange armor if you don’t have any.”

“Right.” Cal chuckled as a slight blush stained his cheeks.

“Jedi do not wear armor.” Ben held up a dark blue tunic and scowled at the garment as though it offended him.

“I did, when I was about your age,” Cal said. “My master did. The Jedi of the Old Republic wore armor before the Ruusan Reformation. The Force will protect you, but that doesn’t mean you have to rely solely on it for protection.”

As though proving a point, Ben was struck in the chest by Trilla’s plush strill. He frowned at his kih’vod as she shrugged.

“Strill attack! Need armor.” Trilla nodded sagely.

Jango laughed. “You can’t argue with that logic.”

Chapter Text

“We’ve been cleared for arrival at the palace in Keldabe, master Jetii.”

“Thank you, Silas.” Sifo-Dyas smiled at the pilot and strapped in for landing. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, hoping that the Force would remain quiet for the remainder of the journey.

High Council member Master Sifo-Dyas had devoted his life to serving the Jedi Order. Sy’s service was not without its small defiances—like any Jedi gifted with foresight, it was a constant struggle to be heard while Grandmaster Yoda dismissed any vision with the insistence that the future was always in motion and it was better to concentrate on the here and now. Sy continued to share his visions because he believed that it was important to listen when the Force spoke, particularly considering how debilitating his visions could be. The Force did not whisper visions to Sifo-Dyas—it screamed until Sy collapsed under the onslaught.

Until now, Sy’s greatest defiance had been his refusal to break his soul bond as a dutiful Jedi should in order to eschew the dangers of attachment. Instead, he and Yan had vowed to each other never put their bond before the needs of the Order, and that vow had remained steadfast. However, the discovery of a third person sharing their bond had changed matters.

To be fair, Sy had told the high council the truth, from a certain point of view. He was taking a sabbatical to meditate on recent changes in the Force, and he had traveled to the isolated monastery on Bhola IV. Sy simply wasn’t remaining at the monastery for the duration of his sabbatical. Instead, a small transport had picked him up, piloted by a quiet Mandalorian named Silas who was a confidant of Sy’s new soul mate, Mand’alor Jaster Mereel. 

The Force had continued to be blessedly silent during the journey, and the quiet had more than piqued Sy’s curiosity about what waited at his destination. As they approached the planet he peered through the viewport and his brow furrowed at the devastation below. The surface of Mandalore was as scarred as the warriors who populated it, and the Force was haunted by the ghosts of extinct ecosystems. The people clustered in domed cities, and after gaining access to Keldabe Sy noted that the palace of the Mand’alor was more akin to a military structure than a royal residence.

The transport landed smoothly, and two tall, intimidating figures waited as Sy descended the transport’s boarding ramp—his soul mates. They made a striking pair—Yan stern and noble, not a hair out of place, and Jaster in his full armor and bright crimson cape. A wave of attraction sizzled through Sy as he smiled warmly and bowed.

“Mand’alor Mereel, Master Dooku.”

Yan bowed. “High Councilor.”

“Welcome to Mandalore, Master Sifo-Dyas.” Jaster nodded a polite greeting, and though his expression was hidden beneath his helmet Sy could feel the man’s excitement. Their paths had crossed a few times while dreaming since their initial meeting, and Sy was both intrigued and charmed by the man. Jaster was a scholar and a soldier, like a warrior poet of old, and he was quite an accomplished flirt.

“I look forward to embracing this opportunity for creating a closer bond between our people.” Amusement twinkled in his eyes as Sy sensed a spike of heated interest in both men.

Brat, Yan sent.

Sy smirked. You love it.

A choked sound emanated from Jaster’s helmet, followed by a cough. “Of course. If you’ll accompany me I will show you to the Jettisë suite.”

Not your suite? Sy teased Jaster, who startled and cleared his throat.

“Ignore him,” Yan murmured.

“Yes, well. This way, please.”

Sy fell in step beside Yan as they followed Jaster through the palace, and a pair of guards discreetly shadowed their progress. The suite that Yan shared with Master Tholme and Padawan Vos appeared more than comfortable, though Sy was surprised to find the rooms currently empty. After a brief stop to deposit Sy’s luggage they traveled to the training grounds, where a small crowd of Mandalorians and the rest of the Jedi guests watched the spectacle of a spar between an armored warrior and an unfamiliar Jedi knight. The pair were locked in aerial combat—the warrior held aloft by a jetpack and the knight with the Force.

Sy’s vision blurred as they approached and he swayed. Yan took his arm and held him steady as an image superimposed itself over the scene. The warrior appeared much the same, but in the place of the knight was a padawan with a stubby braid, just barely older than an initiate. In contrast, the two padawans on the sideline were replaced by older versions of themselves, bedecked in pieces of white armor bearing the blade and wings of the Jedi Order. The small girl was replaced by a woman in black armor wielding a lightsaber with a red blade, and a chill shivered through Sy when she turned to study him with cold yellow eyes.

The vision vanished when the girl exuberantly called out, “Ba’buir Sy!”

He blinked as the world returned to proper focus and smiled at the child rushing toward him. Much to Sy’s surprise, Yan bent to scoop her up before she could collide with Sy’s legs.

“Ba’buir Sy, I have a jay hawk.” She waved a bright blue plush toy shaped like a stylized bird.

“A jai’galaar,” Jaster said. “It’s a native species of shriek hawk.”

“Yes. Jay hawk.” The girl nodded, and Jaster reached over to ruffle her dark hair. “No, Jas’ba’buir!” She hid her face against Yan’s chest, and Sy’s jaw dropped as Yan patted the child’s back.

“Master Dooku,” Sy said. “I must confess I don’t recall you interacting with children of that age even when you yourself were a child.”

Yan arched an eyebrow. “I interacted with you, did I not?”

“Quite begrudgingly, if memory serves me right,” Sy said.

“Nonsense. I have always had a fond tolerance for your company, my dear High Councilor.” His lips twitched with a hint of a teasing smile. “This precocious youngling is Trilla Kestis. She has exhibited a strong intuitive talent.”

“Oh?” Sy smiled at Trilla as she peeked at him and nodded shyly. Further inquiries were interrupted by a sudden shout from the spectators.

“Dank ferrik!”

Sy’s brow rose as he turned toward the spar, which appeared to have ended with both combatants back on the ground, the knight having fought his opponent to a yield. Sy was unsurprised to find Padawan Vos as the source of the expletive, and his companion exuded a sense of smug victory—this must be former Padawan Kenobi, now Ben Kestis.

“I did warn you. Pay up.” Ben held out a hand, and Vos grumbled as he produced a credit chit and dropped it into his open palm.

“You bet against me, Quinlan?” the knight asked. “I’m hurt. I thought we were Team Psychometry?”

He doused his blade and held out a hand to help the Mandalorian to his feet. Once standing, the Mando pulled the knight close and pressed his helmet to the other’s forehead. Vos erupted into kissing sounds and was promptly elbowed in the gut by Ben.

“I thought you loved me.” Vos doubled over with an exaggerated wounded expression.

“I don’t recall making that statement,” Ben replied archly. Vos gasped and then pounced, and a wrestling match ensued.

Look familiar? Yan asked Sy, who chuckled.

Have their marks appeared? Sy asked.

Not that I am aware of.

They will. Sy’s smile widened into a knowing expression and Yan huffed in amusement.

The knight sidestepped the fray and approached Sy with a polite bow. “Master Sifo-Dyas. I’m Cal Kestis, he/him.”

“Well met, Knight Kestis.” Sy returned the bow.

“This is my soul mate, Ven’alor Jango Fett, also he/him.”

Fett saluted with a fist to his heart. “Su’cuy, Jetii.”

The crowd dispersed and Master Tholme scruffed his padawan, ending the spontaneous fight. Knight Kestis looped an arm around Ben’s shoulders and tucked the boy against his side. “This is my son, Ben. I see you’ve already met Trilla.”

“I’m glad to see that you are well, Padawan Kestis. The council was concerned when Master Jinn returned to the temple without you.”

“Not concerned enough to send someone to go get him,” Vos muttered.

“Quinlan,” Tholme said.

“No, Padawan Vos is correct,” Sy said. “We failed Ben, and as I understand it this was not the first time he was injured by our negligence.”

“It’s all right, Master—” Ben began, but Sy shook his head.

“No, my young friend, it isn’t. Such failures are symptoms of a larger problem.” Sy turned to Knight Kestis. “Aren’t they?”

Cal’s eyes widened and he cleared his throat. “They are, Master. I’d like to call a family meeting after dinner tonight to discuss the matter and other important things.”

“Can I come?” Vos asked. The boy grinned, anticipating a rejection, but Sy smiled serenely.

“Not yet.”

Master Tholme eyed the two padawans speculatively, sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mand’alor, please tell me you have more of that tihaar from last night.”

“I do, burc’ya.” Jaster clapped Tholme’s shoulder. “Here, I think that’s enough sparring for today. Why don’t we all go get cleaned up before late meal?”

Time travel. Wasn’t that just a kick in the shebs?

Emotionally exhausted, Jaster liberated his last bottle of tihaar from his personal stash as the others left, until only his soul mates remained in his sitting room. He grabbed three glasses and set them on the table, but Sifo-Dyas shook his head.

“Alcohol has a negative effect on my abilities.”

“Oh?” Jaster asked, and Sy nodded.

“It makes my visions stronger, which in turn makes them more difficult to recover from.”

“More for us, Mand’alor.” Yan smiled grimly, his expression haunted.

Jaster poured two full glasses and slid one toward Yan. Kriff. In a way, Jaster’s fate had been kinder than those of his two soul mates. Apparently he had been the first to die, killed along with Arla and most of the Haat’adë in a trap on some planet called Galidraan—killed by Yan, no less. Yan, whose future self had killed both of his soul mates and become a dar’jetti.

Jaster tossed back a gulp of tihaar and his eyes watered as it burned down his throat—this particular bottle had been brewed by one of his commandos, who swore that the stuff could also be used to polish armor and degrease engines. The discussion they had just endured called for the kind of hard liquor that punished instead of pleased.

Haar’chak. The Haat’adë fell and Jango was the sole survivor of the massacre, sold into slavery as the first step in a journey toward becoming the worst sort of dar’manda demagolka.

“There were three pillars that the Sith needed to topple to build their Empire.” Cal set three empty net’ra gal bottles on the table. “The Jedi Order, the Republic, and Mandalore.”

“Mandalore was already weakened by the Excision, and when the Haat’adë began to grow and the system started to recover, the Sith allied with Death Watch and financed the civil war. That’s why you haven’t been able to eliminate them—they have outside help. Probably from the Trade Federation or the Banking Clan, maybe both.”

Sy sat beside Jaster and squeezed his shoulder. “That future is not our fate.”

“But it is my present. Tor Viszla is out there working with the dar’jettisë now.”

“We will expose them and bring them all to justice. The Force brought the three of us together for a reason.” Yan winced after slugging back a portion of his own drink. “A High Council member and the Mand’alor. You are both well positioned to enact necessary reforms.”

“And the Count of Serenno,” Sy said.

Yan scowled. “That path served me poorly in Cal’s time.”

“No, the path of the Sith served you poorly,” Sy corrected. “Serenno and Mandalore could accomplish much together. It’s not far from this sector. Serenno is rich in resources that would aid in rebuilding Mandalore.”

“Serreno is a Republic world,” Jaster said.

“Which won’t prevent trade agreements,” Sy said. “There will more bureaucracy involved in arranging them, but it is possible.”

“My sister, Jenza, was rather amused by the concept of Mandalorian in-laws when I spoke with her.” Yan stroked his beard. “As a point of interest, the Mandalorian marriage vows do not appear to conflict with the knight oath.”

“Oh? What are the vows?” Sy slipped into Jaster’s lap and laid his hands on his pauldrons.

Instantly distracted from his dire thoughts, Jaster flushed beneath Sy’s attention—his runisë were both stunning in different ways. Yan had a sharp wit, aquiline features and a beskar spine, while Sifo-Dyas was the epitome of elegance and grace with a sly, teasing smile.

He cleared his throat. “The riduurok vows translate to we are one when together, one when apart, we share all, and we will raise warriors.”

Sy nodded thoughtfully. “I see.”

“The Resol’nare is the more difficult issue,” Yan said. “One of the vows requires answering the Mand’alor’s call, which would create a conflict of loyalty to the Order and the Republic. Jaster and I have already discussed ideas for amending it in such a way that Jedi can swear it without violating their oaths.”

“There is precedent for Mandalorian Jedi,” Sy said. “Is this what you both have been up to without me?”

Yan nodded. “That, and discussing the history of the Jedi, the Sith, and the Mandalorians. We were waiting for you to join us before discussing soul mate matters.”

Sy hummed thoughtfully. “I see. Well, since I’m here, why don’t we focus on more pleasant matters and leave the plotting for tomorrow?”

“An excellent idea, my dear High Councilor,” Yan said.

Jaster gave in to the urge to brush a loose strand of long, dark hair from Sy’s face and tucked it behind the man’s ear. “I can do that.”

“Excellent.” Sy grinned. “Now, why don’t you give Doo and I a tour of the rest of your quarters? I’m particularly interested in seeing your bedroom.”

“I want to tell Quinlan.”

Cal nodded as he tucked the blanket around Ben, and Trilla grumbled and latched on to her brother like a Kashyyyk strangler vine. She had fallen asleep early on in the meeting, bored by the adults’ discussion and seemingly oblivious to the outrageous nature of the topic.

“You and I can sit down with Master Tholme and Quinlan and let them know.”

“Really?” Ben perked up, likely startled by how easily Cal agreed to his request. Not for the first time Cal silently cursed Qui-Gon Jinn for ingraining such distrust in Ben.

Cal nodded. “Really.”

“Are you coming to bed, too?” Ben settled back.

“Soon, yeah.” Cal glanced back at the door to the main area of their suite. “Jango probably has a million questions about the clones and the war.”

Ben nodded and yawned. “It’s sort of sad that the clones won’t get a chance to be born and live free.”

“I know. That’s why it’s important to honor them. After I learned about the control chips I made sure to include my ori’vodë in my remembrances.” Cal rubbed Trilla’s back and then stroked Ben’s ginger hair. “How are you holding up? This is a lot of change and you’d already been through hell fighting for the Young.”

“It helps knowing I’m not alone anymore. And that the Mando’adë are looking out for the Young.”

“Good.” Cal smiled. “Remember, it’s okay to need help. I’m here as your buir and your mentor, whenever you need me.”

Ben blushed but nodded. “Thanks.”

“Get some rest, Ben’ika.”

“Okay. Good night, Buir.”

“Good night.”

Cal turned to BD-1, who whistled. “<I will watch over the small ones.>”

“Thanks, Beedee.”

Jango was in the same spot on the couch where Cal had left him—hunched forward, elbows on his knees, buy’ce off and his head in his hands. Cal winced as he crossed the room and sat beside him. Learning about the crimes of the Jango of Cal’s time had to have been a punch to the gut.

“I’m sorry, Jan’ika,” Cal said. “I should have told you sooner, but I wanted to wait until we were all together. It’s not—I mean, I know it sounds crazy, and…” Cal trailed off and sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Jango sat back and frowned at him.

“I wanted to tell you, but I know it’s a lot to swallow. That’s why I chose cin vhetin, since my past is so karked up.”

Jango caught his hands and squeezed them. “Cal, you came through time for me. You’ve saved me from becoming a dar’manda shabuir who sold my own children into slavery for some sick revenge plot. You have nothing to be sorry for, and I am so thankful—so honored—to have you in my life. Ner mesh’la runi, ni kar'tayli gar darasuum.”

Cal’s eyes widened as the depth of Jango’s devotion washed through their bond, and his pulse pounded in stunned surprise. “Oh. I thought you’d be upset with me.”

“I’m plenty upset with Death Watch and the dar’jettisë. I’m upset with the Jetii for letting you and Ben’ika fight wars as adë, and at the Republic for being so corrupt that it elected a Sith and no one karking noticed. But I’m not upset at you. Never at you, cyare.”

“Thank you.” Something eased in Cal’s chest—a tangled, anxious pressure he hadn’t known was there until it dissipated. He exhaled a shaky sigh as Jango raised a hand to Cal’s face and stroked his cheek.

“No wonder you were so afraid of me when we met.”

“It’s better now.” Cal blushed under Jango’s gaze. “Having access to a mind healer will help. The adë and I have a lot of trauma to process.”

“I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

“I know. Mhi me'dinui an.”

Jango grinned. “The goran says your armor should be ready tomorrow.”

“I haven’t sworn the Resol’nare yet,” Cal reminded his soul mate, who waved the comment away.

“Details. You will.” He glanced past Cal. “Adë asleep?”

Cal reached through his bonds with Ben and Trilla and then nodded. Jango’s grin turned wicked.

“Want to make out on the couch like a couple of horny teenagers?”

Cal threw his head back and laughed. “Absolutely.”

There was a lot about the time travel osik that bothered Arla, but she was most bothered by the news of her death. Recent death, no less—Cal estimated that the massacre at Galidraan had happened sometime this year.

Arla wasn’t afraid of marching ahead, but there was so much she hadn’t done—she wasn’t even thirty standard yet! She’d put off so many things with the mental promise that she’d get around to it after they defeated Death Watch and things calmed down—finding a partner, settling down, adopting adë. The truth was that life was never calm, because there would always be battles to fight as the Haat’adë restored Manda’yaim.

Arla Fett was done procrastinating.

With that in mind, the next evening Arla found herself in the communal residence of the newly freed arrivals who were on the path to Mandalorian citizenship, fidgeting outside the temporary quarters of Shmi Skywalker. The door opened and Arla couldn’t fight her dopey grin.

“Hi. I—this is for you.” Arla thrust the wrapped courting gift she had assembled toward the wary woman.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to open it now, or yeah, now is fine, go ahead.” Arla watched as Shmi removed the wrapping and opened the flimsiboard box to reveal a collection of water bottles, local spices, and a simple toolset. “I thought you might feel more secure if you had a wrench to hit me with again.”

Shmi studied Arla for a long moment before stepping back and unblocking the door. “Would you like to come in?”

Arla sighed in relief and nodded. “That would be lovely.”

Chapter Text

When they arrived in orbit, Cal stared down at Dathomir and missed the crew of the Stinger Mantis with an ache that burned like a saber wound through the heart. He could almost hear Greez muttering about creepy witches while Cere and Merrin pointedly ignored him and discussed the differences between magic and the Force.

“Are you all right?” Jango squeezed his shoulder and Cal tore his gaze away from the rust-colored planet.

“I’m not sure.” Cal sagged into the copilot’s chair and scrubbed his stinging eyes. “This is where I met Merrin. She is—well, was, I guess, since she hasn’t been born yet—like a sister to me. We were about the same age, and we’d both survived the purge of our people.”

“Nightsisters and Jedi do not travel together, but… Survivors. We adapt.”

Cal smiled sadly at the memory and released his grief into the Force.

“You left her behind, in the future,” Jango said.

“Yeah. We sort of formed our own family. There were four of us on the Mantis—”

BD-1 squawked in protest and Cal held his hands up in surrender. “Five, sorry buddy. Well, six if you count the bogling that stowed away and drove Greez crazy trying to find it. Greez was our pilot, and he was like the heart of our crew. Cere was a Jedi Master who’d survived the Purge—she was Trilla’s master.”

“Our Trill’ika?”

“Yeah. I met Merrin when we were searching for a holocron with a list of Force-sensitive younglings. Cere and I wanted to rebuild the Order with it, but I decided to destroy it instead. It was too dangerous—felt like everywhere we went the Inquisitors were one step behind. Or worse, Vader.” He shuddered as he ached with phantom pain of the Sith lord’s blade cutting into his side.

Cal still struggled with doubt about destroying the holocron. He’d strengthened his connection to the Force, but there was so much that he didn’t know about being a Jedi. It was hard to let go and trust the Force as Master Tapal had taught him, and some nights Cal had laid awake in his bunk on the Mantis and wondered if he’d allowed his fear of the Empire to make that decision instead of his faith in the Force.

“Merrin and I were enemies at first,” Cal said. “Well, I kept trying to talk to her and she kept trying to kill me. Eventually she accepted that I didn’t want to fight her. She’d been alone for so long, and she was tired of waiting for a chance to avenge her people.”

“Like you,” Jango said.

Trilla’s pleading gaze as the monstrous shadow loomed behind her. “Avenge us.”

Cal swallowed hard. “When I realized that I’d been sent to the past I knew I’d never see my friends again. I haven’t really had time to stop and think about that.”

Jango smiled. “You’ve been too busy trying to save the galaxy.”

“All Merrin wanted was justice for her sisters.” Cal straightened and squared his shoulders. “The least I can do is warn them about the Sith.”

“’Lek, Cal’ika.” 

Jango powered up the thrusters and guided the ship through the atmosphere. The planet’s surface looked as ominous as its dark, oily Force signature—it felt different now that it was inhabited by living Nightsisters instead of haunted by their spirits. The rocky terrain appeared as though it was covered with old blood, and it was blanketed by a forest of gnarled trees that jutted from the parched ground like a field of sun-bleached bones.

“There.” Cal pointed at a set of towering ruins in the distance. “That was a Zeffo temple. Something terrible happened and it left a kind of wound in the Force. The dark side is strong here.”

“Perfect for a bunch of witches, right?” 

“Right. Let me do all the talking.”

Jango snorted. “Despite what Myles says, I’m not a big enough di’kut to mouth off to evil witches. Kyr’tsad, sure, but witches? No. I don’t want to be turned into a space slug. I’m going to be silent and look intimidating.”

“Thank you, cyare.” Cal leaned over and kissed him and the soul bond hummed happily between them.

The ship touched down in the same spot that the Mantis used to, and Jango donned his buy’ce. They left the cockpit and headed aft, and Jango punched the controls to lower the boarding ramp. Cal descended first and stood, hands on his hips, as he studied their surroundings and noted subtle differences. The afternoon sun blazed overhead and hot, arid wind whistled through the ancient ruins.

“No one home?” Jango asked. “I’m not picking any thermal readings.”

“Oh they’re here,” Cal said. “They’re waiting to see what we do.”

Cal slowly raised his empty hands in surrender and addressed the hidden sisters. “We are not your enemies. I seek an audience with Mother Talzin.”

“Leave, offworlders, or Dathomir will be your grave.” The warning seemed to come from everywhere at once, spoken with the unnerving supernatural echo that Merrin called “the voice of the ancients”.

“I’ve heard that before,” Cal muttered. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “I have information about the Sith, and the future of your clan.”

“We need nothing from you, Jedi.” A trio of Nightsisters appeared from a flash of familiar green light, each armed with a lightbow and ready to release their arrows.

BD-1 ducked and Jango flinched. Cal placed a calming hand on his soul mate’s shoulder. “Udesii, cyare.” He turned to the sisters. “It is not my information. I offer Mother Talzin the memories of Sister Merrin, the sole survivor of the purge of your people at the hands of the Sith.”

Silence hung heavy in the air and the lead Nightsister cocked her head as though listening to a distant voice. “Mother Talzin will see you. We are watching you, offworlders. Tread lightly.”

“Of course.” Cal bowed, and followed the Nightsisters into the temple.

Jango hated Dathomir. All of it, from the shitty desert climate to the creepy locals.

The feeling of being watched hadn’t faded for a single moment since they landed, and his hair stood on edge in constant warning of an attack that hadn’t happened—yet. An eerie green mist whispered through the halls of the witches’ temple, and giant spiders scuttled through the shadows. Every instinct he had as a Mando’ad screamed for him to grab his runi, throw the man over his shoulder, sprint back to the safety of their ship and never set foot on this kriffing planet again. But he’d promised to follow Cal’s lead, to be silent and supportive, so he stood back and watched the strange scene unfold.

Mother Talzin was terrifying—a tall, pale, spindly creature bedecked with crimson robes that swayed in an unseen breeze. She invited Cal to join her at a stone table, conjured a goblet out of glowing smoke and thin air, and offered it to him to drink from. Jango clenched his hands into fists to fight the urge to grab his blasters and unload them into the witch for trying to poison his runi, but Cal survived whatever potion Talzin had pushed on him. Now the pair were deep in some sort of trance as Cal supposedly shared his vod’s memories with the Nightsister—their eyes illuminated by sickly emerald magic that was absolutely going to haunt Jango’s nightmares.

BD-1 seemed to share his disquiet, and the droid scuttled over to him for comfort and to acquire a more secure perch on Jango’s shoulder. Jango sighed and helped him up, and he patted BD’s head as the droid clung to his cape.

The green glow vanished and Cal inhaled sharply. Jango darted to his side and gripped his arm.

“I’m all right.” Cal smiled weakly, reached up and patted Jango’s hand. Jango fought the urge to yank off his gauntlet and physically check his soul mate’s pulse.

“Thank you, timewalker.” Mother Talzin folded her hands atop the table. “We will ensure that this fate never befalls our people.”

“Good, I’m glad.”

“Are you, Jedi?”

“Yeah,” Cal said. “I don’t understand your magic, but I respect your right to practice it.”

The witch seemed impressed, and the words made him think of the Mando'adë and the Jetii—their people may not like each other, but they would come to an understanding.

“The Sith have already made contact,” she said. “The apprentice stole one of my children, a Nightbrother.”

Cal frowned. “Sidious already took Maul? How long ago?”

“Nearly a year now.” Mother Talzin paused and turned her unsettling regard to Jango. She met his eyes, her gaze piercing his visor like a blaster bolt. “There were three males of this bloodline. Maul, Savage, and Feral. You will raise them.”

“We will?” Jango blinked—he had to have heard that wrong.

“They are not safe here. You will take them with you and teach them to become great warriors. They will walk the path of the Mandalore.”

“How do we find Maul?” Cal asked.

“I will craft an amulet that will guide you to his location.”

Two tiny Zabraks glared at Jango and Cal across the table in the ship’s lounge. Feral seemed to be about the same age as Trilla, and Jango had no idea how those two would get along. Savage was a few years older—six maybe, it was hard to judge considering how scrawny both boys were. The healers would have a better chance of determining their age, because there were many Zabraks within the Haat’adë. House Mereel’s goran would have no trouble crafting buy’cë that accommodated the boys’ horns.

“Are you hungry?” Cal asked. “The sisters gave us some meat for you.”

Zabraks were carnivores, which meant Jango would have to start stocking up on raw meat. Kark. Three more adë to look after. If they adopted a few more they could start their own school. Arla was going to laugh herself sick when they got home.

“Why are we here?” Savage asked.

Cal turned to Jango—guess it was his turn to wrangle the adë. From the short tour they’d had of the Nightbrothers’ village they did seem to have more in common with Mando’adë than Jetii.

“We are going to rescue your brother, Maul,” Jango said. “After that, you’re all coming home with us to Manda’yaim. We will teach you to become great warriors.”

“Mhi ba'juri verdë,” Cal said softly. Jango took his hand and squeezed it.

Savage’s brow furrowed. “We won’t be Nightbrothers?”

“No brothers?” Feral asked, alarmed.

“You will always be Nightbrothers,” Jango assured the boys. “But you will also be part of our clan.”

“Clan Fett or Clan Kestis?” Cal asked.

“Clan Fett. Jaster always said that Arla and I were feral murder children when he adopted us, so this is almost like tradition.” It felt right, and he nodded to the boys. “Ni kar'tayl gai sa'adë, Savage and Feral.”

“Hungry,” Feral said.

Cal chuckled. “You feed the adë. I’ll see what this amulet has to say about Maul’s location.”

Feral and Savage inhaled their food like ravenous strills and promptly passed out, exhausted from their big day. Jango tucked them into a bunk and went in search of his soul mate. He found Cal in the cockpit, composing an encrypted message on the comm.

“Problem?” Jango brushed a kiss atop his head and then dropped into the pilot’s seat.

“Maybe. The amulet showed me Mustafar. It was a Seppie world during the war. I have a bad feeling about it, so I’m asking Knight Feemor to send Jedi reinforcements to meet us there.”

“Should I call up the Grunts?” Jango asked.

“Yeah.” Cal nodded slowly. He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair, but then he turned to Jango with a crooked smile. “We’re going to need bigger quarters in the palace.”

“Osik, I didn’t even think of that. Jaster will be happy.”

“Are you happy?” Cal asked.

“I have the most amazing runi in the galaxy.” Jango grinned. “I’ve never been better.”

Chapter Text

The unlikely team of Jango’s Grunts and Feemor’s Jedi Shadows swept through the cavernous entrance to the Sith castle, checking every shadow and securing the area. When the groups first met in orbit over Mustafar they had been clearly uneasy about working together, but the fact that a child was in danger overrode the old animosities and superstitions. Now the Mandalorians and Jedi moved as a single unit, as though they had been running missions together for years.

“Do you sense anything, cyare?” Jango’s low question was almost swallowed by the building’s heavy silence. “With your Force magic?” 

“Jan’ika, this entire planet is one giant bad feeling.” Cal eyed a towering obsidian statue of a hooded figure that beckoned with the promise of a strong Force echo. He approached its base and reached toward it but Feemor batted his hand away.

“Kid, you’re not touching anything in this kriffing place.”

Cal swallowed the urge to argue that first, he wasn’t a kid, and second, Feemor appeared to be only a few years older than him. But Cal understood the knight’s caution—Feemor worked with Quinlan Vos, so he was likely used to the aftermath of terrible psychometric episodes.

“My control is better than Quinlan’s,” Cal said. “Besides, I’ve been to worse places than this.”

Feemor’s mouth twisted with a horrified expression at the idea of somewhere more awful than a Sith castle on Mustafar. The planet itself was indeed the worst—the surface was covered by constant volcanic activity that oozed with the chaotic, entropic energy of the Dark side of the Force. The Shadows had appeared traumatized by the idea of the Order being oblivious to the castle’s existence, but Cal wasn’t surprised. After all, the entire Jedi high council had been blind to Chancellor Palpatine’s true identity for years despite working side-by-side with the Sith lord during the war.

“Don’t care. Keep your hands to yourself.” Feemor folded his arms and continued to block Cal, as though he expected him to attempt to dart around the other knight—which, to be fair, Quinlan Vos probably would have done.

Cal looked to Jango, who shrugged. “I agree with the Jetii.”

Outnumbered, Cal stepped back and lowered his arm. BD-1 beeped comfortingly to support him and Cal smiled. “Thanks, little buddy.”

BD hopped down and scuttled over to a computer terminal that was tucked in an alcove behind the statue, and plugged into the system. “<Accessing facility map. Location of subject Maul acquired. Level three, training room one.>”

“Is there a data archive?” Cal asked. “Or a command center?”

“<A communication center is located on level five. A research laboratory is located on sub-level one.>”

“That can’t be good,” Feemor muttered. “My team will take the lab.”

“No.” Cal shook his head. “We don’t split up, not here.”

“Splitting up is faster,” Feemor said. “We can cover more ground that way. Besides, the longer we stay, the more likely it is that someone will be alerted to our presence.”

“Have you fought Sith?” Cal quirked an eyebrow. “We stay together. Trust me.”

“Is the Sith here?” Myles asked. “We didn’t pick up any ships and the landing pad was clear.”

“The obvious landing pad,” Cal said. “Sith are paranoid bastards—contingencies within contingencies, hidden doors to secret rooms filled with explosive traps. Besides, we wouldn’t be able to sense them. Even Master Yoda couldn’t sense Darth Sidious last time. They let that shabuir into the temple. Into the crèche.” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration for all the Order’s missed opportunities to save itself. “Better to assume he’s here than be surprised when he pops up.”

“Right. Let’s move.” Jango motioned the group forward, and they headed into the castle proper.

The team jogged down wide, dark hallways. Unlike the constant riot of noise and oppressive, sulfurous heat outside the castle, inside the recycled air was cool and stale. Cal licked his lips as his mouth dried—something about the lifeless air and the heavy silence reminded him of the Fortress Inquisitorious. Row upon row of empty holding cells, the echo of his boots on the long metal walkway extending toward the interrogation chamber. The thick, choking fog of pain and despair left behind as the only memorial to countless prisoners pushed past the point where Jedi died and Inquisitors were born.

Cal staggered as his knees wobbled, and Jango darted in and caught his arms to steady him.

“What’s wrong?” Jango asked.

Cal gulped a steadying breath and leaned into his soul mate’s strength. “I know what they’re doing to Maul. We have to hurry.”

At first Cal thought the distant march of metal feet was another fragment of his memory, but as it grew louder and closer he realized that the noise was real and about to become a problem.

“Oh, you’ve got to be joking,” Cal muttered.

“What?” Feemor asked.

“Clankers.” Cal grimaced and then explained. “Battle droids. Sounds like B-1s, probably early models. They’re easy to take down in small groups but when there’s a few thousand on a battlefield…”

Feemor scowled. “Your future timeline is garbage and I hate everything about it.”

“Seconded,” Myles added from Feemor’s side.

“Form up,” Jango ordered. The Jedi and supercommandos divided into pairs and took positions in a line—the Jedi providing cover with their sabers while the commandos provided firepower.

A group of battle droids rounded the corner—skinny B-1 models that Cal had considered almost harmless until his first battle.

“Intruders! Blast them!”

“Roger, roger!”

Cal shuddered and choked down memories of the Clone War as he reached for the Force and batted a barrage of shots away with his saber. Jango and the Grunts opened fire and the first line of droids dropped. There were so many of them—too many droids for a simple guard patrol. Did the Sith know they were here? Had they increased security to prepare for an attack?

Cal’s vision blurred as the Force rippled around him. Clone voices called to him from the past, urging their padawan commander on, until Cal spotted three familiar shapes rolling around the corner.

“Destroyers! Cover me!” Cal charged forward, leaped and ran along the wall to avoid the remaining B-1s, flipped and landed atop the shield dome of the nearest droideka. He plunged his blade through the thin blue energy shield and wished for a bandolier of droid poppers like he’d had during the war.

BD-1 whistled an offer of help from Cal’s shoulder. “All yours, Beedee.”

The tiny droid dropped down to slice control of the destroyer, and Cal jumped to the next target. For a moment he swore he heard his clone commander call his name as he cracked the droideka’s shield like an egg, but with a shake of his head he realized that it was Jango offering a plasma grenade. Cal called the grenade to his hand, armed it and smashed it against the destroyer’s armored body before leaping to safety. A flash of bright light heralded the droideka’s doom and it collapsed in a smoking ruin.

BD’s newly sliced ally took out the remaining destroyer as the last of the battle droids clattered to the ground. BD scuttled over and climbed up Cal to return to his usual perch as Jango approached and checked Cal for injuries.

“Dini’la Jetti,” Jango muttered. Finding nothing wrong, he pulled his soul mate close for a Keldabe kiss.

Cal shrugged. “I remember them being bigger.”

“How old were you during this war?” Myles asked.

“I was eleven during my first battle,” Cal said. “The senate ordered that all padawans were required to fight alongside their masters.”

Anger and outrage surged around him as the Shadows released the emotion in the Force and Myles vented his disgust by punching a wall.

“Focus,” Feemor said. “It’s a good bet that the Sith know we’re here. Let’s go.”

Cal’s mind struggled to reconcile Darth Maul, the half-metal monster who murdered Jedi without mercy, with the scared, scrawny child they discovered with only a modified tutor droid for company—modified to shock Maul with an electrostaff when he gave an incorrect answer or failed to perform a task perfectly. What was left of the droid was now smoking debris scattered across the classroom floor thanks to the outraged commandos.

Maul’s red and black skin was covered with burns, and he clutched a training saber as he bared his sharp teeth and glared at the intruders. “Jedi,” he sneered. “I won’t let you take me.”

Cal motioned the knights back as Jango stepped forward and saluted the boy.

“The Jetii aren’t going to take you,” Jango said. “Mother Talzin sent us here. She wants you and your brothers, Savage and Feral, to train as Mandalorians and become great warriors.”

Maul’s eyes narrowed as he pondered Jango’s words—instead of Sith yellow, the boy’s eyes were dark red. “Jedi are weak.”

“Jetii are flawed,” Jango replied. The corners of Cal’s mouth twitched, because his soul mate wasn’t wrong.

“You won’t learn their ways,” Jango continued. “Jetii are peacekeepers. Mando’adë are not. We have our own ways of connecting with the Manda, with the Force.”

That seemed to tempt Maul, who almost swayed toward Jango as he considered the offer. “Better ways than the Sith?”

“You can judge that for yourself.” Jango held his arm out, and Maul inched forward until they clasped forearms in agreement.

Of course, things quickly went to osik after that when the group arrived at the landing pad. A cloaked, hooded figure stood between them and their ship, a red-bladed lightsaber held in each hand.

“Darth Sidious,” Cal greeted. “Or do you prefer Senator Palpatine?”

The Sith flinched in surprise at being so easily identified, and a torrent of memories flashed through Cal’s mind as he locked eyes with the sulfurous gaze of the monster responsible for countless nightmares.

“No!” Cal Kestis grips Master Tapal’s body as his mentor’s soul becomes one with the Force. He howls with agony as the Force itself seems to wail as the lights of hundreds, even thousands, of Jedi blink out.

“No!” Trilla Sudari is strapped into the machine and needles pierce her flesh as it closes around her. She screams as the pain shatters what is left of her mental shields and she is overwhelmed by suffering—hers, and that of the other prisoners in the fortress.

“No!” Cere Junda lost everything except for one single hope that her padawan somehow survived despite her master’s betrayal. That hope was frail and fragile, cracked but not yet shattered, until the purge troopers led a figure clad in all black into Cere’s cell. Dread consumes her as Trilla dons an Inquisitor’s helmet. Cere’s will breaks, and she Falls.

Sidious grinned, a flash of white teeth beneath the shadowed hood, the expression cruel and twisted. “There is much hate in you, young Jedi. Give in to your anger and it will make you powerful.”

“No. I’m not here for revenge.” Cal squared his shoulders and lit his lightsaber. “But my soul mate is Mandalorian, and they have some strong feelings about you and your master funding Death Watch.”

“Oya! ” Jango shouted, and the Grunts opened fire.

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, Darth Sidious was a terror who cut through members of the Jedi High Council as though they were made of flimsiplast. He fought legendary duelist Jedi Grandmaster Yoda to a draw and forced the troll to retreat in shame.

But in this galaxy, at this time, Darth Sidious was not a master of the Sith. Instead, he was an apprentice, years away from coming into his full, terrible power. Still, Sidious was a devastating whirlwind of crimson blades, Sith lightning and the Dark side as he battled the combined forces of Jedi Knights and Mandalorian ori'ramikadë, and despite their best efforts, the group began to fall.

Cal groaned in agony and rolled to his side, surrounded by the wounded and the dead. He blinked until his blurry vision focused on his saber several yards away—and the severed hand that gripped its hilt. BD-1 stood beside the weapon, the droid’s tiny feet tapping in a frantic dance of worry as he glanced between the battle and his fallen friend.

Jango, Myles and two other Grunts surrounded Sidious, fighting close using hand-to-hand and vibroblades. “Prime said you gotta get in close.” The ghost of Commander Ferrus, leader of the 13th Iron Battalion whispered at the edge of Cal’s throbbing thoughts. “Get in close where they can’t bat your shots back at you. Close enough that their fancy laser swords are useless.”

Sidious had lost both sabers at some point while Cal was unconscious, and he was now on the back foot for the first time since the fight began. Jango was merciless—filled with sharply focused rage the moment his soul mate had fallen—but Cal worried that Jango’s edge wouldn’t last, not against a Sith.

His gaze was pulled to an abandoned slugthrower pistol just a few feet away—the Mandalorians held Palpatine’s full attention, and it was now or never. With a surge of determination Cal shook his head, gritted his teeth and pushed to his knees. He tugged with the Force, pulled the pistol to him and checked the magazine—one shot left.

“That’s lucky,” he muttered.

Cal centered himself and raised the weapon in his remaining hand—his off-hand, but it would have to do. He breathed in and the Force flowed through him as he sighted down the slugthrower’s barrel, and when the moment was right he exhaled and fired. The tiny projectile flew true and embedded itself in the Sith’s forehead, and the reign of Emperor Palpatine ended before it could start. 

Jango shot the body several times with one of his Westars for good measure, and then he staggered away and limped to kneel at his cyare’s side. He pressed his buy’ce to Cal’s forehead. “You’re hurt.”

“Jedi lose limbs all the time. Occupational hazard.” Cal grinned, exhausted but feeling lighter than he had in years. “I can build a new one.”

“Dini’la Jetti,” Jango said, his tone fond. “What do we do now?”

“We need to burn the body,” Cal said. “To be sure.”

“Good thing we’re on a giant volcano then,” Feemor said. He clutched his ribs and groaned from his spot on the ground. “I’ll take his lightsabers to the temple. After I get up.”

Maul emerged from his hiding place and trotted over to Jango's side. The Zabrak's brow furrowed as he examined Cal's cauterized stump. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes." Cal smiled at BD-1 as he joined them and gently climbed to Cal's good shoulder.

Maul nodded as though satisfied—apparently the injury improved his opinion of Cal.

“Can we go home now?” Myles whined.

“Yes,” Jango said.

A slow smile spread across Cal’s face. The Mantis was the closest thing he’d had to home since the temple, but that comfort had been shadowed by the constant threat of the Empire. Now he would finally have a real home again—one shared with his soul mate and their children.

“Yeah,” Cal said. “Let’s go home.”

Chapter Text

The strident beep of a message alert woke Yan from his sated sleep, and he frowned in the direction of the offending noise.

“It’s not mine,” Sy murmured, his head pillowed on Yan’s bare chest. “I’m on sabbatical.”

A second comm chimed in, further shattering the morning calm—and it had been such an agreeable morning, too. Yan was sore in pleasant places after a lovely night spent with his soul mates.

“That one’s mine,” Jaster said.

Yan called both comm units to his hand and handed one to Jaster. Yan peered at the message on his device. “It’s a priority mission alert. I’m to lead a strike team on Galidraan. Apparently Mandalorians are slaughtering civilians.”

“Not my Mando’adë.” Jaster snorted. “This is a contract offer for a job on Galidraan. The governor is pleading with us to deal with the terrorists murdering his people as soon as possible.”

“Ah. Well, so much for a lazy morning, then.” Sy sighed and his breath whispered across Yan’s skin.

Yan hummed in disappointed agreement and absently stroked his lover’s unbound hair as he reviewed the mission summary—he needed a datapad to access the entire file. “There’s mention of holofootage of the Mandalorian attack.”

“Death Watch must be there,” Jaster said. “If we mobilize quickly we might catch them.”

He slid out of the bed and both Yan and Sy watched their new soul mate appreciatively as he walked away. Though none of them were young men anymore, they were all in excellent fighting condition. Even Sy, his beloved High Councilor who seldom saw field missions, was leanly muscled from hours spent in the training salles.

“You two can take care of that,” Sy said. “I’ll stay and watch over the younglings.”

“Keeping Ben and Vos out of trouble may prove the more difficult task,” Yan said.

“That has the makings of a long campaign.” Jaster chuckled and leaned through the open ’fresher door. “If you’re interested, I have a water shower large enough for the three of us.”

“That would be most efficient,” Yan said.

“Indeed.” Sy’s dark eyes sparked with mischief as he nodded in mock-solemn agreement. “Water conservation is very important.”

Jaster’s company of super commandos met Dooku’s Jedi strike team on the outskirts of the Galidraan system. The knights had been confused at first by the idea of working with their ancient enemies, but they seemed to trust the Force—or Yan’s leadership—without argument. When the combined group reached orbit, a small team of Jedi and Mandalorians broke off to secure the governor while the bulk of the force headed toward the mountain valley where Death Watch had bunkered down in an abandoned mining complex.

Jaster’s blood pounded as their forces scattered the Death Watch guard patrols. This was the first time in years that the Haat’adë faced a sizable number of Kyr’tsad. If Tor Vizsla was here, if he stood his ground and accepted a challenge for the Darksaber like a proper Mando’ad, this could be the end of the civil war. Victory—peace—was finally within reach.

Though Kyr’tsad tried to shelter within the mine, the Jedi were relentless in their hunt and sliced blast doors with their lightsabers and peeled the metal open as easily as the rind of a citrus fruit. The commandos rolled grenades and smoke bombs into the mine until Death Watch soldiers boiled forth like angry insects.

The Jedi fought beside the super commandos like veterans who had weathered many campaigns together. Jaster suspected that buy’ce footage of the fight was going to be almost as popular as the videos of Cal and Ben defeating the Elders on Melidaan.

Almost. After all, Jaster’s bu’ad was cuter than all of the knights put together.

Though the Jedi were intriguing, Jaster found his attention inevitably drawn to his new soul mate. Yan Dooku didn’t wade into battle—he glided through the Kyr’tsad forces with deadly grace. His noble features maintained a placid expression as though the combat drama was beneath him, and each precise snap and slice of his lightsaber was performed with an economy of movement that spoke of a master swordsman.

It was the hottest thing Jaster had ever seen, which made it distracting as all haran.

After the second time his distraction allowed a Kyr’tsad blaster to land a hit on his beskar’gam, Jaster promised himself that he would watch the compilation of buy’ce footage later and forced his full attention on the fight. Tor Vizsla had yet to show his ugly face, but that wasn’t unusual—the shabuir was the sort of commander who considered his men disposable and preferred to lead from the rear.

When the Death Watch forces thinned without a sign of Vizsla, a sick dread formed in Jaster’s gut. Silas jogged up to him and saluted him with a fist to his chest.

“Report,” Jaster said.

“There’s no sign of Tor Vizsla or any of his known lieutenants,” Silas said. “Most of these verdë seem pretty green.”

Jaster frowned and pulled off his buy’ce. Icy wind blasted his skin as his nose was assaulted by the scents of burned flesh, fresh blood and the ozone of recent blaster fire. He met Yan’s gaze as his Jedi’s brow furrowed.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Yan said.

Had Vizsla known that Jaster intended to spring Death Watch’s trap? There were still information leaks within the Haat'adë despite Jaster’s best efforts to plug them. Or had the purpose of the trap changed—not to kill Jaster, but to lure him away from Manda’yaim?

Oh no. The blood drained from Jaster’s face. “The adë.”

Ben jolted awake and winced as his skull throbbed in time with phantom drum beats.

“Go back to sleep.” Quinlan groaned, reached over Trilla and shoved Ben’s shoulder.

With Cal and Jango gone, Ben and Trilla had moved into the Jedi guest quarters with Masters Tholme and Sifo-Dyas. Ben, Quinlan and Trilla slept in a pile, and Ben found comfort in being close to his new kih’vod and his oldest friend. Now his pulse sped and his stomach twisted with anxiety.

Trilla stirred between them and sat up, awake in an instant, her dark eyes wide and wild. “Ben! Elders!”

The walls shook from the impact of an explosion—close, within their wing of the palace—and alarms blared to life.

Ben and Quinlan stumbled out of bed and were dressed and armed in record time. Ben donned his borrowed beskar’gam—the goran of House Mereel was designing his full set, and he trained with a few durasteel pieces in the meantime—and then he helped Trilla with her pair of plastoid vambraces.

“I want armor,” Quinlan groused.

“You don’t even like sleeves,” Ben said.

“Details.”

They emerged into the karyai where the two Jedi Masters waited. They lit their sabers as an enormous figure in black and red armor barreled into the room with a juvenile strill loping alongside him.

“Su’cuy, Sargent Vau,” Ben greeted. Walon Vau led the security team responsible for Ben and Trilla’s safety. The man’s hulking size and gruff demeanor bothered Ben at first, reminding him too much of the Elders. His opinion of the verd had softened when he saw how gentle Vau was while introducing Trilla to his young strill, Lord Mirdalan.

“Mird!” Trilla called. The beast looked to its master for permission and then trotted over to Trilla, who threw her arms around its neck.

Vau saluted the group. “Kyr’tsad is assaulting the palace. I’m here to evacuate you. There’s an unmarked ship waiting.”

“We can fight,” Ben said.

“I know, verd’ika. But you do not have to.” Vau turned to the two Jedi masters. “If you’re prepared, we’ll move out.”

They lowered their weapons and doused the blades. “Lead on,” Master Sifo-Dyas said.

Vau took point, followed by Master Sifo-Dyas, Ben, Quinlan, Trilla and Mird, and Master Tholme guarded their flank. Ben wrinkled his nose at the scent of smoke in the hallway—not close enough to see, but enough to set the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He swallowed hard and shared his anxiety with the Force as they hurried away from the danger.

The group rounded a corner and Arla charged toward them. “Vau! This whole wing is crawling with Kyr’tsad.”

“Elek, Al’verdë,” Vau said.

Arla barely paused long enough to sheathe her beskad and scoop Trilla into her arms, and then the group was moving again. Ben reached for calm at the all-too-familiar sound of approaching blasterfire, and he gripped the hilt of his borrowed lightsaber with sweaty palms. He tried to return it to Cal before his buir left on his mission with Jango, but Cal insisted that Ben hang on to the weapon, just in case.

Elders, Trilla had said. From everything Ben had learned, that was indeed the case with Death Watch—bloodthirsty warriors who gave no thought to the destruction they caused in pursuit of victory. Monsters who stole children and brainwashed them into fighting their endless war, just like the Melida and the Daan. Why was Death Watch here? The Mand’alor and Master Dooku had left on a mission to fight them somewhere offworld.

They reached a T-junction and a squad of warriors in blue and gray armor opened fire from their right. The Jedi ignited their blades and deflected the shots while Arla shielded Trilla and set her down, and then Sargent Vau and Arla returned fire. Ben spotted a second squad of Death Watch approaching from the rear, and he and Quinlan took up guard positions in front of Trilla and Mird, deflecting stray bolts that slipped past the masters’ defenses.

“Ben!” Trilla grabbed his arm and pointed to a sliver of metal showing beneath a nearby tapestry. He lifted the cloth and discovered a slender rectangular grate covering the access point to an ancient service corridor.

“Quin!” Ben called.

The pair reached out and pulled the grate with the Force. Metal slats curled and groaned in protest before finally breaking free and creating a narrow opening. Bundles of power cables bracketed the top and bottom of the entrance, and Trilla darted in before Ben could catch her, diving over the lower cables with Mird close on her heels. Ben peered inside—the space beyond was just large enough to fit Ben and Quinlan, but not the adults.

Ben turned to Arla. “Ba’vodu?”

“Go,” Arla ordered. “Comm me when you reach a safe space.”

Quinlan grinned. “After you.”

Ben grabbed the overhead cables and swung his legs up and through the entrance. He sneezed as he inhaled thick dust—this section likely hadn’t been cleaned in years. He bit back the urge to tell Trilla to wait and let him lead, but navigating claustrophobic spaces was her specialty and the Force was with her.

They squirmed their way through service ducts meant for maintenance droids, weaving a path farther from Ba’vodu Arla and the others with every step. Memories of fleeing through the sewers on Melidaan buzzed at the edges of Ben’s thoughts, of the stifled cries of injured Young as he tried to haul his tiny soldiers back to their sanctuary. Just a few more minutes, we’re almost there, hang on—

Sensing Ben’s distress, Quinlan paused and clasped his shoulder. “Hey, we’re okay. We’ll get through this together.”

“Thanks.” He smiled at his friend while Trilla and Mird scurried across a narrow pipe ahead of them. 

The Force shrieked in warning and an explosion erupted in front of them. That’s not a grenade, Ben thought numbly as he and Quin hurled themselves away from a column of fire. Black clouds of smoke billowed in the space where they had just stood, and both boys coughed and squinted.

“Ben?” Trilla called out. Ben brushed her mind—she felt frightened but unharmed on the other side of the smoke.

“Keep going,” he yelled. “Stay with Mird. Quin and I will find another way around.”

He felt her agreement through their bond as her Force signature moved away. Quin pulled Ben after him as they backtracked until they found a ladder they had passed before.

“It might lead to the roof,” Quin said.

“The Force provides.” The corners of Ben’s mouth twitched, and then he typed a quick comm to Arla and Sargent Vau and updated them that he and Quin had been separated from Trilla and Mird.

Quinlan rolled his eyes and started up the ladder. The higher they climbed, the stranger the architecture around them became—stone and wood patched and reinforced by various metals, and then reinforced again and again in layers by the repairs of the damage left by constant war. The ladder finally ended in a cramped maintenance area that provided access to a series of ventilation ducts.

“Think we can fit in those?” Quin peered through the slats of the grate covering one of the ducts.

“I can,” Ben said. “Your shoulders might be too wide.”

Quinlan smirked and tossed his head, and his dreads swayed with the imperious motion. “My shoulders are magnificent.”

Ben snorted. “Is this why you’re allergic to sleeves?”

“Obviously. Everyone deserves to gaze upon these arms.” He pulled the grate open and shimmied into the duct. “It’s fine, let’s go.”

The metal beneath them groaned and shifted as they shuffled through the narrow duct.

“Whoa,” Quinlan said. “Look down.”

The open slats of a ventilation grate allowed a glimpse of a battle below—their journey had taken them up into the rafters of the palace’s throne room. Death Watch forces were engaged in a vicious battle with several verdë wearing the colors of Arla’s Bladedancer company. Ben spotted a frag grenade sailing toward the Bladedancers and he used the Force to redirect it back to explode among the Death Watch forces.

“Nice!” Quin praised.

Ben grinned, but his triumph was short-lived as the vent beneath him gave away and he tumbled through the air. He reached for the Force in time to save himself from the hard landing that would’ve ended in broken bones beneath his beskar’gam. The room stilled in surprise as Ben brushed himself off and wobbled to his feet.

“Hello there.” Ben straightened and managed a polite smile.

The leader of the Death Watch commandos, a towering man in black armor reminiscent of Walon Vau, raised a gauntleted fist and the silence continued. Ben shifted beneath the heavy regard of the alor’s T-visor.

Cold. Despite the heat of the fires sparked by explosives and the Mandalorians’ gauntlet flamethrowers, a chill raced down Ben’s spine and raised goosebumps across his skin as he stared up at the towering figure in black armor.

“Be’nari?” The man breathed the name like a prayer and extended a gauntleted hand. “It’s me, Tor’buir. Come with me, ad.”

Tor Vizsla. Death Watch’s Mand’alor. His father. The air burned in his lungs as he struggled to breathe at the phantom sensation of river water dragging him down, away from the surface. Ben shook his head and backed away.

“You tried to drown me.” He forced the words past numb lips.

“Never.” The extended hand closed into a fist and thumped his chest with a chiming ring of beskar. “My second riduur was responsible. She told me you had drowned. She wanted your kih’vod to be my heir.”

“Pre.” Ben blurted the name at the second rush of fuzzy, half-formed memories—the pride in being an ori’vod, the surge of protectiveness as he peered at the pale-haired bundle wailing within a bassinet.

Oh, Force. His little brother had been left alone with this monster for years.

“Where is my vod’ika?” Ben asked.

“Safe. Come home with me and you will see him.”

Ben swallowed hard at the hazy memory of his father’s angry, freezing disapproval. Weak. Unworthy. Runt. He had never wanted Ben before. What changed? Why now? Ben opened his mouth to ask but was interrupted by the arrival of Arla and Masters Tholme and Sifo-Dyas as they burst into the room. Vizsla used the moment of distraction to lunge forward, grab Ben’s arm and haul him close. He lit his weapon and a strange black blade hissed to life, snapping and crackling inches away from Ben’s face.

“Not another step,” Vizsla warned.

Ben faintly took note of the others as they stopped and lowered their weapons, his focus taken up by the Dha’kad—the Darksaber. The Force flowed through him in a steadying wave of calm determination, and a long forgotten voice spoke in his mind. 

“Stand and fight, ner bu’ad. The Ka’ra stand with you.”

The warrior, Ben realized—the Mandalorian who had appeared to Ben and Cal in their shared meditation on Melidaan. The same warrior who had whispered to him through the Force when he was a child in his father’s house. Jedi Master Tarre Vizsla, the Mand’alor who had first wielded the blade.

Ben squared his shoulders and lifted his chin as the sound of distant war drums strengthened his resolve. He wasn’t Be’nari Vizsla, the boy who drowned in a Stewjoni river. He wasn’t Obi-Wan Kenobi, the failed Jedi Padawan abandoned by his master.

“My name is Ben, Clan Kestis, House Mereel, and I challenge you for possession of the Darksaber.”

He Force pushed his captor away and eeled out of his grasp. Ben rounded on his opponent, drew his saber, lit the blade and attacked. Vizsla parried, and the fight was on.

Tor Vizsla was taller, physically stronger and experienced with combat, but he hadn’t been raised in the Jedi Temple. He hadn’t been a youngling so obsessed with dueling that he’d been expelled from the Order and banished to the AgriCorps over an unsanctioned fight. He hadn’t trained with Jedi survivor Cal Kestis, who honed his unique “oh shit don’t die” lightsaber form against Sith and Inquisitors. And though he was Force sensitive, Tor Vizsla was no Jedi.

Ben moved in a blur as the golden blade of his borrowed saber crashed against the black edge of the Darksaber. Time slowed and the world narrowed as he focused on the fight, tuning everything else out except the here and now. They battled back and forth, neither giving ground, until Ben finally scored a hit that burned the side of Vizsla’s leg in the gap between his thigh plates. The man roared with rage that slammed Ben with a freezing blast of the dark side.

Vizsla shot a whipcord from his vambrace and Ben sliced through it, but the distraction was enough for the man to sweep Ben’s legs from under him. He stomped one heavy boot on Ben’s chest and he wheezed as his ribs creaked and the air rushed from his chest. Vizsla’s other foot kicked the saber from Ben’s hand and then pinned it. The bones of Ben’s right wrist groaned and snapped beneath the punishing crush of Vizsla's boot. Even if Ben could call Cal’s saber back to him, he couldn’t wield it.

“Yield,” Vizsla sneered.

Ben opened his mouth to refuse, and he blinked up at the bizarre sight of a reddish blur sailing through the air toward Vizsla’s unguarded back. Had he hit his head? Because that looked very much like Lord Mirdalan. The strill collided with Vizsla and Ben rolled free as they crashed to the ground beside him. Mird bounded away toward the Jedi with Trilla clinging to the strill’s back.

Ben! Quinlan called through their bond. As he lurched to his feet, Ben looked up and spotted Quin above him, clinging to an ancient wooden beam near the ceiling of the hall. Quin dropped the hilt of his lightsaber and Ben raised his left hand to catch it. The saber’s crystal greeted him with as much affection as its owner—for one mad moment he could have sworn the kyber licked his palm—and Ben ignited the blade. 

He lunged forward and green plasma speared through Vizsla’s side, sliding through the gap between his front and back plates and burning a hole through his kute. The man grunted in surprise and stumbled away. Ben shuddered as a Force vision overtook him. An arrest, a trial, and a prison break. Endless rows of Mandalorian clones in white plastoid armor, but instead of wearing the face of Jango Fett like they did in Cal’buir’s shared memories, Tor Vizsla’s sneer echoed through the army. Above it all, the Sith Lord laughed…

The vision faded and Ben gasped. Jaw clenched with grim resolution, he surged forward again, swung the saber up and beheaded Tor Vizsla.

Stunned silence filled the hall as Quinlan’s extinguished blade slipped from Ben’s numb fingers. Quin landed beside him, snatched up the hilt of his weapon and hauled Ben away to a safe distance.

“Where are you hurt?” Quin asked. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine.” Ben cradled his injured wrist to his chest and used his good hand to fend off Quin. The remaining Death Watch soldiers were suspiciously quiet and still, as though waiting for something.

“Call them, Ben Kestis,” the ghost whispered. “Mand’alor the Negotiator. They will answer.”

Ben called the hilt of the Darksaber to his uninjured hand, lit the blade and held it above his head. Ancient energy flowed through him—the pulse of a warrior people, the weight of generations of leaders who had come before.

“Oya Manda,” Ben shouted.

“Oya!” The shout thundered through the room. Verdë on both sides saluted him with a fist to their hearts and then kneeled, as though awaiting orders.

“Wow,” Quin whispered. “That’s so wizard.”

With Death Watch distracted, Arla and the others rushed in. Master Tholme checked his padawan for wounds as Arla embraced Ben.

“Ner vod’ad’ika.” Arla hugged him tight and her relief washed over him in a soothing wave. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

“’Lek, Ba’vodu.”

A hysterical giggle bubbled from her chest. “Jango’s going to be ecstatic when he hears you’re Jas’buir’s new heir.”

“We have to find Pre,” Ben said. “He’s not safe with Death Watch.”

Arla nodded. “We will. We’re going to find all the adë taken by Kyr'tsad, and we’re going to bring them home.”

Home. A sense of calm—of belonging—warmed his heart, and Ben smiled. He was a Mandalorian Jedi, like his ancestor before him, and the Force and the Ka’ra were with him.

Chapter Text

Jango frowned at the scars left by recent battle as he ushered his injured soul mate through the halls of the Keldabe palace to the med center. Dozens of maintenance droids scurried about as they cleaned soot, dried blood and debris. Jango glanced back at the trio of adë trailing him. Maul glared and growled at anything that moved while Savage and Feral watched everything with wide eyes, following their ori’vod like skittish tooka kits ready to bolt at any moment.

“This really isn’t necessary,” Cal said. The di’kut had said the same thing multiple times, as though being almost dismembered by a karking Sith was an everyday occurrence. Then again, considering the nightmare future his soul mate hailed from and some of Cal’s stranger scars, maybe it was. 

Jango bit back a frustrated sigh. “Cyare, you lost a hand. You’re going to the healers.”

Maul muttered something that was definitely an insult to Jettisë, and BD-1 peered down his perch on Cal’s shoulder and whistled an admonishment at the zabrak.

“There’s not much to do now.” Cal shrugged. “Beedee and I are still designing the replacement.”

The med center was crowded with the wounded from the battle they’d missed—Jango was still trying to wrap his mind around the idea of Ben’ika challenging and defeating Tor Vizsla. He’d watched and re-watched the buy’ce footage attached to the report—the duel had been recorded from multiple angles—and the battle looked like something out of a holodrama. Cal had simply smiled and shook his head fondly at the vid, and Jango swore he felt gray hair sprout at his temples. His Jettisë were all crazy, and he was woefully outnumbered by them.

Jango tried to flag down a healer but was interrupted by an indignant shriek from a patient room down the hall.

“Stop licking me!”

“Stop fighting me!”

Cal smirked. “I think we found Ben and Quinlan.”

An exhausted healer paused in front of Jango. “Ven’alor. Please control your adë.”

Jango glanced back to ensure that the zabraks were behaving, and then shrugged as he realized that the baar’ur meant Ben and Quinlan. “I take no responsibility for Jet’ika Vos.”

The baar’ur gave him a pitying look and grasped his shoulder in an expression of sympathy before continuing on their way. Jango’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he followed Cal as he headed toward the continued screeching.

He blinked at the sight of the two boys wrestling on the bed. Quinlan crowed in victory as he successfully trapped Ben in a headlock but yelped as Ben sank his teeth into the kiffar’s arm.

“Gev!” Jango barked the command and both boys froze. “What are you doing?”

“Baar’ur Gilamar told me to make sure Ben stays put,” Quinlan said. “He’s a known med bay jumper.”

Ben scowled as he released his bite and an undignified string of saliva connected the pair. “So are you.”

Quinlan rolled his eyes. “I’m not the idiot who dueled some asshole three times my size over a magic lightsaber for the right to be king of the Mandos.”

“Asshole?” Feral said, tilting his head. Ben bit Quinlan again, presumably for the crime of teaching the adiik the expletive.

“Ow!”

Cal sighed. “Vos, let him go. And stop cussing.”

“I’m just following orders—” Quinlan said.

“I need the ’fresher,” Ben said. “I swear I will pee on you if you don’t let me go.”

“Kinky.” Quinlan grinned and Ben sighed.

“Kinky?” Savage wrinkled his nose. “I do not know this word. Is this a Jedi word?”

“No!” Ben and Cal answered in tandem.

“Yes!” Quinlan howled with glee and pumped his fist in the air.

Jango pinched the bridge of his nose as a headache spawned behind his eyes. He marched forward and grabbed Vos by the scruff of his tunic and shook him like a strill pup until he released Ben. With a grateful smile, Ben darted to the room’s private ’fresher.

“How injured is he?” Jango asked Quinlan as the boy hung limp in his grip.

“Better now.” Quinlan shrugged. “They treated his burns and bruises, and his hand is in a stabilizing brace while the bones heal. He’s mostly here for observation at this point, because of the Force exhaustion. Healer Che threatened to fly here herself but Masters Sifo-Dyas and Dooku promised to monitor him and Baar’ur Gilamar is sending her hourly reports.” 

“Where are Dooku and Sifo-Dyas?” Jango asked.

“Well, they went off with the Mand’alor so I assume that they’re napping together.” Quinlan smirked as he put air quotes around the word, and Jango dropped him.

Ugh, he did not need to think about Jaster and his new soul mates like that.

Quinlan turned to Cal as though noticing him for the first time. “Wait, what happened to your hand? And did you adopt more kids?”

“A Sith lord cut it off,” Cal said. “And then Jango adopted his apprentice, Maul, after he adopted Maul’s two younger brothers. This is Maul, Savage, and Feral Oppress, Clan Fett, House Mereel.”

Feral waved at Quinlan, and Maul bared his teeth and hissed.

Quinlan blinked and tilted his head. “Ben has a Sith brother?”

Maul straightened and attempted to look as intimidating as his malnourished frame would allow. “That Jedi is not my brother.”

“Yet,” Jango said. “Ben and Trilla will officially be your vodë after Cal and I say the riduurok.”

Maul growled and opened his mouth to argue, but his impending tirade was interrupted by the arrival of Trilla, who rode into the room perched atop Sargent Vau’s strill, Lord Mirdilan, like an ancient Mando’ad verd upon her war strider. All three zabraks cringed away and Jango frowned. Maybe she reminded them of the Nightsisters?

“Su’cuy, Trill’ika,” Jango greeted. She nodded in his direction, her attention fixed on the newcomers.

“Mird, down,” Trilla said.

The strill neatly folded all six legs beneath it as it obeyed, and Trilla dismounted and approached the three brothers. Maul hissed and Trilla hissed back, completely unafraid of the Sith apprentice. Feral yelped and ducked behind Savage.

Trilla’s chin lifted a haughty fraction. “I have strill.”

“Pretty sure that’s Walon’s strill, ad’ika,” Jango said. Mird huffed and Trilla sniffed.

“Can I pet it?” Feral asked from behind his ori’vod shield.

“No.” Trilla shook her head.

Cal sighed and dragged his remaining hand through his hair. He smiled dryly at Jango. “Sure you want more adë, ner runi?”

Jango flushed and cleared his throat. “Later. Definitely later. Let’s make sure these ad’ikë don’t kill each other first.”

Quinlan rubbed his hands together. “This is gonna be so wizard.”

“You’re not included,” Jango growled.

“Wanna bet?” Quinlan turned and pointed at a new mark adorning his bicep—a soul mark. The mark was an odd combination of a mythosaur and the blade and wings of the Jedi order, where the mythosaur’s horns had become the order’s wings.

Ben emerged from the ’fresher and scowled. “You said we should wait to tell them about that.”

Cal crossed to Ben and tugged at the sleeve of the boy’s patient gown to reveal a matching mark.

“Kark,” Jango cursed.

“Kark,” Trilla repeated solemnly.

“Kark?” Savage asked.

Jango winced and longed for a bottle of tihaar, but Cal threw his head back and laughed. The bright sound lifted Jango’s spirits, and he couldn’t help but smile and shake his head at his new dini’la family.

Cal peered down at his hand as he flexed the fingers of his prosthetic. With the glove on it appeared no different than his flesh hand had, but it felt different in the Force—empty, like the machinery it was.

“Su’cuy, Cal. How are you feeling today?”

Cal rose and saluted his mind healer as he entered the room. Mir’Baar’ur Lieth Eldar was a middle-aged Iridonian zabrak with a small amount of Force sensitivity. Master Dooku had suggested a Jedi mind healer for Cal’s therapy, but after having spent so much of his life away from the Order he doubted that a Jedi healer would be helpful. Jedi didn’t understand battle trauma the way Mandalorians did, and with Sidious gone Cal hoped that the Order never would. No war, no purge, no Empire…

“Cal?”

He cleared his throat. “Sorry, Mir’Baar’ur. Distracted today, I guess.”

Lieth took the chair across from him and nodded. “Understandable, considering the upcoming celebration. Are you anxious about the ceremony?”

Cal snorted as he regained his seat. “No. We’re pretty much already living the riduurok, so the party’s just politics. And blowing off steam, considering…” He waved a hand to encompass all of the political upheaval that had rapidly happened over the past month.

Mandalorians were a forthright people, and despite skirmishes with a few groups of holdouts most of Death Watch had bent the knee to Ben as the holder of the Darksaber and the heir to Tarre Vizsla’s legacy. Not that it was fair to put that much pressure on Ben’s young shoulders, but he also now had a large Jedi and Mandalorian family to support him. The Force felt lighter than Cal had ever known, even before the war.

“You’ve gone through more change than most,” Leith said. “How are you adjusting?”

“To the hand?” Cal flexed his fingers again. “Physically it’s fine, but it’s an ongoing adjustment in the Force. I used to wear gloves as an extra barrier to protect me from picking up psychometric echoes on accident. Now if I want to touch an echo I have to reach out with the Force.”

“Or use your off hand.”

“Or use my off hand, yes.” Cal nodded. “I mean, I was always using the Force to sense echoes, now it’s just different. A lot of things are different. It’s just a matter of adjusting to them.”

Lieth smiled. “Which is why you are here.”

“Right.” Healing, with a mind healer. Stars knew he had more than enough trauma to process. Greez would be so proud of him for accepting help. His throat tightened for a moment—he missed the crew of the Mantis. For a moment he grieved for the friends he’d left behind, and then he released the feeling into the Force. He remembered Cere, Merrin and Greez, so they would be eternal.

“How are things going with your adë?” Lieth asked.

Cal groaned and let his head fall back to flop against the back of the upholstered chair and closed his eyes to fight off a Nightbrother-shaped headache. “Maul keeps trying to kill Ben.”

He could almost swear he heard Merrin laughing.

“Tell me more about that.”

“Su’cuy, Mir’Baar’ur Dameco.” Ben saluted with a fist over his heart as the twi’lek smiled and waved him to a seat, her pale blue lekku twitching in greeting. Ben placed his buy’ce on the table next to the pot of shig as Demeco poured two mugs of the steaming beverage.

This was their third meeting, and Ben appreciated that Ba’buir Jaster had found a young, non-human healer for Ben. Though he felt much improved, human and near-human adults could still trigger the fight-or-flight trauma left by the Elders of Melidaan.

“Su’cuy, Ben.” Demeco handed him a mug before taking the seat across from him. “How are you feeling today?”

“Quite well, thank you. How are you?”

Ben wrapped his fingers around the warm ceramic. The mug’s warmth soothed the remaining ache left by the fractured bones in his right wrist and hand—the injuries had healed and he was only required to wear a light brace until he completed his physical therapy.

“I am well.” Demeco smiled. “I was pleased to see the progress on your latest physical exam by Baar’ur Gilamar.” She leaned back and studied him as she sipped her drink. “Your body is healing. Do you feel as though your mind is recovering as well?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Can you tell me what that looks like for you?”

Ben resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose—he didn’t feel that these sessions were necessary, but Jan’buir and Jas’ba’buir had insisted. According to the rules of Jas’ba’buir’s codex, all verdë who had undergone long-term missions were required to attend mandatory mind-healing sessions, and his time on Melidaan certainly qualified. Healer Demeco was fond of asking him to define what well, fine, and all right looked like to him.

“I only had two nightmares since our last session,” Ben said. That was a definite improvement over the terrors that had constantly plagued his sleep since he had left the Jedi temple. “I haven’t flinched when my ba’buirë hugged or approached me in…” He trailed off as he calculated the time. “Ten days.”

“Ori’jate.” Her smile brightened at the marked progress. “How did your comm with your friends at the temple go?”

“Good.”

Healer Demeco tilted her head, and Ben hid a sigh behind his mug before taking a polite sip.

“They were glad to see me. There’s a part of me that expects them to…resent my choice to leave the Order. Or, well, whatever sort of arrangement one would call my current teaching situation.” He wrinkled his nose. “Cal’buir likes to remind me that he was still a Jedi despite the fall of the Order in his time. It isn’t the order that makes a Jedi, it’s their faith in the Force and their adherence to the code.”

“And you still believe in the Jetti teachings?”

“Of course. Meditating with Ba’buir Tarre has helped to reconcile the role of being a Jedi and a Mandalorian. We have been discussing allowing other Jedi to swear a modified version of the resol’nare, where we would answer the call of the Force, or the Manda, instead of the Mand’alor.”

She nodded. “The Mando’adë are going through many changes. Are you feeling overwhelmed by so much change in your life since you arrived here?”

Ben tilted his head as he considered his answer. “It’s positive change. Life here is very different from my life with the Young, or my life on Bandomeer.”

“How so?”

He fought the urge to roll his eyes because he knew that she knew the answer, but she wanted him to say it out loud. Mir’Baar’ur Dameco was a fan of having Ben talk through his feelings.

“I have a home and a family. Steady meals. Fewer attempts on my life. Oh! Maul has only attempted to kill me three times since our last appointment, and I feel like that is progress, don’t you?”

She smiled over the rim of her mug. “I agree. Are you excited for your parents’ riduurok ceremony? It’s next week, isn’t it?”

He shot her a dry glance as he sipped his shig—the entire planet knew it was next week, he doubted that his mind healer had somehow forgotten.

“They’re already as good as married,” he said. “The ceremony is just an excuse for a big party.”

“And for the Jedi to visit.”

“Madam Nu is bringing a number of Mandalorian artifacts from the archives for the cultural exchange. Jas’ba’buir is more excited about that than anything else.”

“And you? What are you most excited for?”

“Well once the archivists arrive we’re going to look for the hidden temple Ba’buir Tarre wants us to find. It might not be there. It’s been a long time and so many things were destroyed by the Dral’han.”

“Perhaps you can build a new one.”

Ben blinked. “Me? Build a new Mandalorian Jedi temple?”

“Anything is possible.”

All things are possible through the Force. Bringing Cal and BD-1 through time, ending the war on Melidaan, ending the war on Mandalore…

Ben smiled. “I suppose so.”

After the session he met Cal’buir and together they returned to their quarters in the family wing of the palace. The Jedi had gathered to meditate and waited in the sitting room.

“Cyare!” Quinlan shouted in greeting. “Light of my life! My handsome—”

Ben reached out with the Force, grabbed a couch pillow and smothered Quin with it.

“Betrayal!” His outrage was muffled by his upholstered attacker. “It’s treason, then.”

“Enough, padawan,” Master Tholme said. “Hello, Ben.”

“Hello Masters.” He bowed to his guests and released his hold on the pillow. He blinked as Maul, Savage and Feral dashed into the room with Trilla hot on their heels.

“Make her stop chasing us,” Maul demanded as he made a beeline for Master Dooku. For some reason, the trio had decided that Dooku was the only acceptable Jedi. Ben suspected it had something to do with Master Dooku’s towering height, but the Nightbrothers’ ways were strange.

“Why are you chasing them, young lady?” Dooku asked.

“They don’t want to meditate." Trilla crossed to Cal and he scooped her up and hugged her. "I said they have to.”

Cal opened his mouth to respond, probably intending to defend the brothers, but then he shrugged. “It’s good for them. Are we ready?”

The meditation mats had been arranged in a ring in the middle of the room, and Ben crossed to his, placed between Cal’buir and Quinlan. Quin leaned over and brushed a smacking kiss against Ben’s cheek before settling on his mat.

A serene calm settled over the room and Ben sank into the Force, surrounded by the warmth of light, life and family.

Chapter Text

“We will be landing shortly, Magister Damask,” the pilot announced over the comm.

Hego Damask II, also known as Darth Plagueis, rose and smoothed his finely made business attire, settling into the familiar facade of a respected member of the Banking Clan. His bland expression formed a pleasant mask, but beneath the calm exterior he seethed with fury over the situation. Finding a new apprentice was a time-consuming annoyance that he had not anticipated needing to undergo again.

But like many members of the line of Bane, Darth Plagueis was both patient and able to adapt to any change. After all, the Banite Sith had been playing an ever-shifting game against their enemies for almost a millennia. The grand plan for the complete destruction of the Jedi Order and their beloved republic required patience, caution and prudent judgment in its execution. They were so close to the their goal, the results just within their grasp—

And then his idiot apprentice had somehow managed to endanger the entire kriffing thing and died as a result of his incompetence.

Plagueis was stunned when the bond with his apprentice had been abruptly severed, and then enraged when he discovered that Sidious was not on Naboo where he was supposed to have been during the senate’s recess. It had taken days to track the man’s movements to Mustafar, and then even longer to remotely access the temple’s ancient hidden surveillance system—a secret only known to masters of the Sith.

The security footage revealed that Sidious had been killed by an alliance between Jedi and Mandalorians, of all things. The Jedi now knew—they must know, considering that they had made off with Sidious’s student—about the existence of the Sith. Yet somehow they had remained silent on the subject for several months since their discovery. No whispers in the senate, no movement among the Jedi Shadows. Granted, Sidious had taken their best source of information in the senate to the grave with him when he died, but Plagueis was not without his own means of gathering intelligence. By all accounts the Jedi had taken no action, and that caution was concerning.

The deck shuddered beneath his boots as the comm chirped. “Sir, landing is complete.”

“Very well,” Plagueis replied. “Wait here for my return.”

The boarding ramp lowered and he strode into the private landing bay. The spaceport was quiet and nearly empty at the local time of night. Perfect for a clandestine meeting with a potential new apprentice.

The plan must continue, and Plagueis had several potential students in mind. Xanatos du Crion had promise, provided the boy could learn control and discretion. A Fallen former padawan, du Crion had already managed to gain the Order’s attention, which was why Plagueis had arranged a meeting in Hutt space under the guise of a business deal with Offworld Mining.

He did so enjoy visiting Hutt space—the miasma of greed, violence and despair was delicious.

“Magister Damask.”

Plaugeis paused halfway to the exit and blinked as a Jedi he recognized stepped out of the shadows near the door—another name on his list, a Jedi primed to Fall. “Master Dooku. This is a surprise. I was not aware that Jedi jurisdiction included Hutt space.”

“It does not. I’m afraid your meeting with my former grandpadawan has been canceled.”

“Oh?” Plagueis laced his long fingers together as he folded his hands. “I was not aware that Jedi kept in touch with their former members.”

“This one proved a problem,” Dooku said. “He is on the way back to the temple, where he will receive mind healing and judgment for his crimes.”

“Just as you will receive judgment for yours.” A new speaker stepped forward—another blasted Mandalorian, and by the markings of his armor this was Mand’alor Mereel. What madness was this? The Mand’alor continued. “You have harmed my family.”

“I have had no dealings with Mandalorians.” A lie, of course, considering his work with Tor Vizsla and Death Watch, but the Jedi had never managed to catch him in a lie before. When a Sith asked, the Dark side provided.

“Your apprentice did,” Mereel said. “I believe he was called Darth Sidious. He tortured my grandchild, Maul. The Sith will answer for this crime.”

Plagueis silently cursed Sidious and he bared his teeth. He shifted his weight, his hands moving to his sides as the handle of his saber fell into his palm. Two fools would hardly be a challenge to deal with. The line of Bane would not end this day.

Then the Force cleared and revealed a group of Jedi and Mandalorians encircling him, closing in, including several members of the high council that damned troll Yoda.

“Oya!”

Jango and Ben hauled shebs through the palace halls on the way to the med center, verdë saluting them as they rushed by.

“I told you not to take a mission so close to the due date,” Myles chided over the comm in their buckets.

“Shut up, di’kut,” Jango snapped in reply. “Not our fault the mission ran late.”

Ben smirked but focused on running. He wasn’t sorry that this mission had run long, though it had resulted in them missing the birth of the newest addition to the family.

Jan’buir had been teaching him the basics of the beroya trade when they crossed paths with Xanatos du Crion. Buir had been all too happy to switch targets and capture Xanatos, who then revealed during a villainous monologue that he was due to meet with the Sith master. Ben didn’t mind missing the fight with the Sith. Handing over his former tormentor to the Temple guard had been extremely satisfying, especially when Jan’buir had broken Xanatos’s nose (and then also Master Jinn’s nose).

Master Jinn had sort of apologized for abandoning Ben on Melida/Daan before Jango hit him. The attempt had been more effort than Ben had expected from his former master, and really the most important part of the encounter had been when Master Jinn returned Ben’s lightsaber. The kyber’s chime was off-key—he had changed a great deal since the last time he held it—but he had hope that it would adjust to the person he was now.

And ideally it would make friends with the Darksaber. Perhaps he could look into dual wielding…

They skidded through the med center entrance and were waved down a hall to a patient room. Cal greeted them and Jango pressed his buy’ce to his riddur’s forehead in a Keldabe kiss. Ben bypassed them and made a beeline for his ba’vodusë.

“How are you feeling?” Ben asked Shmi as he removed his helmet and hooked it to his belt. Her expression was weary, but her Force presence remained strong.

“It was a long night,” Shmi smiled and smoothed the blanket draped over her—a hideous but lovingly handmade crocheted blanket that Arla had given her while they were courting. “I am well, just tired.”

“She’s tough. Mandokarla.” Arla grinned at the tiny bundle in her arms. “They both are. Fierce warriors.”

“And free,” Shmi added.

“Elek, cyare.” Arla turned to Ben. “Would you like to hold him?”

Ben nodded, and the baby was gently placed in his arms.

The boy was strong in the Force, blinding like the light of twin suns even through the shields Cal’buir had already placed around the infant. Ben sent soft feelings of care and love through the Force and the baby reached back, the sensation like a small fist curling around Ben’s finger. The Force around them was filled with the light of love and the promise of a bright future.

“Hello there.” Ben beamed. “Welcome to our family, Anakin.”