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Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

I

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Dia Olan steps off the shuttle into the Venator's hangar, following her Jedi master, Emmari Vinives, towards the waiting clone commander. The polished durasteel floor reflects the shuffling of clones and the sleek, sharp lines of starfighters. The hum of activity fills the air, the clang of tools, the murmur of orders, and the steady thrum of the ship's systems creating a chaotic symphony. Emmari nods to the clone as he falls in beside her, his boots clinking rhythmically with theirs. Dia's gaze shifts around, her eyes widening slightly as she takes in the clone's dark red paint marking his armour, a stark contrast to the white plates of the troopers working around them. She feels a mix of awe and trepidation—this is her first time embedded with a Legion, and the scale of it all is overwhelming.

"Commander Neva, is the Legion ready to go?" Emmari asks, her stride causing her robe to flap around her heels. She runs a hand through her shoulder-length black hair, adjusting it as they walk.

"Yes, General. All troops and equipment loaded up and ready for deployment," the clone says, holding his helmet under one arm, his voice calm and steady, the kind of calm that only comes with experience.

"Good to hear. It should only be a day or two until they are on the ground again. Also, I should introduce my padawan, Dia Olan. She will need an overview of how the Legion operates. If you could arrange for one of your officers to go over it with her, I'd appreciate it," Emmari says, gesturing to Dia, who follows behind them, her eyes bright with curiosity and a hint of nervousness.

Commander Neva nods, his eyes briefly assessing the Twi'lek padawan. He notes her crimson skin and the tattoos decorating her face, lekku, and arm, each mark a testament to her history and journey as a Jedi. "I'll have Captain Zell handle that," Neva replies, signalling a clone with a distinctive kama, setting him apart from the others in the hangar.

"General, Commander," the clone captain says as he approaches, his posture straight, his eyes sharp.

"Zell, can you ensure that Padawan Olan here is settled in and introduce her to our tactics?" Neva says, his voice carrying authority while his eyes flick toward Dia, who tries not to shrink under the towering presence of the clones around her, the weight of their attention settling on her.

"Of course, Commander. If you would follow me, Padawan," Zell says, nodding before leading the way deeper into the Venator, the ship's endless corridors stretching out before them. The walls are adorned with the stark emblems of the Republic, and the lighting is dim, casting long shadows that make the space feel even larger.

"Dia is fine, Captain. Zell, was it?" she asks, keeping her voice polite and open while nodding to clones they pass, her smile tentative but genuine. She notices the camaraderie between the clones, the way they move as a unit, their unspoken understanding of each other.

"It is, Dia," Zell says, the name feeling unfamiliar to him. He hesitates, before adding, "Commander Neva mentioned you'd need an introduction to our tactics. Once we're underway, I'll have a couple from my company join us in one of the training bays. We can show you a few things."

Dia smiles, her tension easing a little at the thought of something concrete to focus on. "That sounds good. I need to see how you do things if I'm going to be working alongside you." She can feel the pulse of the ship beneath her feet, the low hum of its engines resonating through her bones, grounding her in the present.

"Right then. I'll grab a few of the boys, and we'll meet in the training bay shortly." Zell pauses in front of a door, indicating the quarters beyond. "This is your room."

"Thank you, Zell," Dia says, stepping into the room, her eyes scanning its simplicity—a bed against one wall, a desk opposite it, equipped with a data screen and ports for various devices. The door slides shut behind her, and she exhales, a hand coming to her lekku, tracing a slow, comforting path along the sensitive skin. The room is small, but it's hers, and for the first time since they left Coruscant, she feels a moment of calm.

The swirl of emotions and force signatures from the clones and crew around her press against her senses, a constant, fluctuating tide. She shuts her eyes, beginning her breathing exercises, focusing on the rise and fall of her chest, the familiar texture of her lekku beneath her fingers grounding her. Her lips move in silent prayer to the Twi'lek goddess as she centres herself, her focus only breaking as the Venator shifts, the hum of its engines signalling the jump to hyperspace. The sudden acceleration makes her sway slightly, and she steadies herself against the wall, her breath coming in slow, measured inhales and exhales.

The next two days blur together, a routine of training and introductions. Dia shadows Captain Zell, watching as he interacts with the clones, matching names to faces, names to the unique, intricate force signatures she senses from each of them. Their tactics are sharp, efficient—not quite what she expected after the rush of simulation trainings back on Coruscant. She finds herself impressed by their precision, their unity. She watches them spar, their movements fluid and coordinated, each clone knowing exactly where his brother will be, anticipating each other's actions without words. It’s almost like watching a dance, and Dia can't help but admire the bond they share.

She meets several of the troopers in Zell's company—Jax, a sharpshooter with a dry sense of humour; Sparks, who seems to be the go-to tech expert, always tinkering with his gear; Rook, a heavy weapons specialist whose imposing stature is matched only by his gentle demeanour; and Rose, one of the ARF section leaders, who carries herself with a kindness but in training is ruthlessly effective. They treat her with respect, but there's a camaraderie between them that she knows she isn't a part of—not yet. She listens to their stories, their jokes, and slowly begins to understand what it means to be part of a clone Legion. There’s a sense of brotherhood here, a unity forged in the fires of their shared training and the couple battles that have made up the war so far, something that she finds both inspiring and a little intimidating.

Now, hours from dropping out of hyperspace, Dia stands alongside her master on the bridge, the air tense with anticipation. A holomap of the planet Etin flickers before them, its green and blue surface marred by the bright indicators of conflict. Commander Neva and Admiral Harpea, the Venator’s commander, flank Emmari, their faces impassive.

"The last report from Master Nima indicates they still hold orbital control," Emmari says, her fingers tracing a location on the map. "But the Separatists are putting up fierce resistance, especially in the built-up areas. The 72nd Legion is stretched thin. Once we land, the 42nd will be responsible for the main offensive, giving the 72nd time to regroup." Her voice is steady, but Dia can sense the underlying tension in her master. The situation is more precarious than the reports have indicated.

Neva nods, the holomap zooming in to display a junction within the city. "Our bulk landing will be here, reinforcing this point. We lose this junction, and the clankers get a clear shot at the 72nd's main supply depot. It’s crucial we hold." The map shifts, showing the intricate layout of streets and buildings, a maze that promises fierce urban combat.

Emmari turns to Admiral Harpea. "Once we arrive, and the gunships are away, begin landing the Acclimators." She then looks at Dia, her expression softening. "Come, Padawan. We need to be in the hangar."

Dia follows, her master’s calm presence a beacon. "Stick close once we’re on the surface," Emmari says as they leave the bridge, her pace quickening. "Master Nima will update us when we land. Let the clones handle the initial push while we gather information." Dia nods, her hand resting against her lightsaber, her thumb brushing the hilt. "Of course, Master," she says, her voice betraying the nervous edge she tries to hide.

Emmari glances at her, her expression softening. "Trust in the Force, Dia. With the full Legion behind us, the Separatists should capitulate quickly." Her words are meant to reassure, but Dia can't shake the gnawing doubt in her mind. The Force feels restless, as if warning her of something yet to come.

They step into the hangar, the roar of engines, the clatter of boots, and the sharp orders echoing around them. Emmari strides towards one of the waiting gunships, but Dia hesitates. Her hand moves to her left lekku, her fingers stroking gently, her eyes closed, trying to control the fear running through her veins. The fear prickling at the edges of her mind, the unknown waiting below them—it all tightens around her heart.

A hand on her shoulder breaks her concentration. "Commander? You all right?" Zell’s voice cuts through her thoughts, concern in his eyes.

Dia blinks, forcing a smile. "I… I'm just preparing for the landing. First time in a… well, you know," she admits softly, the word "battle" left unspoken, its weight lingering between them. She hates that she feels this way—Jedi are supposed to be fearless, but the anxiety gnaws at her, refusing to let go.

Zell's frown deepens, but he nods. "We've got a couple of shinies with us, too. It’s their first battle. You’re not alone, Dia. We’re bred for this. It'll be fine." He gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before stepping back, his expression softening. "Just stay close, and you'll be alright. We look out for each other."

His reassurance, as simple as it is, calms her slightly. She takes a deep breath, feeling the tightness in her chest loosen a fraction. "Thank you, Zell," she says, pushing the fear down, the blaring of the alarm signalling their exit from hyperspace. She glances towards her master, already aboard the gunship, then back at Zell. "May the Force be with you," she says, before jogging towards the waiting transport, her fingers drumming lightly against her saber hilt, each step taking her closer to the chaos below.

She climbs aboard the gunship, settling in beside her master. Emmari gives her a reassuring nod, her eyes filled with quiet confidence. Dia closes her eyes, taking in the steady hum of the engines, the chatter of the clones around her, and the subtle vibrations that seem to echo through the ship's entire frame. She focuses on her breathing, each inhalation and exhalation calming her nerves as they prepare for the inevitable descent into chaos.

A moment later, the Venator drops back into real space with the main hangar doors opening, allowing the lead flight of escorting V-19 Torrents to launch into space, followed by the LAATs with infantry and a few carrying AT-TEs. Dia holds onto the side of the gunship while it flies towards the planet, the interior dark apart from a dim red light, the only sounds being the thrum of the engines, the breathing of the passengers, and the creak of the leather straps above them that are being held onto. The red light bathes everything in an eerie glow, and Dia watches as the clone troopers silently prepare themselves, each one lost in his thoughts, focused and calm. Her heart pounds in her chest, but she breathes in, then out, feeling the Force flow through her, the threads of energy that connect her to her master, to Zell, to every clone aboard this ship. It is a reminder that she is not alone.

The descent to the surface is turbulent, the gunship swaying as it enters the atmosphere, each jolt shaking Dia to her core. The clones around her remain calm, focused, their helmets on, their weapons ready. Dia watches them, drawing strength from their confidence. She grips her lightsaber tightly, her thumb brushing the activation switch, seeking reassurance in the familiar touch. Most of the planet is overtaken by sprawling urban areas, with only a few areas of mountains breaking through the lines of towering buildings. The city below comes into view, smoke rising from several locations, the flashes of blaster fire visible even from this height. Her stomach twists, but she forces herself to stay calm, drawing on the Force to steady her as she feels a surge of pain through the Force, the overwhelming suffering of those caught in the battle pressing on her senses like a crushing weight.

Emmari taps her comm as soon as it starts flashing. She nods slightly while listening to what is being said. "OK, we will reroute to assist there," she says before switching to the ship's intercom. "Pilot, the droids have launched a major attack. Land us as close to the front as you can."

Dia steadies herself as the gunship seems to drop away beneath her, the sudden dive between the buildings making her stomach lurch. The city rushes past them, the tops of buildings a blur of metal and glass as they weave their way through the urban landscape. With the gunship doors sliding open, they are hit by the rush of wind, Dia's lekku tensing slightly to stop them from being blown about too much. Along with the wind, the sounds of explosions and blaster fire fill the cabin, a reminder of the chaos waiting for them below. The moment the gunship touches the ground, the clones rush out to reinforce the 72nd Legion clones, the dark red armour of the 42nd standing out against the green of the other Legion. Dia steps out of the gunship, drawing her lightsaber but hesitating to ignite it, the pain she feels through the Force making her pause, the weight of the suffering pressing down on her shoulders.

"Goddess, guide me," Dia whispers in Ryl, her voice almost lost in the cacophony of battle. She closes her eyes for a moment, drawing on her training to block out as much of the pain as she can before igniting her lightsaber, the azure blade springing to life, its hum a reassuring constant amidst the chaos.

With her saber ignited, Dia rushes forward after her master, following the purple glow of Emmari's lightsaber, which is already spinning to deflect blaster fire. Dia leaps up next to Emmari, her own lightsaber moving to intercept the blaster bolts aimed their way. She looks out at the approaching droid army—hundreds of B1 battle droids marching in rigid formation, with AATs rumbling behind them, their cannons trained on the Republic line. The sheer number of them is staggering, and Dia has to steel herself against the fear that rises in her chest.

"Master Nima is to our left; we need to hold off these droids before we can plan our next moves," Emmari says, her voice calm despite the blaster rounds flying at and around them. Dia can feel her master's focus, her unwavering confidence, and it helps to steady her own nerves.

"Yes, Master," Dia replies, ducking slightly as the AT-TEs behind them fire their massive cannons overhead, the resulting explosions ripping through the droid formations. The ground shakes, and Dia feels the heat of the blasts even from where she stands, her lekku twitching at the vibrations. She moves in sync with her master, their lightsabers creating arcs of light as they deflect blaster bolts and cut down the droids that press forward.

With the reinforcements arriving and gunships flying overhead, it doesn't take long before the droid attack starts to falter. The majority of the droids lie destroyed in front of the line, their parts scattered across the street, while the remaining units fall back under heavy fire from the clones. As the fighting dies down, Dia feels the tension in her chest begin to ease, though the pain and fear in the Force still linger. She deactivates her lightsaber, taking a deep breath to steady herself as she looks around at the aftermath of the battle.

The two Legions work together to tend to their injured, the clone medics moving swiftly from one soldier to the next. Dia watches for a moment, the efficiency of their movements a stark contrast to the chaos of the battle that had raged only moments before. She follows her master as they make their way down the line, heading towards the other Jedi. Her steps feel heavy, each one weighed down by the lingering echoes of pain she had felt during the battle.

"Master Nima, Padawan Vaal," Emmari greets the Mirialan Jedi Master and her Togruta Padawan with a nod, her voice carrying over the background noise of the soldiers regrouping. The sight of the other Jedi is a comfort to Dia, a reminder that they are not alone in this fight.

"Master Vinives, Padawan Olan," Runi Nima replies, her green skin coated in dust, her expression weary but relieved. "I'm thankful you arrived when you did. If you come this way, Commander Rov should be able to update us on the situation." She motions towards a small command post set up behind the line, makeshift but functional, with a holomap projecting the current state of the battlefield.

Dia follows her master, her gaze shifting to Zela Taal, the Togruta Padawan. Zela offers her a tired smile, her face streaked with dirt, her montrals drooping slightly from exhaustion. Dia returns the smile, her heart lifting slightly at the sight of her friend. The sight of a familiar face amidst the chaos brings a sense of normalcy, however fleeting.

"It's good to see you, Dia... even if the circumstances could be better," Zela says, her voice heavy with fatigue. There is a tightness in her shoulders, the exhaustion evident not just in her face but in her entire posture.

"Same, Zela. The Temple wasn't the same without you. I was so relieved when I heard we were coming here—I was worried about you," Dia admits, bumping her shoulder against Zela's. Despite the grime and the tension in the air, there's a warmth between them, a small comfort amidst the chaos. The bond they share is a reminder of better times, and for a moment, Dia allows herself to remember those times, to draw strength from them.

"I would feel the same if our positions were reversed," Zela says, her lips quirking in a faint smile. "Though I still wish you could have avoided this. The Seppies are hiding in the buildings, fighting us block by block... it's a mess." Her voice trails off, and she looks out at the ruins around them, her eyes filled with a tired resignation.

Dia nods, her expression softening. "I wish you weren't here either. This..." She gestures to the ruins around them, the smoke still rising from the buildings. "It doesn't feel right. We should be protectors, not soldiers." Her hand brushes against Zela's, a silent show of support. The weight of what they are being asked to do feels wrong, and she knows Zela feels it too.

The two Padawans exchange a look, the weight of their shared feelings hanging between them, before they turn their attention back to their masters as they reach the command post. Commander Neva and Rov are already there, both focused on the holomap displayed on the table in front of them, their expressions grim.

"Commanders, what is the situation?" Emmari asks, her eyes scanning the map, her focus intense. The holomap flickers slightly, showing the layout of the city, key positions marked in red and green.

"Generals," Commander Rov begins, his finger tracing a line on the map, "With the attack repulsed, the droids are pulling back to the next block. However, there are still multiple lines of defense between us and the governor's palace. Intelligence indicates that's where the Separatist general is commanding from." The map shifts, zooming in on the palace. "The palace is heavily shielded, with multiple AA emplacements. We'll have to approach on the ground."

Runi leans against the holotable, her eyes narrowing as she studies the layout. "My Legion is tired but still able to support yours," she says, her voice firm despite the exhaustion Dia can feel radiating from her through the Force. There is a determination in her voice, a refusal to back down, despite everything they have already faced.

Emmari nods. "Agreed. Once the 42nd is fully landed and organized, we will begin preparations for the advance." She turns to Neva. "Commander, start making the necessary preparations."

Neva nods, stepping away from the table to relay the orders to his officers, his movements efficient and purposeful, each step carrying the weight of their mission.

"Commander Rov, begin organizing the rest and resupply of our troops," Runi adds, her gaze shifting to the clones tending to the injured. "Master Vinives, my Padawan, and I will assist in the attack. We can also share what we've learned about the Separatist general's tactics so far." There is a quiet confidence in her voice, a strength that Dia draws comfort from.

"Your help is appreciated," Emmari replies. "It will take a few hours for us to prepare. In the meantime, rest while you can. We will cover the front." She glances at Rov, who nods in agreement before stepping away to see to his duties.

Runi gives a nod of thanks before turning to leave the command center. Zela hesitates for a moment, her gaze lingering on Dia, a question in her eyes.

"Master, unless you need me, I'd like to inspect the camp and help with the preparations," Dia says, her voice hopeful, the desire to do something to help driving her.

Emmari gives her an approving nod. "Go ahead, Padawan. Ensure everything is ready for when we move out."

Dia quickly steps over to Zela, falling into step beside her as they head towards the mess area. "I'm sure you have something you could actually be doing instead of tagging along with me," Zela says, a teasing note in her voice despite her exhaustion. There is a lightness to her words that brings a smile to Dia's face.

"I could probably find something, but honestly, I'd just get in the way. Besides, I like spending time with you," Dia says, a small smile playing on her lips as they sit down, each taking a ration bar. The mess area is bustling, clones moving back and forth, the air filled with the hum of conversation and the clatter of metal.

Zela's montrals darken slightly, her face turning away as she tries to hide her smile. She looks back at Dia, her expression softening. "I like spending time with you too. It feels... strange, being here with you instead of sneaking around the Temple." She pauses, her gaze dropping, her fingers brushing against the edge of her ration bar. "This is all so different."

Dia leans into Zela's side, their lekku brushing gently against Zela's montrals. "I know what you mean. We were taught to be peacekeepers, to help people... and now we're here, fighting a war." Her voice drops, her words barely audible over the distant sounds of blaster fire. "I hate it." There is a vulnerability in her voice, an admission of the fear she has tried to keep hidden.

Zela reaches out, her hand finding Dia's and giving it a gentle squeeze. "I know. I hate it too." They sit in silence, the weight of the war pressing down on them, but for a moment, they find solace in each other's presence, the noise of the battlefield fading into the background as they share a quiet moment of connection. The bond between them, forged through their shared experiences, is a source of strength, something to hold onto in the midst of the chaos.

The sound of an explosion in the distance pulls them back to reality, and Dia sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. "We should get moving. There's still a lot to do." She stands, offering Zela a hand.

Zela takes it, her fingers lingering for a moment before she pulls herself up. "Yeah. Let's go." Together, they make their way through the camp, the noise of preparation surrounding them, each step taking them closer to the inevitable battle ahead.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

II

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Zela stands amidst the other Jedi, the sounds of the clones preparing to begin the attack and the reverberations of the AT-TE and their gears audible to her sensitive montrals. The air is thick with tension and anticipation, a mix of clanking metal, murmured orders, and the distant hum of machinery. She inhales deeply, trying to centre herself as the chaos around her seems to swell, and the acrid scent of smoke fills her lungs. She steps closer to the two Jedi masters when Commander Neva steps away for a moment, standing next to Dia and looking towards the ruined buildings in front of them, the crumbling facades etched against the backdrop of smoke-streaked skies and the distant flashes of combat.

"Are you ready, Padawans?" Master Runi asks the two of them, breaking them out of their thoughts. The weight of the question hits Zela, her montrals twitching slightly as she tries to maintain her composure, the latent anxiety palpable in the tightness of her body.

"Yes, Master," Zela says, her voice steady though her montrals betray her anxiety, twitching slightly. Dia nods in agreement, her expression equally determined, even though Zela can sense the tension in her posture. They exchange a glance, a shared moment of understanding—neither of them truly knows what awaits, but they are ready to face it together.

"Good. Make sure you stay close, and the Force will guide us. The clones will lead the assault with us following behind to react to anything," Runi says before stepping away, her presence exuding a calm that Zela desperately tries to absorb. The Force resonates with her master's confidence, a stillness in the midst of the storm that Zela tries to grasp.

Zela reaches out to squeeze Dia's shoulder, a comforting gesture between friends before following her master to the company from the 72nd Legion joining the attack. The moments before an attack always feel stretched, the tension pulling at Zela's mind like a taut wire, vibrating with the energy of all those around her. She can feel the emotions of the clones, their disciplined focus mingling with underlying fear and anticipation. Bang on time, the attack begins, the clones from the 42nd pushing forward, their red armour striking vivid contrast against the grey rubble, blaster rifles held at the ready.

The clones hurry across the road, their bodies low and their movements efficient as they dart from cover to cover, making their way to the next set of buildings. Zela watches them, admiring their coordination and bravery. Even though they are all identical, each clone's mannerisms and stance make them individuals to her—a product of the time she has spent fighting alongside them.

Once the lead elements of clones are across the road, Zela follows Runi with their company of clones advancing along the left flank. Dia and Emmari take the right, AT-TEs marching between them with mechanical precision, their gears groaning with each step. The air is quiet, almost holding its breath, waiting for the first blaster shot to pierce the uneasy silence. Zela spins her green lightsaber in her hand, a subconscious ritual to focus her energy, her montrals attuned to every sound, from the muffled footsteps to the distant hum of droid engines. Each sound makes her hyper-aware of her surroundings, the weight of the uncertainty gnawing at her.

The advance makes steady progress, the cityscape around them feeling eerily deserted. The droids seemingly have fallen back, leaving empty streets and abandoned buildings behind. The windows gape like hollow eyes, the occasional flutter of torn fabric or shifting of debris the only movement. The tension builds as they move forward, the sense that something is lurking just out of sight growing stronger with every step. Zela's montrals twitch, her senses on high alert as the city feels like a trap ready to spring.

The column passes underneath one of the many bridges between buildings. Zela hears the faint, unmistakable sound of beeping—an electronic, rhythmic chirp that sends her montrals on high alert, her body tensing as her head snaps upwards. Runi's eyes widen as she looks upwards, her voice ringing out across the group.

"Ambush! The bridge is going to..." Runi starts to shout, her arm raising as she uses the Force to push the clones out from under the bridge just as a series of explosions ring out above them. The structure groans under the strain, and then the central span collapses, crashing down in a deafening roar.

Zela sprints forward, the Force flowing through her as she helps the clones who stumble, her senses heightened as rubble rains down. The central span of the bridge comes crashing down behind them, throwing up a thick cloud of dust and debris that chokes the air. Shielding her eyes with her arm, Zela can only see what is illuminated by her lightsaber or the faint glow of Runi's blade. The world is a haze of grey dust and shadow, but Zela feels the pulse of the Force as Runi channels it, clearing the air around them to restore their vision. The clones rise, some coughing from the dust, others already helping their fallen comrades to their feet.

As the dust settles, Zela takes in the scene. Their path backward is completely blocked by the collapsed bridge, a heap of twisted metal and shattered duracrete. The clones closest to the collapse are picking themselves up, medics already moving through them, checking for injuries. The scene is chaotic, and Zela's heart aches seeing the wounded troopers being tended to. The clones, resilient and disciplined, rise despite their injuries, ready to press on. The bravery of the clones fills her with both admiration and sorrow, knowing how much they are willing to endure.

"Master Vinives is organising the rest of the column to find another route to join us, but we are going to keep going," Runi says, her voice calm but firm, standing beside Zela. There is an unspoken urgency in her words—they cannot afford to be delayed, not with the enemy so near.

Zela nods, her eyes scanning the horizon, her montrals picking up every distant rumble and vibration. She opens her mouth to respond when her montrals pick up the faint sound of engines approaching rapidly. She frowns, her senses narrowing in on the noise. "Master, something is approaching from our front," she says, her head turning to locate the source of the sound.

Runi turns to look in the direction Zela indicates, her eyes narrowing just as a flight of vulture droids appears around a corner, screaming down the main road towards them. Shouts of alarm rise from the clones, their blaster rounds streaking upwards to meet the oncoming threat. The two AT-TEs on this side of the rubble brace, their cannons swivelling to target the droids. The air fills with the roar of engines, the whine of blaster fire, and the shouted commands of the clones.

"We need to keep moving. They clearly want to trap us here. V-19s are already on their way," Runi calls out, her lightsaber raised as she waves the column forward. The clones begin advancing, even as the impacts from the vulture droid strafing run send shockwaves through the street, shaking the ground beneath their feet. Zela can feel the vibration in her montrals, the intense pressure and noise is almost overwhelming.

Zela ducks behind her lightsaber, deflecting a stray bolt as the blaster cannons of the vulture droids hit the side of a building next to them, sending chunks of duracrete raining down. She looks up, watching as the vulture droids circle back around for another attack run. Her heart pounds in her chest, her grip on her lightsaber tightening as she readies herself, preparing to either dodge or defend against the next barrage. But just as the droids come into range, a flight of V-19s streaks across the sky, tearing through the pack of vultures. One of the vulture droids takes a direct hit, spiralling out of control before crashing into a building, the resulting explosion sending a plume of fire and smoke into the air.

Zela feels a fleeting moment of relief—they were only fighting droids, not sentient beings—but it is quickly replaced by shame as her eyes fall on the lifeless form of a clone trooper at the edge of a crater left by the blaster cannon impact. The dogfight continues above them, the roar of engines and the staccato of laser fire echoing through the narrow streets. The clones press forward, their determination unwavering, even as the chaos unfolds around them. Zela can feel their resolve, the collective will to keep advancing, no matter the cost.

Zela moves with her master, her senses heightened, her montrals picking up the faintest sounds—the hum of droid servos, the clank of metal feet. She suddenly has to duck as a blaster bolt flies past her montrals, her eyes snapping upward. The buildings ahead are bristling with emplaced droids, their blaster rifles trained on the advancing clones. The AT-TEs begin to return fire, their top cannons thundering as they unleash heavy volleys towards the entrenched droids. Clones take cover along the sides of the street, using whatever rubble and debris they can find. The street turns into a chaotic battlefield, the sounds of blaster fire deafening as the clones push forward.

Runi stands atop a piece of collapsed duracrete, her lightsaber a blur as she deflects the incoming blaster bolts. Zela rushes to her side, her own saber swinging in swift, precise arcs, her focus entirely on protecting her master. Blaster bolts streak towards them, and Zela feels the heat of each shot as she parries it away, her movements fluid and instinctual, her montrals twitching in response to the pressure changes around her.

"Master! What do we do?" Zela shouts, her voice barely audible over the cacophony of battle.

"We need to clear these buildings if we're to keep moving!" Runi replies, her voice steady despite the chaos. "Master Vinives will assault the right building. We will take the left."

Runi gestures to the clone officer beside her, giving the order to begin the assault. Zela nods, determination setting her features as she follows close behind Runi, her lightsaber ready. She glances across the street, catching sight of Dia's azure blade as it moves in a graceful arc, the blue glow illuminating her friend amidst the chaos. There is a shared sense of purpose between them—a connection forged through their time growing up together in the temple and now with being forced into this war.

Runi extends a hand, the Force flowing from her as she rips the door to the building open, allowing the clones to rush inside. The first few floors are eerily empty, the rooms filled with signs of hurried evacuation—overturned furniture, scattered datapads, and hastily abandoned equipment. Zela can feel the tension mounting with each step they take, the anticipation of the coming fight pressing heavily on her senses, her montrals twitching in response to every creak of the floor beneath them.

It isn't until they reach the higher floors that they encounter resistance. Battle droids, their blasters raised, open fire the moment the clones enter the corridor. The clones respond immediately, their blaster fire cutting through the narrow space. Zela steps forward, her lightsaber a blur of green as she deflects the incoming bolts, advancing with deliberate precision. She steps past a pair of fallen clones, her heart clenching at the sight, but she pushes the emotion aside, focusing on the fight in front of her.

The droids press their attack, their blasters firing in rapid succession. Zela moves in sync with her master, their lightsabers weaving a deadly dance, each movement purposeful and efficient. As the clones advance, Zela steps back, allowing Runi to take the lead. She extends her hand, drawing on the Force as she sends a powerful wave forward, the energy slamming into the ranks of battle droids, throwing them back. The destroyed droids crash into those still standing, creating a momentary break in the line.

"Now!" Runi calls out, her voice sharp. She and Zela rush forward, their lightsabers cutting through the remaining droids, the corridor filled with the sounds of blaster fire and the hum of their sabers. Sparks fly as droids fall, their parts scattered across the floor in smoking heaps.

Zela's heart pounds as they clear the floor, her breath coming in quick bursts. She takes a moment to steady herself, her montrals twitching as she listens for any additional movement above or below. The stillness that follows is disconcerting, the silence almost deafening after the chaos of battle.

Runi turns to her, her eyes meeting Zela's. "Good work, Padawan. We need to push further up, regroup with the rest." She motions for the clones to follow, her eyes scanning the corridor for any further threats.

They move again, making their way through the narrow halls, the echoes of their footsteps seeming to stretch endlessly. Zela feels her montrals prickling, her senses still heightened. Each step feels like a small victory, a testament to their will to keep going, even as fatigue threatens to overtake them.

The building is a maze, each turn revealing more abandoned rooms, more signs of battle—scorch marks from blaster fire, the occasional shattered helmet or fallen droid. The atmosphere is oppressive, the weight of what has happened here pressing down on Zela's shoulders. But she keeps moving, her lightsaber held at the ready, her master's presence a steadying influence beside her.

They finally reach a point, the view of the battlefield below a chaotic tableau of smoke, fire, and movement. Zela takes a moment to look out the shattered window, her eyes scanning the chaos below. The tanks and clones are firing in multiple directions, their blasters lighting up the darkened cityscape like a chaotic constellation. The air vibrates with the thundering sounds of artillery and blaster fire, accompanied by the sharp hiss of bolts being deflected. One of the tanks has a front leg collapsed, a testament to the intensity of the ongoing skirmish. Smoke and sparks rise from its damaged leg, and Zela can almost feel the desperation of the clones trying to keep it operational. Zela leans out the window slightly, her gaze drawn down the side roads they are caught between. Her breath catches, and she has to hold back a gasp of fear. Droids, rows upon rows of them, are marching forward in perfect formation, their metal bodies reflecting the dim light ominously. Behind them, the large tri-droids lumber forward, their heavy mechanical legs shaking the ground beneath them with each thunderous step.

"Kriff! Master! Multiple droids are flanking the column with tri-droids!" Zela shouts, her voice edged with urgency as she turns to Runi. Her heartbeat quickens, pounding against her ribs as adrenaline courses through her veins.

Runi pauses, her gaze narrowing as she assesses the situation. She takes a breath, her expression hardening with resolve. "Padawan, you take this group of clones and keep clearing out the droids. I will deal with the tri-droids," she says, her tone commanding and leaving no room for argument. Without waiting for a response, she rushes off, her lightsaber igniting in a brilliant violet flash as she leaps from the window, disappearing into the chaos below.

Zela blinks, her lekku twitching in surprise and nervousness. The abrupt departure leaves her with an unfamiliar weight of responsibility pressing down on her shoulders, a weight that she isn't sure she is ready to bear. She takes a deep breath, feeling her heart pounding as she turns to the clones who look to her for direction. Their tense stances and the readiness in their eyes speak of trust and expectation. She can’t let them down. "Let's keep going! Only a few more floors, and we should connect with the 42nd," she says, trying to infuse her voice with confidence, her eyes meeting those of the clones. They nod in response, their trust bolstering her resolve. She can't afford to show fear now. They need her to lead.

They move as a unit, Zela leading the charge up the stairwell. Her lightsaber is a green blur, deflecting blaster bolts and slicing through battle droids as they push upward. She channels the Force to throw debris and rubble at the droids, breaking their lines of fire and disrupting their formations. The narrow confines of the stairwell amplify every sound, the blaster fire echoing off the walls, mixed with the mechanical clanking of droids and the cries of pain from wounded clones. Zela tries to shut out the noise, focusing on each movement, each step forward. Her lightsaber hums as she swings it, her connection to the Force guiding her movements. Suddenly, she feels the flicker of a clone's presence in the Force blink out, extinguished in an instant. Her heart clenches painfully, but she forces herself to press on, the weight of the lives lost pushing her forward rather than holding her back.

They reach a landing, and Zela takes a moment to catch her breath. The clones around her are equally exhausted, their armor scarred with blaster burns and signs of the battle they have endured. She gives them a nod, their silent resolve giving her strength. "Just one more floor," she says, her voice quieter now, but filled with determination. The clones acknowledge her with weary nods, their grips tightening on their blasters as they ready themselves for whatever lies ahead.

She spins out from behind the corner, the Force surging through her as she sends a door flying off its hinges, smashing into the droids beyond. Her lightsaber slices through the first few battle droids, her body moving on instinct, each step deliberate. She feels the Force flowing through her, guiding her every move, her senses heightened to every danger around them.

Suddenly, a heavy blaster bolt cuts through the air, and Zela narrowly dodges to the side, the heat of the bolt grazing her cheek as it slams into the wall beside her, sending shards of duracrete flying. She hears the pained cry of a clone behind her, her heart sinking at the sound. She shifts her stance into a defensive one, her gaze locking onto the two super battle droids in front of her. Their heavy blasters are aimed directly at her, and she can see the cold, mechanical malice behind their glowing eyes. There is no hesitation in her movements as she rushes towards them, her lightsaber weaving in fluid arcs, deflecting their shots to the side. The clones behind her open fire, their blaster bolts cutting through the smaller droids that flank the supers.

Zela ducks under the extended arm of the nearest super battle droid, her lightsaber cutting through it in one swift, clean stroke. She continues her swing upward, severing the arm of the second droid before pulling her blade back and driving it through its chest, sparks flying as the droid crumples to the ground. She stands there for a moment, chest heaving, her senses on high alert for any remaining threats. The tension in her body is like a coiled spring, ready to release at any moment.

With the last of the droids destroyed, Zela takes a deep breath, steadying herself before opening the door to the bridge that connects to the next building. The cold wind rushes through the opening, and she squints against the grit that blows in her face. The tension in her body eases slightly when she sees Dia already there, her azure blade moving in graceful arcs as she dispatches the droids blocking their path. Each movement is fluid, almost like a dance, and Zela can't help but admire her friend's skill and grace under pressure. There is a strength and confidence in Dia's movements that Zela envies, and yet it also fills her with pride.

Stepping onto the bridge, Zela reaches out with the Force, pulling a group of droids backward towards her. Their metal bodies clatter against the ground, their limbs flailing as she swings her lightsaber through them, severing their torsos. Dia slides to a stop beside her, her breathing slightly labored but her eyes sharp and focused. She inspects the destroyed droids briefly before turning to wave the 42nd Legion clones back, signaling them to regroup and fall in behind them.

"I take it Master Nima went to deal with the droids below as well?" Dia asks, her voice breathless as she joins Zela in retracing their steps through the building they had just fought through.

Zela nods, her lekku twitching slightly. "Yeah, I spotted the tri-droids, and she left me in charge of clearing the building," she says, her tone betraying a hint of frustration. Despite being Runi's Padawan since before the war, Zela still isn't used to being left to lead like this. The weight of responsibility feels almost overwhelming, the lives of those around her an impossible burden to bear.

Dia reaches out, her hand squeezing Zela's forearm gently, her touch warm and reassuring. "My master did the same. I doubt we should be leading people into battle," she whispers, her gaze shifting to the clones in front of them, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Zela places her hand on top of Dia's, her eyes lingering on the defined muscles of Dia's arm as her montrals darken slightly. "I agree, but the Council says that it is the will of the Force... Wait! You’re injured," Zela says, her voice suddenly filled with concern as her eyes land on a scorched mark along Dia's arm. A flash of fear runs through her, her heart pounding in her chest at the sight.

"Ahh, yeah. I was just going to get a bacta patch when we got back down," Dia starts to say, but Zela is already focusing, her hand hovering over the wound as she reaches out with the Force. She lets the energy flow through her, her eyes closing as she takes her time to restore the damaged tissue, the warmth of the Force radiating from her hand as Dia's wound begins to heal. The burn slowly fades, leaving nothing but smooth, unblemished skin behind.

"You should have just told me," Zela says softly, her hand squeezing Dia's arm gently once the wound is gone, her eyes lifting to meet Dia's.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to worry you, but I can see now that I just made you worry more," Dia replies, her lips curving into a small, sheepish smile as she bumps her shoulder into Zela's. "I'm always impressed by your control of the Force. You've always been better at it than me," Dia adds, her smile widening.

Zela turns her head slightly, her montrals darkening further in embarrassment, though there's a spark of joy in her eyes at the compliment. "Well, you pretty much always beat me in sparring practice," she says, her voice softening as she allows herself a small smile.

"We each have our own skills..." Dia says, her voice trailing off as she seems lost in thought, her gaze distant for a moment. Her eyes linger on the clones ahead of them, their expressions masked by helmets, yet their movements telling a story of fatigue and unwavering determination.

Zela gives Dia's arm another reassuring squeeze before they make their way out of the building, stepping back into the chaos of the street. The smell of smoke and burning metal fills the air, thick and acrid in her throat, and the sky above is a swirling mess of grey clouds and flashes of red and blue. They quickly make their way back to their masters, their lightsabers still drawn as they remain alert for any signs of movement. The devastation around them is clear—buildings reduced to rubble, droids lying in pieces, and clones working tirelessly to maintain their positions.

"Padawans, good work clearing the buildings. We will be continuing the march shortly. The rest of the column should be regrouping with us soon, and then we will be able to begin the siege of the palace," Master Vinives says, her robes scorched slightly along the bottom edges, her expression tired but resolute. She gives them a nod of approval, her eyes reflecting both pride and exhaustion.

Zela looks down the side roads, her eyes scanning the mass of broken droids and the smoking wrecks of the tri-droids. The sight is both a reminder of their victory and the cost it took to achieve it. She turns back to the Jedi masters, bowing her head slightly. "Thank you, Master," she says, her voice filled with determination.

Master Nima nods as well. "Would recommend you prepare in case the Separatists prepare any more traps for us," Runi says, her eyes flicking to the Padawans before turning back to the clone officers, dismissing them with a nod.

The two Padawans step away, moving towards a broken AT-TE that lies half-submerged in the rubble of a collapsed building. They lean against the side of the wreck, their bodies sagging slightly from exhaustion as they lean into each other for support, their lekku and montrals touching in a comforting gesture. Zela unclips her canteen, taking a long drink of water before passing it to Dia, who takes it with a grateful nod. Dia hesitates for a moment, her gaze distant before she finally drinks, the cool water a brief respite in the midst of the chaos.

"Do you think it will get easier?" Dia asks softly, her eyes closing as she leans her head back against the AT-TE. "I can feel their pain... and when they die... it feels like a part of me is dying too." Her voice trembles, barely audible over the distant rumble of explosions. Zela can feel the grief and weariness radiating from her friend, the Force amplifying the emotional echoes of every loss they have felt that day.

Zela's expression softens, her heart aching for her friend. She struggles to find words that can bring any real comfort. "I don't know, Dia. I don't know... Part of me hopes it does if this war is to last, but another part of me hopes it never does. If we become numb to it... what will we become?" she says, her voice barely a whisper, her emotions conflicted. There is a deep fear in her words—of losing herself, of losing the compassion that makes them Jedi. The weight of their responsibilities feels crushing, the knowledge that their actions cost the lives of those who trust them.

Dia nods slightly, her gaze fixed on the horizon, where the sky is painted with smoke and fire. "Yeah... Once we have time, I'll speak to Master Vinives about it. Maybe she has some advice," she says, her hand running absently over one of her lekku, the familiar motion seeming to comfort her. The uncertainty in her voice mirrors Zela's own fears, a shared vulnerability that they seldom allow themselves to acknowledge. It hurts to admit that they might need guidance, that they are struggling to bear the burden of being leaders in a war.

Zela shifts closer, resting more of her weight against Dia, her presence warm and reassuring. She reaches out with the Force, extending it towards her friend, hoping to provide her with some comfort, just as Dia has done for her countless times during their years at the temple. She lets the warmth of the Force envelop them both, forming a gentle cocoon around their weary minds. "We’re in this together," she murmurs, her voice soft but resolute. The Force carries the unspoken promise between them—that they will endure, that they will hold each other up when the darkness threatens to overwhelm them.

The emotional weight of the moment hangs between them, the quiet understanding that they have each other in times like this. Zela can feel Dia’s fear and sorrow mingling with her own, the rawness of the emotions almost overwhelming in its intensity. She knows Dia can feel it too—each clone's pain, their sudden absence from the Force like a light snuffed out, never to return. It is a wound that does not heal, a scar that keeps growing with every mission, every loss.

The moment of rest is broken by the sound of shouted orders, the call to resume marching. The red armour of the rest of the 42nd Legion is visible now, weaving through the broken droids along the side roads as they regroup. Zela and Dia exchange a glance, their expressions hardening with resolve as they push away from the AT-TE, their lightsabers igniting once more. The weight of the losses they’ve felt is still there, but now it fuels their determination. The battle is far from over, and they will face whatever comes next together, as Padawans, as friends, and as Jedi. And in that unity, they find their strength—however fragile it may be.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

III

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Dia can't help but duck slightly when another explosion shakes the ground due to its proximity, her body reacting instinctively to the shockwave. Standing up straight again, she fidgets with her lightsaber, her fingers tracing the hilt as if seeking comfort. She stands beside Master Emmari and Commander Neva, her eyes flicking towards the horizon where plumes of smoke rise against the backdrop of the shielded palace.

"General, the Seppies are well dug in around the palace, and the shield is stopping our heavy guns," Neva says while looking out at the battered and scorched ground between the clone positions and the blue shield protecting the droids. The tension in his voice is subtle but unmistakable, his gaze fixed on the problem that stands between them and victory.

"Hold the Legion back for now," Emmari replies, her voice calm despite the situation. "Another assault will likely meet the same fate. We need to bring down that shield."

"Then we will need to get inside the shield to do it," Neva says after a moment, his eyes narrowing as he evaluates the situation, considering options in the midst of uncertainty.

"Master, isn't the governor's palace connected to the underground waterways?" Dia asks, the thought suddenly coming to her, a memory from the briefing and what she had read about the planet.

Emmari's eyes narrow slightly, considering the suggestion. "It is, but they collapsed the tunnel to make them impassable," Neva answers, shaking his head. "We sent scouts down when we arrived, and any attempt at clearing the rubble would give the plan away, would take too long, or be audible."

Emmari pauses, looking at Dia thoughtfully. "No, it's a good idea. A clone might not be able to do it, but what about a Jedi—or a Padawan?" she says, her gaze shifting to Dia. "Commander, get a team ready to assault the palace via the waterways and then prepare the rest of the Legion for once the shield comes down."

"Master, are you sure I should be the one to lead this?" Dia asks, a slight shake in her voice and her lekku twitching nervously. Her eyes search Emmari's for reassurance, but all she finds is expectation. The weight of her master’s decision settles heavily on her chest as Neva moves away to begin organizing the operation.

"It is your idea, and a good one," Emmari replies, her voice firm but not unkind. "Trust in the Force, and you will be fine. I'll contact Master Nima to see if her Padawan can join this mission to assist with the rubble. I've heard her ability with the Force is impressive for her age." Emmari’s gaze lingers on Dia, and despite her attempts to hide it, Dia feels judged, measured by the high expectations of her master.

Dia nods slowly before turning to walk towards the nearest access point to the waterways below. Her thoughts linger on her master's words about trusting in the Force. She wants to find comfort in those words, to trust fully like Emmari and the Council seem to, but it’s difficult when she feels the pain radiating from the medical tent or senses the sudden absence of a clone in the Force. She shakes her head slightly, focusing on what needs to be done in the present. The worries about the Force, the uncertainties—those could be dealt with later. Right now, she had a mission.

She offers Captain Zell a small smile when she recognizes him standing with a few platoons of clones. "Captain, I take it your company is the one joining me?" she asks, nodding to the other clones assembled with him.

"Seems that way, Commander," Zell says, returning her nod. "Got a couple of platoons with us. Didn’t think we’d manage a full company through it quickly." He gestures towards the clones, who are busy prying open the access hatch leading to the tunnels below.

Two clones descend into the dark tunnel, the beams of their headlamps cutting through the shadows as they secure the bottom of the ladder. Supplies are lowered down after them, the bags filled with equipment needed for the mission. Dia stands to the side, not wanting to get in the way of the clones, when she suddenly senses a familiar presence approaching quickly. Turning, she sees Zela sprinting over, her expression a mix of concern and determination.

"Dia! What's this I hear about you leading some crazy plan?" Zela calls out, coming to a stop next to her, her eyes searching Dia's face. Her hand reaches out instinctively, before she pulls back, glancing at the clones around them.

Dia nods slightly, frowning as she looks at the open hatch. "Not that it was actually my choice or much of a plan," she says softly, her voice just loud enough for Zela to hear. "But I have to follow my master's instructions, even if I'm not sure."

Zela gives her a sympathetic look before her lips curl into a supportive smile. "Well, I’m backing you up, whether you like it or not," she says, her voice teasing but her expression serious.

Dia returns the smile, a flicker of gratitude warming her chest. She turns to face Zell as he approaches with another clone wearing an ARF helmet. "Commanders, we're ready to begin if you are," Zell says, nodding towards the hatch. "I'll have Sergeant Rose here leading the scouts up front." He indicates the clone beside him, who salutes smartly.

"I believe we’re ready," Dia says, nodding to Rose.  "We’re in your hands, Sergeant."

"I’ll see to it that we don’t run into too much trouble, Commander," Rose replies,  "My squad’s already in the tunnel, just waiting on you two." With that, she turns and begins climbing down the ladder.

"Here we go then," Dia murmurs, taking a deep breath before swinging herself onto the ladder. She places her boots against the side, sliding down into the darkness of the waterway, her lekku brushing against the sides as she descends.

The tunnel is damp, the walls slick with moisture, and a stale smell hangs in the air. Dia steps away from the ladder, avoiding the pile of supply bags as she peers into the gloom. The clones have to rely on their headlamps to see, but Dia can see faintly in the dim light provided by the small access hole above them. Her Twi'lek eyesight allows her to make out the shapes of the walls and the path ahead, even in the near-darkness. Zela soon follows, landing beside Dia and giving her a long, pointed look—the equivalent of a raised eyebrow. Dia smirks at her friend’s expression, the brief moment of lightheartedness grounding her.

The two of them ignite their lightsabers, the mix of azure and emerald light casting long, shifting shadows around them. They follow behind Rose, her squad leading the way through the narrow passage, moving carefully along the edges of the slowly flowing water. The air is filled with a distant, echoing drip, the sound of water seeping through the walls. They walk for about half an hour, their lightsabers the only source of light other than the headlamps of the clones. The darkness feels almost oppressive, closing in around them.

Finally, they reach the blockage, a collapsed section of the tunnel ahead, the path choked with rubble and debris. Rose turns, her helmet’s visor catching the light of Dia’s saber. "Right, you two are up. We’ll cover you once you get it open," she says, her tone all business. She signals her squad to take positions along the walls, blasters ready in case they encounter any resistance.

Dia looks over at Zela on the other side, her gaze meeting her friend’s. There is an unspoken understanding between them, a connection forged through years of training and friendship. They both holster their lightsabers, taking a step closer to the rubble. Reaching out with the Force, Dia feels Zela’s presence pressing against her own. It is warm, comforting, and intense, causing her lekku to sway slightly and a flush of heat to rise to her face. It is a reminder of the closeness of their bond—touching each other's presence in the Force like this feels intimate, a merging of their will and strength.

Together, they begin to lift the rubble, the Force wrapping around each stone, each broken beam. It’s slow work, and the weight of the debris bears down on them, their concentration unwavering. Dia can feel Zela’s determination resonating through the Force, mingling with her own. They lift piece by piece, moving the rubble to the sides of the walkway, stacking it where it will be least in the way. Sweat beads on Dia’s forehead as they continue, her focus narrowed to the task in front of her, the presence of her friend beside her providing the strength she needs.

The weight of the fallen stones finally begins to lessen, and Dia lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. With the last of the rubble moved, two clones rush forward, carrying emergency structural supports. They move efficiently, placing the supports against the walls and engaging them. The sound of the spikes launching into the floor and walls echoes through the tunnel, and Dia watches as the supports expand, locking into place. A bulkhead is positioned across the newly cleared opening, ready to stabilize the tunnel further.

Dia takes a step back, her shoulders aching slightly, her lekku drooping from the strain. She glances at Zela, who looks equally exhausted but offers her a reassuring smile. They had done it. The path was clear, and now the next phase of the mission could begin.

The tunnel is still and silent once the rubble has settled. The clones work efficiently, and when Rose speaks, her voice is low but filled with determination. “All secure, Commanders. We can keep moving, not far until we reach our exit into the utility building,” she says while stepping away from the wall, waving her squad forward.

Dia slowly lowers her arm, letting the rubble settle against the emergency supports before drawing her lightsaber again and igniting it. The blue blade hums softly in the darkness as she nods over to Zela, their eyes meeting briefly—an unspoken promise of support passing between them. They move forward, following the clones towards the exit point, Dia keeping her senses alert for any shift in the Force. She glances over her shoulder, squinting against the glare of the headlamps worn by the rest of the clones. Ensuring they are close behind, she crosses over one of the narrow bridges to be on the side with the ladder.

Placing a hand on the shoulder of the clone nearest to the ladder, she says, “I am going first. This was my idea,” her voice steady, though she can feel her pulse quickening. She places her foot onto the first rung of the ladder, taking a deep breath to prepare herself before beginning her climb.

“Be careful, and may the Force be with you,” Zela says, her voice carrying a slight edge of concern as she bites her lip, her sharp, fang-like canine showing in the dim light.

Dia feels a blush creep across her cheeks at the sight. She turns quickly, hoping the darkness and the faint light from her saber will hide it. With her lightsaber hilt held in one hand, she starts to ascend the ladder. Each rung she climbs, she focuses on steadying her breath and centering herself in the Force. Reaching the top, she pauses just below the access hatch, her heart pounding as she uses the Force to slowly unlock it. The hatch swings open with a soft groan, and Dia springs out, igniting her lightsaber as she lands, ready to defend against any immediate threat.

The maintenance building is eerily empty, its dim corners filled with discarded equipment and crates. Dia’s gaze sweeps the room, her senses reaching out to detect any presence, but there is none. She takes a breath, lowering her lightsaber slightly and leaning over the hatch to signal the others to climb up.

Rose is the next to emerge, her blaster carbine attached to her belt as she approaches Dia, her eyes already moving towards the covered window. She peers through a small crack, assessing the courtyard outside and the droids moving aimlessly. The rest of the clones climb up into the building one by one, their boots making muffled thuds against the metal flooring. A few tense moments later, Zell emerges, leaving the other clone officers below to organize the rear.

“Right then, Commanders,” Zell begins, his voice filtered through the comm system of his helmet, “We have two targets if we want to take down the shield and help the attack. The first is obviously the shield generator. The second is the power plant inside the palace. Taking that out should knock out their powered emplacements, heavy lasers, and any internal defenses.” He taps his tablet, bringing up a schematic of the palace, pointing at the key locations.

Dia frowns slightly as she studies the map, thinking through the options. “The priority is the shield, but if we can take out the generator as well…” she pauses, a determined glint in her eyes, “OK, here’s what I think: Zell, you lead the attack on the shield while Zela and I lead the assault on the palace. If we take out the power inside, we might have a chance to rush the general directly.” She taps her fingers against her arm, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on her shoulders.

Zell’s helmet turns towards her, and though his expression is hidden, Dia can sense his hesitation. “It could work, Commander, but you would be limited in support until the rest of the Legion arrives. I’ll need most of us to take out the generator,” he says, his voice careful.

“We can make it work, Captain. I’m sure the droids will be more focused on us than on your group, so we’ll draw most of the fire inward before the attack begins,” Zela chimes in, her confident smile never faltering. She looks at Dia, nodding slightly, her belief in the plan and in Dia evident.

Zell seems to consider her words, the silence stretching for a moment before he finally speaks. “If you’re sure… Take 3rd Platoon under Lieutenant Kosso with you, then. We’ll move out on your signal,” he says, nodding once more before stepping away to begin preparations.

Dia leans her head against the cold metal wall, closing her eyes for a moment. She feels the weariness threatening to creep in, the fear that she isn’t ready to lead such a dangerous mission. She is just a Padawan, after all. But a gentle squeeze on her shoulder pulls her from those thoughts. Zela is beside her, her eyes soft with concern.

“Just think about it like those times we had to sneak back into the temple,” Zela says, her voice light and teasing, though there is no hiding the worry that lingers beneath it.

Dia pushes back from the wall, her lips curling into a small smile. She places her hand over Zela’s briefly. “Yeah, though I seem to remember most of those times we had to sneak in were because you lost track of time,” she says, her voice taking on a teasing tone.

Zela rolls her eyes with an exaggerated scoff. “Sure, that’s what you remember,” she says, shaking her head. The brief exchange lightens the weight in Dia’s chest, if only for a moment.

The two of them approach the door, watching the clones check their weapons, their preparations meticulous. Dia’s smile fades as she takes in the sight, the reality of what they are about to do settling back in. She rolls her lightsaber across her palm, feeling the comforting weight of it. “Right then, let’s do this,” she says simply before swinging the door open and sprinting across the open plaza towards the palace.

The night is filled with tension as Dia and Zela lead the platoon across the open plaza. They move in bursts, sticking to cover with quick, deliberate movements to reduce their exposure. The clones follow closely, their blasters held at the ready. They are almost halfway across when Dia feels it—a sharp pang of warning through the Force. Her lightsaber ignites with a snap-hiss, her arm swinging up to deflect the blaster bolts that are suddenly flying towards them.

Shouts of alarm come from the droids, and blaster fire intensifies, red bolts crisscrossing the plaza. Dia's muscles tense, her senses heighten as she moves with the clones. Zela is beside her, her own lightsaber deflecting bolts with fluid, practiced motions. Together, they work in tandem, their blades weaving a protective shield for the clones who advance behind them.

The first clone reaches the palace door, slamming his fist into the access panel. The door slides open, and the clones surge forward, pushing into the palace as blaster rounds fly. Dia and Zela follow close behind, their lightsabers humming as they parry the incoming fire from the droids inside. With a final push, they manage to seal the door behind them, cutting off the droids outside and allowing them a momentary reprieve.

Dia turns her focus inward, steadying her breathing. They are in, but this is only the beginning. She needs to stay sharp. The palace is vast, and they still have a long way to go. She slides her way through the mass of clones, her senses straining as she moves to the front. She knows what needs to be done.

Reaching the front, Dia leaps over the foremost clone, her lightsaber slicing in an arc as she lands, cutting through the side of a droid. She keeps her momentum, her body moving with a precise, practiced grace. Her saber deflects blaster bolts, and she uses the Force to hurl the occasional destroyed droid back at the enemy, each movement a seamless part of the flow of battle. Zela is right there with her, the green of her lightsaber a blur as she fights beside Dia, their coordination almost instinctual.

With the support of the clones, they quickly clear the hallway of the few battle droids that have been stationed there, their smoking remains scattered across the polished floors. They can hear the distant hum of machinery and the clatter of more approaching droids. They have to move fast.

“We won’t have long until more droids arrive,” Dia says, her voice edged with urgency as she turns to Lieutenant Kosso. “Get the charges planted. The shield should come down soon.” She moves to the side of the hallway, her senses straining, listening for the telltale sounds of metal feet echoing through the palace corridors.

She glances over at Zela, their eyes meeting for a brief moment. In that look, there is no fear—only resolve. The mission isn’t over, but they are together, and that makes all the difference.

Zela and Dia stand with their lightsabers ready alongside the clones, while a squad of troopers begin planting demolition charges on the power generator. The hum of the sabers and the rhythmic clanking of metal on metal fill the tense silence of the dimly lit hallway. Barely a moment later, the distant echo of marching fills the corridor—a sound that makes Dia's heart skip a beat. The droids are pouring in, massed formations charging down the hallways. Their sheer numbers seem overwhelming, though the bottleneck of the hallway means only the front ranks can fire. The clones spread out, maximizing their firing arcs, their blasters lighting up the corridor in bursts of red and blue.

Dia feels the warning through the Force a split second too late. The sensation is sudden, and sharp. She starts to turn, her lightsaber coming up to deflect—but then she feels it—an intense shock of pain, accompanied by a chaotic mix of fear and relief. The sound of a blaster hitting flesh echoes, and she hears a strangled cry. Zela's cry.

Dia completes her turn just in time to see Zela crumple to the ground, her body falling from where she had leaped between Dia and the incoming blaster bolt. A primal surge of panic and anger floods Dia. Without hesitation, she steps in front of Zela, her focus narrowing to the droids advancing down the corridor. Blaster bolts fly past her, and she extends her hand, reaching out through the Force. A shockwave erupts from her palm, the energy sweeping up destroyed droids and sending them crashing into the ones still advancing. The mass of tangled parts collapses at the doorway, and Dia, her face twisted in anger and fear, grips the walls and ceiling with the Force. With a shout of frustration, she pulls the structure down, crumbling the doorframe and sealing the droids away behind a wall of rubble.

With those droids dealt with, Dia spins around, her heart hammering. She spots the clone medic kneeling beside Zela, working swiftly. Dia rushes over, her voice cracking as she asks, “How is she?” She can’t hide the fear, her eyes locked on Zela’s prone form.

“I am fine, or will be, at least,” Zela says, her eyes fluttering open as she grimaces in pain. The medic is carefully inspecting the blaster wound on her shoulder, his movements efficient but urgent. Dia can feel her friend's presence flickering in the Force, still strong, but tinged with pain.

“You shouldn’t have jumped in front of a blaster for me,” Dia says softly, her voice trembling. She sinks to her knees beside Zela, grabbing her friend’s hand tightly, her eyes unable to leave the scorched wound on Zela’s shoulder. The sight of her friend wounded—because of her—sends a wave of guilt surging through her.

Zela gives a weak smile, her fangs visible for just a moment. “You would have done the same for me. Besides, better my shoulder than you getting hit in the back.” She squeezes Dia’s hand, her grip surprisingly strong despite her injury. She turns her head slightly to watch the medic as he begins to pull out supplies from his kit.

Dia's eyes shift to the clone medic, Omen, as he pulls out a vial of painkillers. Her eyes widen, and she reaches out to grab his arm. “You can’t give her that, Omen. That stuff wreaks havoc on Togruta, and on Twi’leks, too,” she says, her voice sharp with urgency.

The clone medic freezes, looking down at the vial before placing it back into his kit. He glances up at Dia, his voice filled with regret. “I don’t have any other types of painkiller, I’m sorry, Commander.” The regret rolls off him, almost palpable through the Force.

Zela shakes her head slightly, her expression strained. “It’s fine, Omen. I’ve been through worse.” She looks up at Dia, her eyes soft. “Dia, can you help me? Healing myself is always harder.”

Dia nods, her determination replacing her fear. She places her hand gently over Zela’s, just above the wound. She steadies her breathing, syncing it with Zela's, and reaches out through the Force, letting her presence touch Zela’s. The connection is immediate, almost electric. Their presences seem to leap towards each other, entwining in the comforting warmth of their bond. Dia smiles softly, feeling Zela’s essence within the Force—there is peace there, and strength, and familiarity.

The sensation of their Force presences entwining is almost overwhelming, a reminder of how deep their bond truly runs. Dia allows Zela to guide her as they channel their combined focus towards the wound. The Force flows between them, intertwining, and Dia marvels at the fine control Zela has, the way she directs the energy with such precision. Slowly, the blaster wound begins to heal, the damaged tissue mending, the pain easing from Zela’s face.

Dia feels every movement of the Force, every flicker of energy, and she knows Zela does too. They are connected, their emotions open to each other. She can feel Zela's pain lessening, her relief spreading through their bond, and Dia shares in that relief. She focuses on the wound, watching it close inch by inch, her heart swelling with hope as she sees her friend heal.

With the wound mostly healed, Dia begins to relax her use of the Force. She feels Zela’s presence pulling away, and as she does, there is a strange sensation, almost as if the Force itself stretches between them, unwilling to let them separate. For a brief moment, it feels as though they are still connected, even as they let go. It leaves Dia with a warmth in her chest, a sense of closeness that goes beyond words.

“You really are amazing,” Dia whispers, her voice filled with admiration. She smiles widely, her sharp teeth flashing as she looks down at Zela. The warmth of their connection still lingers, making her heart swell with gratitude.

Zela’s montrals darken, a blush creeping over her features. “I… I’m nothing special. There are plenty of Jedi who are better healers than me,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes avoiding Dia's.

Dia chuckles, standing up and offering her hand to Zela, pulling her up gently. “Maybe, but they aren’t my friend. And that makes all the difference.” She gives Zela a reassuring smile before glancing around. The remnants of the battle are still scattered across the hallway, and the sounds of distant blaster fire remind her that their fight isn’t over yet. “Right, let's go see what the situation is.”

Zela follows behind Dia as they walk over to Lieutenant Kosso, who is speaking into his communicator. He looks up when they approach. “Commanders, the Generals are reporting that the Seppie commander has surrendered with his palace falling. New orders are to link up with them in the command center. Looks like we might be getting shipped off-world soon, with new troops coming in for the mopping up,” Kosso says, his tone relieved.

Dia nods, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. The thought of this battle finally being over brings a wave of relief, but she knows it is fleeting. There will be another mission, another battle. “Copy that, Kosso. If you’re good here, then we’ll head that way. See you back at camp or on the ship,” Dia says, giving the clones a nod and a wave. She turns to Zela, their eyes meeting, and together they start moving through the palace. The halls are scarred from battle, droids in pieces scattered along the way. The aftermath of the fight is evident in the scorch marks on the walls, the debris littering the floor.

As they walk, Dia can't help but glance at Zela every so often, her heart still pounding from the rush of emotions. She feels a mix of relief and guilt—relief that Zela is safe, guilt that she had been put in danger because of her. She knows Zela would say it was her choice, but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

“Thank you, Zela,” Dia says softly after a moment, her voice almost drowned out by the echoes of their footsteps. “For saving me back there.”

Zela looks over at her, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’d do the same for me. Besides, it wasn’t as bad as it looked,” she says, her tone light, though Dia can still see the exhaustion in her eyes.

They walk side by side, the weight of everything that has happened presses on Dia, but Zela’s presence beside her keeps her grounded. Every so often, their shoulders brush, and Dia takes comfort in the small contact. They are battered, weary, but they are alive—and they are together. And for now, that is enough.

They move through the ruined corridors, past destroyed droids and the remains of the battle. The air is thick with the smell of scorched metal and blaster residue. As they pass a shattered column, Zela pauses, her gaze lingering on a fallen clone trooper. She bows her head slightly, her montrals drooping in sorrow.

Dia stops beside her, her heart clenching at the sight. The clone’s armor is scorched, his blaster still clutched in his hand. She reaches out, placing her hand on Zela’s shoulder, offering silent support. “We’ll make sure their sacrifice wasn’t in vain,” she says quietly.

Zela nods, her eyes glistening. “I know. It’s just… they deserve better than this.” She looks at Dia, her expression filled with a deep sadness. “All of them do.”

Dia swallows hard, her own emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She knows Zela is right. The clones fight alongside them, risking everything, and yet they are treated as expendable. It isn’t fair. “They do,” she agrees, her voice barely above a whisper.

They linger for a moment longer before continuing on, the weight of their fallen comrades heavy on their shoulders. 

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

IV

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Zela leans into Dia as they walk through the hallway, her shoulder throbbing in pain that no amount of healing will totally take away without rest or a bacta patch. Each step is a reminder of the battle they just survived. Through the pain, her mind keeps going back to that brief moment when the Force seemed to turn cold, while also wrapping around her like a comforting blanket after she was shot and Dia turned on the droids that did it. She has never felt the Force go cold like that before, and the feeling worries her for Dia—her friend looks slightly out of it now that the fight is over, her eyes distant, almost haunted. Zela reaches out, taking Dia’s hand and giving it a soft squeeze as they walk, trying to ground both of them in the here and now, only letting go when they reach the command room.

Stepping into the room, Zela approaches the two Jedi Masters standing in front of an older human man bound in stuncuffs. The tension in the room is palpable, with the air thick from the events of the recent battle.

“Padawans, good work on your mission. We captured the Separatist General because of it. He has sent the order to shut down the rest of the droids,” Master Runi says, glancing at the two Padawans before turning back to the prisoner, her voice carrying a sense of both relief and authority.

“Ah, I was hoping that the reports of the Republic using child soldiers were wrong, but I guess it is true,” the Separatist sneers, rolling his eyes, his tone dripping with disdain.

Master Emmari looks at the Separatist with a passive expression, her eyes narrowing only slightly. “Troopers, take him away and see that he is ready for further transport,” she orders, her voice even, before turning to face Dia and Zela. “Security forces will be on their way in a few rotations. Until then, the Legion will be preparing to depart once we get new orders. We will contact the Council to alert them of the situation. The two of you should check in with a medic.”

Zela nods at the Master's words, her eyes flicking to Dia, who still looks slightly out of it, her face pale as she stares at the ground. Zela gently places a hand on Dia’s shoulder, guiding her as they move to leave the room. Stepping outside, they take in the sight of clones moving about—treating the wounded, clearing the destroyed droids to make an area clear to set up in, AT-TEs taking up positions around and outside the palace. The organized chaos of post-battle operations is in full swing. They stand there for a moment, taking in the scene before them, the weight of the battle settling heavily on their shoulders, and then Zela pulls Dia to the side.

“Dia, talk to me, are you okay?” Zela asks softly, her eyes searching Dia’s face, her voice filled with concern.

“Zels… you could have died, and it would have been my fault,” Dia says, her voice breaking with pain, tears forming in the corners of her eyes as she grips one of her lekku tightly, her entire frame trembling slightly. The admission seems to come from a deep place of fear and guilt, one that she’s been holding back.

“Me getting injured wasn’t your fault, that’s not on you,” Zela says, reaching out with her uninjured arm to place her hand on Dia’s shoulder, her touch gentle but firm, trying to provide some form of comfort.

“But it would have been! It was my plan, and I wasn’t paying enough attention to sense the bolt. I keep getting told I focus too much on what's in front of me, and it got you shot!” Dia shouts, her voice switching to Ryl halfway through, tears now streaming down her cheeks. Her lekku twitch as she struggles to control her emotions, her frustration and guilt bubbling over.

“Dia, look at me,” Zela says, her voice steady, unwavering. Dia raises her head, her eyes red and glistening as she meets Zela’s gaze. “I am fine, and I watch your back—that’s what we do for each other. You watch mine, I watch yours. That’s how we survive, together.”

“But you might not have been… For a moment, I couldn’t sense you in the Force,” Dia chokes out, her voice barely above a whisper. “I felt so cold when I turned on the droids until I could sense you again. I’ve felt your presence since the crèche—even when apart, there’s always been something. But for a moment, there was nothing… I don’t know what I would do if it was my fault that you died,” she trails off, her words dissolving into sobs, her entire body shaking with the force of her emotions.

Zela pulls Dia into a tight hug, wrapping her arms around her friend as Dia cries into her shoulder, her own heart aching at the raw pain she feels from Dia. “Shhh, I am here, and I am staying here. Nothing is going to change that,” Zela whispers, her voice filled with warmth and certainty. “It’s us two together, like it has been since the crèche, until the end.” She wraps her Force presence around Dia’s, feeling the slightly ragged edges of it—still cold, but beginning to warm as it reaches out in turn, intertwining with hers.

Dia pulls back slightly, resting her forehead against Zela’s, their eyes locking. “Yeah… you’re right. The two of us together, always. I’d like to see something try to tear us apart,” she says, her voice filled with determination, her tears still falling but her resolve evident.

Zela feels a blush creeping up her montrals as she looks into Dia’s eyes, their faces only inches apart. “Exactly. Always,” she whispers, her voice trembling just a little. They hold each other for a moment longer, the world around them fading into the background. There is something about the closeness, the intimacy of their shared presence in the Force, that makes everything else seem to melt away—just the two of them, here and now.

The moment is broken when Zela’s legs start to tremble, her body finally giving way to the exhaustion she’s been holding back. Dia feels her shaking and tightens her grip around Zela. “Zels! We need to get you to a medic! You’re exhausted,” Dia exclaims, concern flooding her voice as she quickly hooks one of Zela’s arms over her shoulders, her face set with determination.

Dia’s arm wraps around Zela’s waist, brushing against her rear lekku as she supports her friend. They start making their way toward where the clones are setting up a medic station, Dia’s determination evident in every step, her grip on Zela both supportive and protective.

“I’m not that bad,” Zela protests weakly, a fond smile on her lips. “I just need some rest. Healing myself always takes a lot out of me… a rest and some bacta, and I’ll be as good as new.” She leans into Dia a little more, letting her friend take some of her weight. She could have walked on her own, but there’s comfort in letting Dia help—in seeing her friend's guilt ease even just a bit by being able to do something for her. And there’s a warmth in Dia’s presence that helps her feel just a bit stronger.

As they move through the makeshift camp, the scene around them is chaotic—clones rushing from place to place, medics tending to the wounded, machinery being repositioned. The atmosphere is heavy with the aftermath of battle—the acrid smell of blaster fire still lingering, the clanking of armor and muffled voices forming a background hum.

The two of them make their way over to the medic station, and the moment they are spotted, a clone medic all but sprints over to them, guiding Zela to sit down on one of the crates scattered about the area.

“Thanks for the quick attention, Riv,” Dia says to the medic, finally letting go of Zela but remaining close by, her gaze never straying far. “She took a blaster round to the shoulder and healed it with the Force. We didn’t have anything in the medpac for Togruta, or Twi’lek, actually.”

“It’s not that bad, just need some rest, really,” Zela says, wincing as she watches the medic open up the kit beside them, her exhaustion catching up.

“Let me be the judge of that, Commander. And I’ll make sure we take a look at those medpacs for the future,” Riv says, scanning Zela with a medisensor, his tone professional but with a hint of concern. “Okay, looks like your healing took care of most of the injury, but I’m putting a bacta patch on it anyway, and then you need to rest. And that goes for you too, Commander,” he adds, turning to look pointedly at Dia before securing a bacta patch onto Zela’s wound.

Zela can’t help but chuckle softly at the sight of Dia’s shocked expression. As she slowly climbs to her feet, Dia’s shock doesn’t stop her from immediately wrapping an arm around Zela’s waist to support her. “You’ll have to watch this one,” Zela says with a smirk, glancing at Riv. “She never liked staying in the halls of healing.” She leans a little more on Dia as they start to walk away from the medics, seeking a quieter place away from the noise, the distance helping lessen the pain from the clones’ suffering pressing against her senses.

Dia rolls her eyes playfully. “I seem to remember you deciding to learn how to heal so we could both spend less time there,” she says as they settle down on a couple of crates, with Zela leaning heavily against Dia’s side. Dia shifts her hand from Zela’s waist up to her montrals, her fingers gently stroking between them and along the top of her rear lekku.

Zela lets out a soft purr, her head resting on Dia’s shoulder, her montrals twitching in contentment. She takes a moment to enjoy the peace—the contrast from the chaos of battle—and the warmth of the Force wrapping around her, almost like a shield against the lingering pain. The sounds of the camp, the murmur of voices, and the clanking of armor fade into the background as she allows herself to relax. “Maybe so… but you never complained,” Zela says, her words trailing off as exhaustion finally overtakes her, her eyes closing and her breathing slowing until she drifts off.

Dia smiles down at Zela, her friend purring softly against her, and continues to stroke her montrals with a tenderness that mirrors her own emotions. She feels the tension in her own body slowly melt away, the weight of the battle dissipating as she focuses on Zela. “You’re right,” Dia whispers to herself, “I never did, and I don’t think I ever will.” She leans her head back against the crate, making herself comfortable, willing to stay there for as long as Zela needs to rest.

Hours pass, and Dia eventually dozes off, her hand still resting protectively over Zela’s montrals. It isn’t until the voice of the clone medic, Riv, rouses them both that the serene moment ends.

“Commanders, the Generals are ordering lead elements of both legions back to the ships to prepare for new deployments,” Riv says, standing over them with a neutral expression that hides any sympathy he might feel.

Zela blinks awake, her body stiff from sleeping in the awkward position, and slowly sits up, stretching her shoulders, the bacta patch still in place. She feels steadier than before, the worst of the pain gone. Her lekku darken with a blush as she notices Dia, who stirs and blinks sleepily at Riv, her hand still on Zela’s montrals. “Thank you, Riv,” Zela says softly, turning her attention back to Dia. “Looks like this is it for now. Until the next time our legions end up together, or until we’re back at the temple.”

Dia glances at Riv, who has already turned and walked away, giving them some privacy. “I know, Zels,” Dia says, her voice thick with emotion. She turns back to Zela, their foreheads touching, lekku pressing together, the tips coiling gently around each other’s. The contact sends a comforting warmth through Dia, a reminder of their bond. “But we’ll still be able to holo. Just… take care of yourself, alright?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one telling you that?” Zela asks with a smile, her fangs showing slightly as she teases her friend.

Dia gives a soft laugh, the sound tinged with sadness. “Probably. But I try to limit my trouble for when you’re around to patch me up. Kominkir̀ klin,” (Good hunting) she says in Togruti, her voice dipping lower, her eyes never leaving Zela’s as she takes and squeezes Zela’s hands before turning to walk away.

“Kominkir̀ nan,” (Best hunting) Zela replies, completing the saying as she watches Dia walk away, her heart heavy but a soft warmth lingering from their shared moment. She turns, sensing Master Runi next to a LAAT, and makes her way towards her master, already feeling the ache of separation but carrying with her the promise of always looking out for each other.

Zela hurries over, stepping up into the gunship moments before it takes off, with a few clones along with the two Jedi. The roar of the engines fills the cabin as the craft lifts off, the world outside the hatch growing smaller with each passing moment. Zela braces herself, feeling the rumble beneath her feet, her gaze shifting to Master Runi.

“Your attachment with Padawan Olan is still worrying, Padawan,” Master Runi says, glancing at Zela briefly, her voice calm but with an edge of sternness.

Zela shifts uncomfortably, keeping her gaze straight ahead. “I know, Master, but it’s just… the two of us were in the crèche together. We grew up together,” she says, trying to mask her frustration at the repeated criticism. As much as part of her agrees that her feelings for Dia might complicate things, she doesn’t like how their masters constantly criticize their friendship. To Zela, it isn’t something to be ashamed of—it’s a source of strength, a bond that has helped her stay grounded through the growing chaos of war.

Master Runi studies her for a long moment, her gaze unwavering. Zela can feel the weight of that gaze, a mix of concern and expectation. “You must understand that such attachments can be dangerous. They can cloud your judgment and put both of you at risk. The bond you share is powerful, but it must be tempered with discipline and an understanding of the Code,” she says, her tone softening slightly. She turns her attention to the view outside the gunship—the horizon of the world below, the sky darkening as they ascend. “We will meditate on the Force and the Code while we travel to our next deployment,” she adds, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Zela nods, though a flicker of resentment burns in her chest. “Yes, Master,” she replies, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. She knows what Master Runi expects of her, but letting go of her connection to Dia is not something she can do—not without losing a part of herself. It isn’t just attachment; it’s loyalty, friendship, and a bond forged through years of shared experiences. The idea of severing that bond feels like betraying everything that makes her who she is.

The rest of the flight to the Venator is spent in silence, the hum of the engines and the faint chatter of the clones filling the cabin. Zela closes her eyes briefly, trying to find a moment of calm, but her mind keeps drifting to Dia—the warmth of her presence in the Force, the memory of her laughter, the way her hand had felt resting on Zela’s montrals. She wonders if Dia is feeling the same pull, the same ache at being separated. The emptiness of her absence feels like a dull ache, a weight that she can’t shake off.

When the gunship sets down, Zela steps out into the bustling hangar, the sharp contrast of noise and movement washing over her. The sounds of engines, machinery, and the steady rhythm of clone troopers moving about fill the air. She can sense the pain and exhaustion of the wounded being taken to the medbay, their Force signatures like dim flickers amidst the commotion. Each flicker tugs at her, reminding her of the cost of this endless war, and she finds herself wishing she could help more—wishing that Dia were there to share the burden.

She follows Master Runi through the hangar and up to the bridge, her steps steady but her thoughts still lingering on Dia. Standing close by as Master Runi engages with the officers, discussing troop movements and the next mission, Zela tries to focus on the present. Their new orders are to join an assault on another Separatist world—another battle, another mission that will test them both. She forces herself to listen, to absorb the details, but her mind keeps drifting back. The thought of another battle, another chance for everything to go wrong, gnaws at her.

Zela takes a deep breath, centering herself as she watches the bridge crew go about their work. She knows she needs to be ready, to be focused, but part of her can’t help but hope that somehow, their paths will cross with Dia’s legion again. She can feel her master’s presence beside her, a steady reminder of her duty, of the expectations placed on her as a Jedi. But as she stands there, looking out at the vastness of space, she holds onto the warmth of her bond with Dia, a quiet defiance against the cold detachment that the Code demands.

She remembers the way Dia had smiled at her, that confident, reassuring smile that had always made Zela feel like they could handle anything together. “I will be strong,” Zela whispers to herself, her voice barely audible amidst the noise of the bridge. “For Dia, for myself… for both of us.” She knows the path ahead won’t be easy, but as long as she can hold onto the connection they share, she believes she can face whatever comes next.

As the Venator drifts through space, Zela finds her gaze lost in the swirling stars. The bridge is a hive of activity behind her, officers moving, issuing commands, clones stationed at different posts. She is part of this machine, a cog in the vast machinery of war, but it’s her connection to Dia that keeps her from feeling lost. She can almost feel Dia’s presence beside her, the warmth of her smile, the gentle touch of her hand on her montrals, grounding her amidst the vastness of space.

Master Runi approaches, her presence calm yet unyielding. “Padawan,” she says softly, her voice cutting through Zela’s thoughts. “It is important to remember why we do this. The war is not just a battle of strength; it is a battle of resolve. And sometimes, that means making sacrifices.”

Zela nods, turning to meet her master’s eyes. “I understand, Master,” she says, though her heart still feels heavy. She understands the teachings, the wisdom in Runi’s words, but the feeling of Dia’s absence is something she cannot easily dismiss. She draws in a deep breath, trying to let go of the tension in her shoulders, trying to embody the serenity that her master expects of her.

“We will meditate once more before our next mission,” Master Runi continues, her eyes softening slightly. “To find clarity and balance. You are strong, Zela, but even the strongest of us must find our center.”

Zela nods, her voice quiet. “Yes, Master. I will do my best.” She knows that meditation will mean confronting her feelings, examining her attachment to Dia, and trying to reconcile it with the teachings of the Jedi. It’s an internal struggle she’s faced many times before, but each time, it feels more difficult. The war has changed everything—it has made her question the Code, question the very nature of what it means to be a Jedi. But what hasn’t changed is her bond with Dia, and for that, she is grateful.

As the Venator continues its course, Zela takes a moment to close her eyes, feeling the presence of her master beside her, the hum of the engines, the distant chatter of the bridge crew. She reaches out with the Force, feeling the ebb and flow of life around her. Somewhere out there, she knows Dia is doing the same—finding her own way to navigate this complicated galaxy, holding onto their connection just as fiercely.

“Always,” Zela whispers to herself, her voice almost lost in the hum of the ship. The word is a promise, a vow she has made to herself and to Dia. No matter how far apart they are, no matter what battles they face, she will always hold onto that bond. It is her strength, her hope, and the light that will guide her through whatever darkness lies ahead.

She opens her eyes and turns her gaze back to the viewport, watching as the stars blur past, streaks of light against the dark void. The galaxy is vast, filled with uncertainty and danger, but Zela feels a sense of calm wash over her. She may not have all the answers, and the road ahead may be fraught with challenges, but she knows she is not alone. 

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~
V
~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Dia stands beside Master Emmari on the bridge of the Venator Leviathan, her eyes fixed on the image of the next planet they are being sent to: Orinda. The tension is palpable, the atmosphere charged with anticipation as the holographic display bathes the command bridge in cool blue light. Around the holomap are gathered Commander Neva and Admiral Harpea, their expressions sharp and focused.

“Our new orders are to assault the Separatist world of Orinda,” Admiral Harpea begins, his voice steady as he gestures towards the holomap. “We need to secure access up the Entralla Route to the galactic north. Intel suggests the fleet in orbit of the planet is typical for what we’ve encountered so far: a single Lucrehulk, four Munificent frigates, and ten Hardcells.” The Admiral points at the flickering holograms representing the enemy ships, each outlined in ominous red.

Commander Neva nods, his eyes narrowing as he considers the task ahead. “A decent blockade,” he remarks, his voice calm despite the gravity of their mission.

Master Emmari takes over, her presence exuding confidence. “Our plan is simple,” she begins, her tone unwavering. “Once we exit hyperspace, our six Assault Acclamators will advance slightly ahead of the three Venators in a straight formation, with the Arquitens positioned to provide close-in defence. The Venators will launch their squadrons immediately. I will lead the fighters.” Emmari pauses, her eyes shifting to Dia. “And I want you flying support for the bombers. Our primary target is the Lucrehulk. After we disable or destroy the command ship, we can deal with the frigates. Once the blockade is broken, we will bring in the transport Acclamators for landing.”

Dia feels her pulse quicken at Emmari's words. The command – the expectation – feels heavy. She swallows, her eyes lingering on the flickering holomap, the intricate web of lines that make up the battle plan. A moment of silence stretches out between them before Dia manages to speak. “Of course, Master. Am I just supporting the bombers?” Her voice comes out softer than she intends, betraying her anxiety.

Emmari’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes, Padawan. You need more experience before you lead a squadron. The clones know what they’re doing; shadow them, learn from them. When we’re planet-bound, your role will continue to be providing air support for the bombers if the Separatists have significant air presence in the atmosphere.” Emmari’s eyes bore into Dia’s, assessing, perhaps looking for any sign of doubt. “Once we land, your orders remain the same: support and learn.”

Dia nods again, even as her lekku twitch nervously, an instinctive reaction she tries to control. Her master's instructions make her feel like the weight of expectation is more a harness than a guiding tether. She can feel the pressure in her chest, a hint of self-doubt creeping in. But Emmari’s gaze stays steady, demanding compliance, and Dia pushes those thoughts down. She has to.

“If there are no further questions,” Emmari’s voice breaks through the lingering silence, addressing Neva and Harpea, “go and brief your people.”

Commander Neva offers a crisp salute, Admiral Harpea a nod of acknowledgment before they turn, their footfalls echoing off the polished metal floor as they leave for their respective duties. Dia watches them go, before realising that Emmari has already begun walking back towards the corridor.

Dia quickly falls in step beside her master as they leave the bridge. The transition from the open space of the command deck to the narrower corridors of the Venator feels almost suffocating, though it’s a feeling Dia knows well and tries to shake off.

“Have you worked on your mental shielding, Padawan?” Emmari asks abruptly, not turning to look at Dia as they walk.

Dia hesitates, her grip tightening unconsciously around one of her lekku. “I have, Master,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m not sure how good it is yet. I still feel… all the emotions in the Force.”

Emmari stops in front of her quarters, turning her full attention to Dia. Her arms are folded behind her back, her expression unreadable. “Continue to work on it, Padawan. The battlefield does not allow for vulnerability. You must let the emotions wash past you, not linger in them. There is no emotion, there is peace. Do not be a stone against the current; let yourself be the water that flows.” Her tone is firm, and her eyes bore into Dia’s, seeking understanding.

Dia bites the inside of her cheek, feeling a mixture of frustration and determination. She nods, forcing herself to meet her master's gaze even as she feels the judgment in Emmari’s words. She wants to say she will do better, that she will learn, but her voice seems caught somewhere between her exhaustion and her anxiety. She nods again instead, a simple gesture of acknowledgement.

Emmari studies her for a moment longer before finally turning and stepping into her quarters. “Continue your meditation, Padawan,” she says as the door begins to slide closed. “Remember what I taught you.” The door closes with a soft hiss, leaving Dia alone in the hallway.

For a moment, Dia stands still, her hand still gently gripping her lekku. She feels the thrum of the ship beneath her boots, a distant echo of life, purpose, and war. She lets out a long breath, the adrenaline from the briefing still trickling through her veins.

She looks down the empty corridor, her heart heavy with the weight of the coming battle. The words of her master echo in her mind—“Let emotions flow away from you.” It sounds simple, but how could she let go of the feelings pressing in from every side? The fear of the clones she’ll fly beside, the anticipation of battle, her own need to prove herself to her master.

Dia stands still, her eyes lingering on the door to her master's quarters, feeling frustration boiling within her at Master Emmari's words. She knows it by heart—the Jedi Code, the repeated lessons, the need to let go of emotions—yet, for Dia, it always feels like an impossible expectation, an unreachable bar set high above her head. With a deep sigh, she turns and walks into her own quarters, sealing the door behind her.

Carefully, she unclips her lightsaber from her belt and sets it down in front of a small idol, a carved representation of Kika'lekki, the Great Mother. It stands in the centre of her meditation area, surrounded by a few simple candles. Dia kneels down, her legs folding under her as she lights the crimson candle. The scent of infused incense soon fills the air, a comforting aroma from Ryloth that grounds her senses. The flickering flame casts long shadows on the walls, and she closes her eyes, breathing deeply as she begins to meditate.

Dia allows herself to feel the Force within her, the way it pulses and flows through her body—a steady flame providing warmth, a beacon that never wavers. She embraces that sensation, letting it fill her mind, feeling how the flame surrounds her thoughts and muscles like a protective barrier. She focuses on the warmth, letting it expand to push away the tension in her body—the tension that has gripped her since the briefing, the gnawing fear of failure. She knows the weight of the responsibility placed upon her shoulders, the lives of clones depending on her, and the thought of failing them threatens to crush her beneath its enormity.

“Kika'lekki, Sil dan myekan san vuo sei dol. Sil ji n'ina juh sei ceinireae, sil ji cae cao san nolseni, sil ji oola n'u bo dec, sil ji aae n'u v'ili vil sil sei tuka ohk ayy,” (Great Mother, may you guide me along my path. May the flame light my way, may the earth hold me firm, may the waters flow with life, may the air flow clear, and may my spirit be heard,) Dia whispers softly, her voice trembling slightly in the empty room.

She speaks to the Great Mother, a Twi'lek goddess, praying for guidance. It is an intimate ritual, one of the few things that connects her to her past—a link to the prayers she learned in the dark corners while still enslaved, muttered with other Twia link to the prayers she learned in the dark corners while still enslaved, muttered with other Twi'leks far from their master’s watchful eyes. Now, she uses it to centre herself in the Force, to steady her heart amidst the chaos of war. The soft words echo around her quarters, each one carrying a piece of her hope, her longing for clarity.

Dia visualises the flame of the candle, burning steadily before her, and in her mind, she imagines her anxieties being fed into that flame. Each fear—of failing her master, of leading others into danger, of making mistakes—is fuel for the fire. Slowly, the flame grows, its light spreading out, warming her. She feels it expand, a warmth that moves through her, spreading from her chest to the tips of her lekku and her toes, erasing the aches in her muscles, lightening the weight on her shoulders.

Her breathing synchronises with the flicker of the flame, a slow rise and fall, her heartbeat falling in rhythm with the warmth enveloping her. She reaches out with her senses, extending beyond herself. In her mind’s eye, she perceives the myriad sparks that make up the crew of the Leviathan. Each clone, each officer, each member of the ship’s crew—each a small flame, flickering in the Force, united in purpose and resilience. The clones, steadfast and resolute, feel like sturdy campfires in the darkness—unyielding, unwavering. Her master, Emmari, feels like a towering blaze, a source of steady light and heat, a beacon of strength that demands respect.

Dia takes another breath, pulling her senses back into herself, letting the outside world fade until only her flame remains—a flame that burns bright, its warmth a source of strength, a symbol of her own perseverance. She sits there, lingering in that feeling, letting the Force wrap around her like a protective shield, a comforting warmth against the dark unknowns that lie ahead. Her worries, her doubts—all consumed, at least for now.

The minutes pass, almost an hour slipping by unnoticed as Dia remains within her meditation, feeling the warmth of the Force calming her spirit. Slowly, she opens her eyes. The image of the flame fades from her mind, replaced by the soft glow of the candle in front of her. Its flame, once small, now burns with greater intensity.

Reaching forward, she places her hand above the flame, feeling its heat against her palm. She allows the Force to weave through her, guiding the flame to dance across her knuckles, small tendrils of light flickering around her fingers. The warmth is a reassurance, a reminder of the light she carries within her. She smiles faintly at the sight, a sense of peace settling in her chest before she extinguishes the flame with a gentle breath.

Dia takes a moment to carefully put away the candle, placing it back in its case with the others—each one a gift from a Kiva, a Twi'lek Priestess, made in one of the temples on Ryloth. The scent of the incense still lingers in her quarters, and she breathes it in deeply, letting it settle in her senses as she stands. She clips her lightsaber back onto her belt, her fingers brushing the metal hilt as she takes one more deep breath.

The alert klaxon blares across the ship—an announcement of their imminent exit from hyperspace. Dia feels her heartbeat quicken in response, but it is not fear that fills her now—it is resolve. She turns, leaving her quarters and stepping into the corridor beyond. The hum of the ship surrounds her, the echoes of voices and footfalls blending into the ever-present thrum of the *Leviathan*.

As she walks towards the hangar, she feels more composed, her steps steady and sure. The fear that had gnawed at her earlier—the uncertainty, the anxiety of leading others, of making mistakes—is still there, but it is tempered by the warmth that the Force provides, the strength of the flame she carries within her. Her senses feel sharper, her mind clearer. The soft scent of Rylothian incense clings to her robes, and Dia takes it as a reminder that she is not alone, that the Great Mother is with her, watching over her path.

Arriving at the hangar, she is met by the controlled chaos of preparation—clones rushing to their starfighters, deck officers shouting orders, mechanics making last-minute adjustments. The hangar is alive with activity, a buzz of energy that fills the space. Dia pauses for a moment, her eyes scanning the scene. She watches as clones prepare, their faces hidden behind helmets, their movements precise and efficient. They move with a confidence that almost makes Dia envious—as if they know no fear, as if there is no doubt in their minds.

She shakes her head, pushing those thoughts away. The clones are brave—they have been bred for this, trained for this—but they are still individuals, each of them with their own thoughts, their own fears. She steps forward, making her way towards her starfighter, her eyes glancing around the hangar, hoping to spot a familiar face among the pilots or crew. The sight of her starfighter waiting, its sleek lines ready for battle, fills her with a sense of purpose.

One of the clone pilots nods at Dia, and she returns the gesture, her lekku twitching slightly in acknowledgement. She approaches her fighter, her hand resting briefly on the hull, feeling the cool metal beneath her fingers. It’s strange, she thinks, how something as simple as touch can ground her in the moment, bringing her back to the present, away from the anxieties that have been gnawing at her since the briefing. The hull’s cold surface acts like an anchor, reminding her that this is real, that her role is tangible—she is a Jedi, a leader, and she must be ready.

“Commander!” Captain Zell calls out as he joins Dia, his voice cutting through the din of activity in the hangar. The roar of engines and the hustle of clone troopers is almost deafening, yet his voice manages to find her. Dia turns, her lekku twitching again, her hand falling away from her ship as she watches him approach. Zell’s strides are confident, each step assured as he falls into step beside her, effortlessly matching her pace.

“Heard you’re going to be out there flying while we try to break through,” Zell says, his tone more casual than the tension in the air might suggest.

“I am, yeah. At least I’m not leading anyone, just flying escort,” Dia replies. She glances up at him, lekku twitching with nerves, her mind running through the details of the mission as if trying to reassure herself that she knows her part. She takes a deep breath, feeling the mixture of anticipation and dread in her chest.

“Better you than me,” Zell says with a chuckle, the corner of his mouth lifting in a grin. “You did well leading the assault on the palace, by the way. Though I did hear that the other Commander got shot but came out okay?” He tries to sound reassuring, but his words only cause Dia’s stomach to tighten at the memory.

“Yeah, Zela was okay after some healing,” Dia replies softly, her eyes lowering as the image of Zela crumpling to the ground flashes through her mind. She had tried to suppress it, but it keeps resurfacing, unbidden. The suddenness of that moment—the fear, the helplessness—still sits with her. She swallows, forcing herself to push the thought away; now isn’t the time to dwell on what she couldn’t control. Too many lives depend on her actions now.

“Omen and Riv mentioned they tried to help,” Zell continues. “Well, Omen did, but didn’t have the right kit. We’ve got some proper supplies now—but still waiting on more—so try not to get injured too badly, alright?” He shifts his tone to something lighter, teasing her with a familiar note of mischief that Dia can feel even without the Force. “Plus, I heard you practically carried her back and let her fall asleep on your shoulder.”

Dia’s lekku twitch slightly, and she feels her cheeks warm, betraying her embarrassment. “I… Well, yeah, I had to support her. She was exhausted, and she’s my friend,” Dia manages, her voice hitching slightly. Despite the tension of the coming mission, she can’t help but smile faintly at the memory—the way Zela had leaned against her, the soft trust between them.

“Sure, sure,” Zell says, giving her a knowing grin. He lets out a breath, his expression softening for a moment. “It’s good to have someone you trust that much. Not everyone does. Just stick to the plan out there. I’ll round up Hunter Company and get them ready for once you clear the way.”

Dia nods, her gaze lingering on him for a moment before she watches him stride away, calling out orders to the other clones. His confidence is palpable, a stark contrast to the nervous energy buzzing under her skin. She turns her focus back to her Delta-7B starfighter, its sleek lines painted in her chosen colours of deep red with black streaks—a reflection of her own markings and identity. R4-P29 is already mounted inside, the astromech’s lights blinking as it beeps a cheerful greeting, running pre-flight checks.

“Hey, R4,” Dia murmurs, her voice softening as she reaches out to pat the droid’s domed head. The little astromech chirps in response, and Dia’s smile widens, appreciating the consistency and loyalty that the droid provided. “Yeah, I know. We’ll be fine. Let’s get her ready to launch once we exit hyperspace.”

Just as Dia finishes her inspection, one of the clone pilots strides over to her—helmet tucked under his arm, his expression serious yet respectful. “Commander, I’m Lieutenant Prys, leader of Scarlet Squadron. We’re the lead bomber squadron for the *Leviathan*,” he introduces himself, offering her a nod. His armour is marked with scarlet accents, distinct against the standard white.

Dia turns to him, offering a polite smile. “I’m Dia. Good to meet you, Prys. What’s the plan for the bombers? I’m here for support, extra cover where needed.”

“Affirm, Commander. Our plan is for the fighters to engage the Vulture droids ahead, clearing a path for us,” Prys explains. “Two of our squadrons will target the hangars on the Lucrehulk, while the rest of us hit the bridge. We expect their shields to take most of the initial damage, so we’ll need to circle back for another run. If the droid fighters swarm us, we’ll break off. We’ll make up to three passes, maximum, before we switch targets.” He speaks with the precision of someone used to tight formation flying, his gaze unwavering.

“Understood. I’ll stick close to Scarlet Squadron, keep an eye out for Vultures,” Dia says, tapping the hull of her Delta-7B. “I’ve got no anti-ship capability, so I’ll be focused on defence.”

“We appreciate the support, Commander,” Prys says, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “Let’s hope we don’t need too much of it, though.” He gives her a nod before heading back towards the line of bombers, his confidence clear in his stride.

Dia watches him for a moment before turning her attention back to her fighter. She rests her hand on the cool metal again, feeling the subtle vibrations of the ship’s systems coming to life under R4’s control. She takes a deep breath, trying to draw strength from the comforting familiarity of the ship. “Let’s do this, R4,” she mutters, leaning onto the wing.

The droid whistles in response, and Dia smiles faintly. “I’ll check in with Master Emmari quickly. Finish the pre-flight, okay?” She hops off the wing, moving with purpose towards her master’s starfighter.

Emmari’s presence is immediately felt, a bright, steady flame in the Force, her energy unyielding. Dia finds her speaking with a few clone pilots, their faces obscured by their helmets, but their body language respectful. As Dia approaches, Emmari turns to her, nodding. “Padawan,” she acknowledges, her voice calm and composed. “You will be flying as Leviathan Two for this mission, and likely most missions going forward. Are you prepared?”

Dia nods, though her fingers fidget slightly behind her back. She tries to keep her voice steady, knowing her master can sense any hesitance. “Yes, Master. I think I’m ready. I understand my role for the mission.”

Emmari’s gaze lingers on Dia, her eyes sharp, as if trying to gauge her confidence. “Good. Trust in the Force, Padawan. Trust yourself. You are ready. You will be fine. I sensed you meditating earlier—did it help you find focus?”

Dia feels warmth spreading in her chest at the question, her master’s concern touching her beyond the usual stern demeanour. “Yes, Master. It did help. I feel more focused," she replies, her voice gaining strength.

Emmari inclines her head slightly, a glimmer of approval softening her expression. "Good. Remember, there is no emotion, there is peace. Hold to that truth, especially in the heat of battle. Trust in the Force, let it guide you."

The hangar sirens blare, the shrill sound reverberating through the bay, signalling the pilots to prepare. Emmari's eyes harden, her posture straightening as she turns toward her own starfighter. "May the Force be with you, Dia."

"And with you, Master," Dia replies, her resolve hardening as she watches Emmari climb into her starfighter. The moment is fleeting, but it strengthens her as she turns back towards her own ship, determination replacing the nervousness she'd carried earlier. Dia sprints back to her fighter, her feet pounding against the hangar deck, the sharp scent of engine fuel and ozone in the air.

With a burst of agility, Dia leaps onto the wing of her Delta-7B, sliding smoothly along the front of the ship, her fingers brushing against the familiar, cool metal, and then slips effortlessly into the cockpit. R4 beeps at her in mild alarm, his lights flashing anxiously, and Dia can’t help but laugh at his concern, a wide smile spreading across her face. She hooks her leg into the lip of the cockpit, using it to swing her body into her seat with practised ease, her movements fluid and confident—a dance she has rehearsed a thousand times in her sleepless nights. She knows she needs to master her fears, and for her, precision and preparation are her refuge.

Across the hangar, a few clones are watching, their helmets off, their eyes following her every move. They exchange amused glances, some nodding at her as she straps herself in, and Dia feels her lekku twitch in acknowledgement. The silent support from the clones—their subtle camaraderie—sends a small surge of comfort through her, and she takes a breath, knowing that she’s not alone. They are all in this together.

Dia lets her lekku rest across her chest, her hands finding the cool surface of the controls as she begins to power up her ship. The moment the canopy closes, the world outside seems to shift—the bustling activity of the hangar is suddenly muted, replaced by the hum of her starfighter, the sounds dampened to a distant echo. In this enclosed space, it’s just her and the ship, the mission that lies ahead. She takes a deep breath, the scent of incense from her earlier meditation still lingering faintly on her robes. Whispering under her breath, her voice barely audible, she prays, "Great Mother, guide me."

R4’s cheerful, insistent beeping draws her out of her thoughts, and Dia smiles, the gentle hum of the Delta-7B resonating with her pulse as the ship comes fully online. The engines thrum beneath her, a comforting vibration she can feel in her bones. “We’ve got this, R4. Let’s make this count,” she says. The astromech chirps in response, his lights blinking in what she swears is determination. Dia allows herself a smile, her fingers tightening around the controls, feeling the vibrations of life flowing into the ship.

Another siren blares through the hangar, and Dia's eyes dart up. She watches as the support crews scurry away from the strike craft, their forms shrinking into the shadows as they retreat to safety. The deck beneath her feet vibrates with a sudden intensity as the Venator shudders, exiting hyperspace with a surge of speed that makes her stomach drop for an instant. She closes her eyes, feeling the shift in the Force—a ripple of presence as the ship moves into real space, surrounded by the chaos of battle.

The hangar doors grind open above the central flightway, revealing the vastness of space beyond—a black canvas scattered with distant stars. Dia watches as Emmari’s Delta-7B launches, her master’s fighter darting out of the hangar, followed swiftly by the V-19s, the starfighters forming into attack formations, their wings locking into position. She takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle in her chest. The moment the last V-19 takes off, Dia grabs the stick of her fighter, her thumb flicking the switch to close the cockpit seal. She pushes the throttle forward, the ship surging to life as she swings it out of the bay, the weight of the world giving way to weightlessness.

The vastness of space opens up before her, the dark void dotted with flashes of light, each glimmer marking the movement of ships and fighters, of life and death. She pulls her Delta-7B up, gaining altitude, falling into position with the Y-wings. The bombers fly in formation behind her, their heavy engines rumbling, and Dia looks ahead, her eyes widening at the sight before her.

The Vulture droid swarm stretches out like a living storm, a mass of ships moving in perfect synchronisation. The Lucrehulk and the Munificent frigates loom in the background, their silhouettes casting a shadow across the starscape. Dia’s eyes dart across the scene, taking in the flashes of turbolaser fire streaking from the Acclamators and the Venators, green and red beams lancing across the emptiness of space. It is chaotic—a chaotic, overwhelming dance of energy and death.

She forces her focus to the moment, her hand tightening around the control stick as her lekku twitch with anxiety. Her breathing grows shallow, her heart pounding in her chest as the fear claws at her—an instinctive, primal response to the chaos that surrounds her. For a moment, the enormity of the battlefield threatens to crush her, the fear of failing pressing down on her shoulders, her connection to the Force trembling like a leaf in the wind.

R4’s insistent beeping shakes her from her thoughts, and she blinks, her eyes focusing on the screen in front of her. “I’m fine, R4, thanks,” she says softly, her voice almost cracking as she forces herself to swallow the fear. She takes another deep breath, centring herself, letting her connection to the Force expand—letting the Force fill her, guide her, steady her.

“Leviathan Two, ready to go,” Dia says into her comm, her voice stronger now, her determination pushing through the fear.

“Copy that, Leviathan Two. We’ll wait for the fighters to make some noise before we punch through,” Prys responds, his voice calm, a steady anchor amidst the chaos.

“Copy, Scarlet Lead, I’ll follow you in,” Dia replies, her eyes narrowing as she watches the scene unfold. She extends her senses outward, feeling the presence of the other fighters, letting herself be pulled into the current of the Force. She lets go of the fear, letting it flow through her, past her, leaving only the steady, warm flame of purpose. She is here now, a part of the Force, and the Force is with her.

Ahead of her, she sees the V-19s crash into the swarm of Vulture droids, their formations dissolving as they engage the enemy. The space between the two forces becomes a storm of light—a violent dance of green and red lasers, of explosions that rip apart the silence of space. Dia clenches her jaw, her eyes fixed on the fighters ahead. Even now, she feels the first echoes of pain—the sharp, agonising flash of fear and loss as a clone pilot is struck, followed by the chilling, empty void as his presence fades from the Force.

“Okay, we’ve been signalled to begin our approach run. Follow us in, Leviathan Two,” Prys’ voice breaks through the tension, and Dia feels a rush of adrenaline surge through her.

“Copy that, on your six,” she replies.

The Y-wings accelerate, their engines roaring as they form tight attack groups, each group carefully positioning themselves to protect one another with their rear turrets, creating overlapping fields of fire. Dia sticks close, her eyes scanning the chaotic battlefield around them. They punch through the outer edge of the dogfight, and her senses remain alert to every shift in the Force. Suddenly, a warning prickle spikes through her awareness. Dia yanks hard on her flight stick, rolling her Delta-7B over its port wing just in time to avoid the blaster cannon rounds that cut through the space she had occupied moments before. A Vulture droid shoots past her, its cannons blazing as it focuses on the bombers, unaware of a V-19 already hot on its tail.

Still inverted, Dia spots two more Vulture droids diving down to attack the vulnerable underside of the bombers. Ignoring R4’s frantic beeping, she dives after them, her quad laser cannons blazing to life. Blue bolts rip into the lead Vulture, blowing off its port wing and sending it spiralling out of control until it explodes in a brilliant burst of light. Rolling her Delta-7B to correct her inversion, she immediately targets the second Vulture. The void around her pulses with tension as her paired lasers fire repeatedly, each shot closing the distance until finally, her bolts find their mark. The droid fighter bursts into a fiery explosion, leaving only shrapnel behind.

“Good shooting, Leviathan Two,” Prys’ voice crackles in her ear, his tone full of approval.

“Thanks, Scarlet Lead,” Dia replies, a small smile tugging at her lips. The compliment warms her briefly, reminding her that she’s making a difference. But the warmth is fleeting—an explosion rocks her fighter, and the shockwave ripples against her shields. Her eyes dart to the side, catching sight of the shattered wreckage of a Hardcell, illuminated by the distant, relentless turbolaser fire coming from the Venators.

“All stations, this is Leviathan,” the comms officer’s voice cuts in, “We are picking up more fighters and corvette-sized craft launching from the planet. Expedite attack runs.”

The orders are met with a series of acknowledgements, and soon after, Prys chimes in. “Right, you heard them, people. Time to blast some Seppies. Break off for attack runs.”

Dia watches as the Y-wing squadrons split off, some diving port and starboard to target the Lucrehulk’s hangars, while the rest maintain their course toward the central sphere—the command bridge. The massive ring of the Lucrehulk looms ever closer, and as they close in, the Lucrehulk’s smaller cannons roar to life, spewing streams of laser fire into the void, desperately trying to swat them out of the sky.

“R4, shields double front,” Dia commands, her voice tense but controlled. Her eyes remain locked on the incoming fire, her body moving instinctively, the Force guiding her hands as she weaves through the chaos. The cockpit glows red as her shields absorb glancing hits, each impact vibrating through her seat. With each explosion, she feels echoes of fear and pain from the clones around her, quickly followed by a cold silence in the Force. Every extinguished presence is like a blow, the sensation heavy and hollow, but Dia fights to keep herself focused, struggling not to let the loss consume her.

The bombers press on, their formation holding, and as soon as they are within range, they unleash their payload—a torrent of proton torpedoes and ion rounds racing towards the Lucrehulk’s bridge. Dia follows the Y-wings in their sharp ascent, pulling up and over the top of the Lucrehulk. Her eyes widen at the explosion as the torpedoes find their target. The bridge erupts in a bright flash, debris scattering across the surface of the ship. Secondary explosions ripple outward, sending shockwaves she can feel even through the cockpit—a chilling silence as hundreds of lives are suddenly snuffed out, and the Force momentarily recoils in agony.

“Good work, people!” Prys calls out, his voice brimming with triumph.

Dia wants to share in the joy, to feel that rush of victory, but the weight of the lives lost clings to her, holding her back. She feels the cold echo in the Force, the void left behind as the Lucrehulk burns, and it chills her down to her very core. She tightens her grip on the controls, her heart heavy with the cost of the fight.

“Leviathan Two, you good?” Prys’ voice pulls her back, the concern in his tone cutting through the growing numbness.

“Yeah,” Dia responds, shaking herself from her thoughts, “I’m still with you, Scarlet Lead.” She forces herself to focus, to push the emotions down. The battle isn’t over, and they still have a job to do.

“Good,” Prys says, leading the bombers toward the next wave of reinforcements rising from the planet’s surface. “We’ve just been ordered to intercept. Let’s give the landing ships a clear path.”

Dia glances over her shoulder, watching the Acclamators being escorted toward Orinda’s atmosphere, their bulky forms moving like juggernauts amidst the backdrop of stars and fire. She takes a deep breath, then swings her Delta-7B around to follow the Y-wings, her eyes narrowing on the incoming Separatist ships. “Copy that. I’m with you,” she says, her gaze shifting to the planet below. The curvature of Orinda grows larger in her view, its surface covered in vast expanses of green, scarred with patches of smoke and fire.

The mission isn’t over, and she can’t let herself falter now. The lives of the clones—the lives of those she cares about—depend on her. She closes her eyes for a brief moment, reaching out to the Force, letting it flow around her like a comforting embrace. The warmth of the flame she had visualised earlier still flickers in her mind, a beacon amidst the darkness, reminding her that she is not alone. She lets that warmth guide her, the steady rhythm of her heart matching the hum of the engines.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

VI

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Dia dives her Delta down past a Vulture droid, blue and red lasers flashing past her, she squeezes the trigger, firing a burst of her own blue lasers that fill her view, ripping the Vulture droid in her sights apart.

“Scarlet Five, you are clear!” Dia calls out, throwing her fighter past the Y-wing to engage the next droid.

“Thanks, Leviatha...” Scarlet Five starts to say before the sound of an explosion rips through the communication. Dia doesn’t even need to look as she feels the death of the two clones in the Y-wing, the sudden void in the Force hitting her like a punch to the gut.

Her chest tightens, her breathing growing shallow, but she pushes the feeling down. She can’t let herself dwell on it now—not in the middle of this chaos. Dia frowns as she rolls over her starboard wing, blasting a Vulture droid that was chasing a V-19. The strain on her mental shields is palpable, the sensations from the clone pilots around her pressing against her consciousness. She keeps her focus sharp, letting the Force guide her instincts and warnings. The droids are relentless, and every heartbeat feels like a lifetime.

She follows a flight of V-19s down through the pack of Vultures to one of the approaching Separatist Gozantis that flew up from the planet. Lasers impact across its shields until they flicker, the two starboard engines exploding in a burst of flames. Dia inverts her Delta, rolling under the Gozanti, strafing the underside before breaking off after a flight of Vultures attacking one of the Arquitens escorting the Acclamators down to the surface. She starts lining up her shot on one of the fighters when a warning blazes in the back of her mind. Dia yanks hard on her flight stick, her entire body tensing as the lasers singe the edge of her Delta’s wing. She dodges the shots, weaving through the frenetic dogfight, trusting her instincts and the Force to keep her ahead of the Vultures chasing her.

She glances over her shoulder, her lekku brushing against the seat behind her as she spots three droid fighters hot on her tail. Rolling her fighter onto its port wing, she listens to R4’s frantic beeping, “I know, R4!” she shouts, flinching as a laser streaks inches past her cockpit, close enough that she can feel the residual heat.

She takes a deep breath, centring herself, and then pulls her throttle back, engaging reverse thrust for a heartbeat to stall her forward movement. The Vultures shoot past her, and she immediately slams the throttle forward, bringing her sights down on them. Dia squeezes the trigger, the blue laser bolts ripping through the left-most Vulture’s wing, sending it spiralling into its comrades. The explosion blooms in front of her, and she can’t help the brief, fierce smile that tugs at her lips. But it’s fleeting—she has no time to celebrate.

Swinging her fighter around, she races back towards the bombers, her heart pounding in her chest as she sees a pair of V-19s join her wing. Their presence is a comfort, a reminder that she isn’t alone in this vast and chaotic void.

“Leviathan Two, this is Leaper Seven and Eight. We are on your wing,” the clone pilot’s voice comes over the comms, steady and reassuring.

“Copy that, Leaper. We’re going to link up with the bombers. They need more help with these droids swarming them,” Dia responds, glancing at the V-19s before focusing on the Y-wings up ahead. She needs to keep them safe. They’re counting on her.

Dia leads them into the chaos, her blue lasers cutting through the droid fighters. The Vultures are relentless, their sheer numbers overwhelming, but she weaves between them, letting the Force guide her every move. Her senses are heightened, each warning a bright flare in her mind as she dances through the laser fire. Time becomes a blur, the battle a constant stream of motion, of death and survival. She tries to ignore the sudden, chilling silence that follows every destroyed clone fighter, each loss echoing in her mind—another life snuffed out, another spark gone.

“All stations, Leviathan One,” Emmari’s voice cuts through the comms as Dia lines up her shot on a Vulture droid, “The transports have entered the atmosphere. I am joining the ground troops. Fighter command is passing to Hawker Lead.”

A sense of relief washes over Dia at the news, her body sagging for a moment as she lets out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. The transports made it. They got through. For a moment, she had doubted it, with the sheer amount of fighters and the chaos of the battle. But they made it.

She keeps engaging the Vulture droids, the V-19s on her wing moving in sync with her as they take down one droid after another, protecting the Y-wings as they hammer the Separatist ships. The dogfight is brutal, and Dia’s shields take several hits, the flashes of red lighting up her cockpit, but she presses on, her focus unwavering.

“All stations, Leviathan,” the comms officer’s voice echoes in her ears, “Sensors are reporting the droid fighters are disengaging. Fighters from the Pilgrim will harass them down to the upper atmosphere. Everyone else, return to the Venators.”

Dia glances at her sensors, seeing the markers for the droid fighters moving away, the tide finally retreating. She takes a deep breath, banking her Delta-7B to join the bombers, escorting them back to the hangar. The battle is over, for now. They made it.

She watches a couple of bombers limp into the hangar, trailing smoke, their landings rough but successful. Dia brings her own fighter in, touching down in her designated landing bay. The moment the engines power down, ground crew swarm her Delta, beginning post-flight checks and starting to remove R4 from the socket. Dia goes through the shutdown checklist mechanically, her muscles aching, her mind weary. Once done, she pops the cockpit open, climbing out and jumping down onto the deck, her legs shaky beneath her.

She stretches, letting out a sigh, her lekku twitching as she looks around the bustling hangar. There are too many empty bays, spaces that should have been filled with returning fighters. The reality of the battle hits her all over again, the weight of the losses heavy on her heart. She nods to the pilots she passes, offering them tired but genuine smiles, before Prys waves her over.

“Good work out there, Commander,” Prys says, leaning against the ladder of his Y-wing while his gunner climbs down as well, his expression tired but grateful.

“Thank you, Prys. But I should have done more,” Dia replies softly, her eyes drifting to the empty bays around them, the reality of the losses cutting deep. She knows she did her best, but the feeling of helplessness gnaws at her.

“We can’t save everyone, Commander. But you made sure more of my vod made it back,” Prys says, pulling his helmet off to meet her gaze. His eyes are weary, but there’s gratitude there—a sincerity that makes her throat tighten.

Dia nods slowly, swallowing against the lump in her throat. “I… yeah, I know that logically,” she says with a shrug, her voice barely above a whisper. She forces a small smile, though it feels fragile. “I should go check in with the Admiral. I’ll leave you to it,” she says, offering Prys a nod before turning to leave the hangar, her steps heavy.

As she steps into the turbolift, Dia presses the button for the bridge and then leans her head against the wall, her eyes slipping closed. She runs a hand over her lekku, trying to ground herself, to push away the exhaustion and the grief that clings to her. She takes a deep breath, reaching for the Force inside her, letting it flow through her, feeding her turmoil to her inner flame. She imagines the warmth growing, enveloping her, burning away the fear and the sorrow. She needs to be steady, needs to be ready for whatever comes next.

The doors slide open, and Dia steps onto the bridge. The hum of activity hits her all at once—voices calling out orders, the sound of consoles beeping, the ever-present thrum of the ship’s systems. She makes her way over to the Admiral, standing at the holotable, ready to receive her next orders, her expression calm, the fire within her still burning strong.

"Admiral," Dia says, gripping her forearms as she folds her arms in front of her while looking at the projected image of the fleet in orbit.

"Commander, the General wants you to rest before we send out the next sortie once they have identified key targets on the planet," Admiral Harpea says, not looking away from the image in front of him.

Dia hesitates, her jaw tightening slightly. She hates the idea of resting while her comrades are still in danger, but she knows her limits. Exhaustion won't help anyone. "I…OK, Admiral. I will be ready for when we launch again," she says, her voice carrying a hint of reluctance.

She stands there for a moment longer, waiting to see if the Admiral has anything else to add. When it becomes clear that he doesn’t, she turns on her heel, leaving the bridge with her shoulders feeling heavy.

She steps into the turbolift, her mind buzzing with thoughts of the next mission. The adrenaline is fading now, replaced by a bone-deep fatigue. She leans against the wall, closing her eyes as she takes a deep breath, trying to find a moment of calm amidst the chaos.

The lift stops, and Dia steps out, her eyes scanning the familiar hallways. She heads towards the mess hall, her pace slower than usual. As she walks, she can’t help but feel the weight of the responsibility that’s been placed on her shoulders. She might be young, but the lives of her comrades depend on her, and that thought alone keeps her moving, even when every fibre of her being craves rest.

Dia hurries through the corridors of the Venator, her boots clicking softly against the metal floor as she makes her way to the mess hall. She grabs a mug of caf, her fingers wrapping around the warmth as she walks over to an empty table. With a sigh, she sinks down into the seat, nursing the mug between her hands. The dark liquid swirls as she takes a sip, her expression twisting slightly at the bitterness. She can't help but think back to sharing tea with Zela—much more her taste than the caf the clones seem to adore.

The mess hall gradually fills with clone pilots, fresh from the battle, some still radiating adrenaline and exhaustion. Dia watches quietly as two of them grab mugs of caf and ration bars before moving to sit across from her. Their movements are stiff, fatigued from the hours of flying and fighting, but they carry a camaraderie that seems to lighten the atmosphere around them.

"Commander, it was good flying with you out there," the clone on the left says, placing his helmet on the table, his tone friendly but carrying the roughness of fatigue.

The clone on the right nods, taking a sip of his caf. "It was. I’m Oxx, and this is Impact, Leaper Eight and Seven," he says, introducing them with a nod.

"Good to actually meet you two," Dia says, offering a tired smile. "Glad you made it through after following my flying." She takes another sip of the caf, trying her best to ignore the acrid taste.

"Your flying isn’t too bad," Oxx says with a smirk, nudging Impact. "Impact here got his name for a specific reason during training."

Impact rolls his eyes, smacking the back of Oxx’s head. "It wasn’t that bad," he protests, but there's an underlying chuckle in his voice, his expression somewhere between embarrassment and amusement.

Dia can't help but smirk at the pilots. "I'm glad you think so. Master Emmari has complained more than once about my flying," she admits with a shrug, the corners of her lips twitching in amusement.

"No idea what there is to complain about with what we saw," Oxx says, shaking his head. "Plus, you did plenty good blasting tinnies."

Dia shrugs again, her eyes distant for a moment. "It’s a bit different from my training. I wasn't really trained for any of this," she says with a short laugh, weariness evident in her tone.

Oxx and Impact exchange a glance, their expressions shifting to one of confusion. "Not trained? But you’re a Jedi," Impact says, his brow furrowing, disbelief crossing his face.

"Yeah, but most of my training has been with the Force, my lightsaber, mechanics, and other standard Jedi courses," Dia explains, her gaze moving between the two pilots, trying to gauge their reactions. "I haven’t had much training in dogfighting, or even command. Most of what I know is from the crash course I got and what Captain Zell and Rose have taught me."

Oxx blinks, clearly taken aback. "I... what? We were told Jedi had a ton of training and experience," he says, the confusion turning into something like concern.

Dia lets out a small sigh, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "That might be true for the knights and masters. But I’m just a Padawan. I’m only seventeen, and I’ve hardly experienced anything compared to them," she admits, not realising that only Hunter Company knew her real age.

"Seventeen?" Oxx repeats, his voice barely a whisper. Shock and uncertainty flicker across his features, and Impact’s eyes widen slightly. They had expected a trained and seasoned Jedi, not someone so young—barely more than a kid. They were told the Jedi were warriors, honed with years of experience, yet here sits their commander, a teenager thrust into the chaos of war.

The realisation sinks in, and both clones stare at her for a moment longer than intended. Dia shifts uncomfortably under their gaze, her fingers tightening around the mug. She can feel their emotions—shock, disbelief, even a hint of concern. It’s a reminder of just how different her world is from theirs, how she is still navigating an unfamiliar terrain that demands more than she feels ready to give.

Impact clears his throat, recovering quickly. "If it makes you feel better, technically we’re only ten," he says with a smirk. "But we’ve had years of training for this."

Dia raises an eyebrow at the clone's attempt to lighten the mood. "I’ll have to remember that when Zell or Rose try to pull rank on me," she says, her lips curling into a wry smile before downing the rest of her caf, wincing slightly at the bitter taste that lingered.

Oxx smacks Impact’s shoulder. "You di’kut! What’s Rose going to do to us now? You remember when she managed to dye an entire squad's hair pink!"

Dia laughs softly, the sound breaking through the weariness that clung to her. The laughter feels good—like a release from the tension that had gripped her since the battle ended. She watches them bicker, the camaraderie between them reminding her of her own bond with Zela. It was comforting in a way she didn’t realise she needed. The clones’ familiarity, their way of finding humour in the darkness, made her feel just a bit more anchored.

"I’ll leave you two to it," she says, shaking her head as she stands. "I want to check in with R4 before we go out again."

She makes her way back to the hangar, the chaos of repair work and rearming surrounding her like a storm. Dia weaves through the ground crew, who move like clockwork despite the exhaustion on their faces. The hangar is filled with the clamour of tools, the hiss of torches, and the chatter of mechanics coordinating their work. The acrid scent of coolant and fuel lingers in the air, mixing with the distant rumble of starfighters being moved into position.

She climbs onto the wing of her Delta-7B, looking down at R4, who swivels his dome up at her, whistling in acknowledgement. The astromech’s dome flashes, his beeps a familiar comfort amidst the chaos.

"How are we looking, R4?" she asks, her voice tired but holding determination. She reaches out, her hand resting against the cool metal of the astromech’s dome, feeling the slight vibration as he chirps in response.

R4’s dome rotates, beeping and whistling in response, the high-pitched chirps conveying his readiness. His enthusiasm, even after everything, brings a slight warmth to Dia's chest.

Dia nods, a small but genuine smile crossing her lips. "Good. I’m glad the damage is minor, and the shield emitter will hold until the engineers can get to us. Let’s hope we won’t need it much longer," she says, letting herself take a moment to breathe. Her fingers run gently over the astromech’s dome, feeling the cool metal under her touch. She takes a deep breath, trying to let the tension drain from her shoulders.

The hangar buzzes around her, a constant reminder of the battle that was, and the battles yet to come. The tension, the sense of urgency, and the weariness were all palpable. But even amidst it all, Dia found herself anchored in the companionship of the people around her—clones who trusted her despite her age, despite her doubts. It gave her the resolve to keep moving forward, to meet the next challenge head-on, just as they always did.

The distant sound of orders being barked, the sight of clones moving in sync, and the gentle hum of droids assisting in repairs—it all grounded her. She wasn't alone. They were all in this together. And despite the fear, despite the uncertainty that seemed to be her constant companion, Dia knew she had a purpose here. She wasn't just a Padawan. She was their commander. She was a part of something bigger than herself, and in that moment, it was enough.

"Alright, R4," Dia says, taking another deep breath, her voice steady now. "Let’s be ready for the next run." She pats the astromech gently, her expression softening as R4 gives an encouraging whistle.

Dia lets the sounds wash over her as she closes her eyes, lying down across the front of the Delta, letting herself relax against the cool metal surface. The hum of distant machinery, the echoing shouts of orders, and the general activity of the hangar blend together into a comforting white noise. It feels like only moments before the sudden blare of a siren shatters the calm. The atmosphere around her shifts, changing from the steady rhythm of repair and rearming to the heightened urgency of launch preparation. Pilots sprint to their craft, the hangar filled with a sense of purpose and tension.

Dia blinks her eyes open, adrenaline already kicking in as she pushes herself up and quickly climbs into the cockpit. R4  starts running through the pre-flight checks. Dia takes a breath, sealing the canopy and tuning into the alert briefing that echoes through the comm system.

“General Vinives has reported their advance from the landing zones is coming under increasing artillery fire,” the mission controller’s voice sounds over the channel, calm despite the tension underlying every word. “Bombers are to target the artillery positions. Fighters will provide cover and engage the Vulture droids still present in the area.”

The engines hum beneath her as she powers up, the thrum vibrating through her seat. One by one, the squadron leaders report their readiness, and the order to launch is given. Fighters take off in waves, roaring out of the hangar, and Dia pushes the throttle forward, her Delta sliding into formation behind the Y-Wings.

“Scarlet Lead, Leviathan Two following you down to the planet,” Dia says, her voice steady, her hands light on the controls.

“Good to have you, Leviathan Two,” Prys’s voice crackles back. “Stick close if you’re joining us on the attack runs.”

The fighters punch through the atmosphere, the steep descent pressing Dia back into her seat, stabilisers working hard against the turbulence. As they break through the cloud cover, her breath catches for just a moment—the Acclamators below are spread in a precise pattern, tanks rolling off their platforms, infantry moving in tightly controlled groups. The sheer scale of the war effort feels overwhelming, the grassy plains marred by lines of trenches and military hardware. Further ahead, hills and forests mark the Separatist positions, and beyond that, artillery flashes light up the horizon.

“Focus, Dia,” she mutters to herself, snapping her attention back to her fighter’s controls, her thumb brushing over the firing mechanism. They cross over Republic lines, and almost immediately, the air is filled with the chaos of battle. Anti-aircraft fire blooms in bright flashes across the sky, and V-19s peel away to engage incoming Vultures.

Dia rolls her Delta to the side, dodging a proton round that explodes in her path, her HUD lighting up with damage warnings. “R4, reinforce the front shields with power from the rear,” she orders, her voice tense as she forces herself to breathe, her eyes locking on her target.

She watches the first bombing run cut perpendicularly across her field of view, the Y-Wings dropping their payloads on the outer defences of the heavy artillery. Explosions ripple along the ground, the shockwaves visible from above. Dia's Delta shudders with the force of nearby blasts, the stabilisers working overtime to keep her steady. The chaos around her seems to slow, the world narrowing to just her target—one of the massive artillery pieces in the rear.

“Stay with them, Dia,” she thinks, tuning out the comm chatter. The Force is alive around her, a hum that pulses through her body. It warns her, shifts her hands just so, tilting the nose of her Delta to avoid fire. It’s an instinctive dance—one she’s still learning—but one that keeps her alive.

Scarlet Squadron begins their attack run, dropping in altitude to line up their shots. Dia watches, her heart pounding as the bombs fall, bright explosions lighting up the droid defences below. She angles her fighter down, squeezing the trigger to send a burst of blue lasers toward her target—a rear artillery gun that had been shelling the Republic lines. The warning in the Force grows louder, a blazing siren in her mind, but she doesn’t pull away. She has to hold steady—just a few more moments.

The blaster fire from her Delta slams into the target, explosions rippling across the massive artillery piece. Dia pulls back on the stick, attempting to climb away, but it’s too late—a proton round slams into the port-aft section of her Delta, collapsing her shields entirely. The cockpit shudders violently, and the sound of alarms and smoke fills the small space.

“R4!” Dia calls out, her voice tight, her knuckles white on the controls as she fights for stability. The Delta lurches, the left wing scorched and damaged. R4’s frantic beeping fills her ears, the astromech struggling to reroute power.

“I’ve got it,” she mutters, her focus narrowing to the controls in front of her, her breathing shallow as she works to keep the craft from spiralling. The controls respond sluggishly, but she manages to bank to the right, the fighter trailing smoke as she aims for friendly territory.

“Leviathan Two, are you hit?” Prys’s voice crackles over the comms, concern cutting through the static.

Dia takes a shaky breath, checking her readouts. “Hit, but still flying,” she responds, her voice steadier now, though the adrenaline thrums painfully in her chest. “I’ll make it back to friendly lines.”

“Copy that, Leviathan Two. Get clear of the anti-air; we’ll cover you.” Prys’s Y-Wing pulls alongside her, providing a momentary reassurance.

Dia focuses on keeping her Delta stable, fighting against the lost stabiliser while also using the Force to remove the toxins of the air she is breathing while trying to ignore the flames licking against her side. Checking her navigation system as the screen flickers with the power fluctuation, she takes a moment to realise she isn’t going to make it past the front line.

“R4, prepare for a crash landing,” Dia says, the acrid smoke filling her nostrils as she guides the Delta towards a long, clear patch along the side of a cliff. The engines stutter, the power fluctuating, and Dia grits her teeth, her eyes narrowing as she banks the fighter towards her makeshift landing zone. She has to make this work—there’s no other option.

The controls shudder violently as the engines finally cut out, and she curses under her breath, her heart hammering as she angles the fighter down. The ground rushes up to meet her, the grassy clearing approaching fast. She tilts the Delta, using it as an air brake, the belly of the craft skidding against the ground with a bone-jarring impact. The nose digs into the dirt, the fighter spinning sideways before it finally comes to a stop, smoke billowing from the aft section.

Dia wastes no time, ejecting the canopy and leaping out, her body rolling to absorb the impact as she hits the ground. She comes up in a crouch, her eyes immediately going to R4, who’s been ejected as well, landing a few meters away with a series of frantic beeps.

“You okay, buddy?” she calls, wincing as she pushes herself to her feet. The droid’s dome swivels, chirping an affirmative, and Dia allows herself a brief smile. “Well, that wasn’t too bad.”
She glances down at her arm, the burns running up her side stinging painfully. She closes her eyes for a moment, using the Force to dull the pain, to push it to the edges of her awareness. There’s no time to think about it now. They’re still in enemy territory, and that crash surely drew attention.

Dia pulls supplies from the Delta’s storage compartment, retrieving a medkit and injecting herself with a stim. She clips the empty canister to her belt, just like she was taught, in case a medic finds her later. As she starts gathering her survival pack, the Force suddenly screams in warning. Her head snaps up, her eyes narrowing as the distinct sound of approaching engines reaches her ears.

“Damn it,” she mutters, rolling over a nearby rock for cover just as a droid HMP gunship descends, dropping a mix of super battle droids and commando droids from its racks. The gunship hovers, its cannons swivelling into position.

Dia takes a deep breath, drawing her lightsaber and igniting it, the blue blade humming to life. She glances over at R4. “Stay low, buddy. This is gonna get rough.”

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

VII

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Zela looks up sharply as the tent flaps are thrown open, a gust of rain-soaked wind rushing in along with a medic. The water drips from his armour, creating small puddles on the tent floor as he shouts; urgency is evident in his voice.

“We’ve got a MasCas inbound! Five alpha’s, seven bravo’s, and three charlie’s. Gunship just landed, triage cards are marked,” he barks, spinning on his heel to lead a group of medics out towards the landing pads.

Zela exhales, setting aside her half-drunk mug of caf, her body feeling heavier now with adrenaline kicking in. She rubs at her tired eyes before standing, looking across the tent to the Mirialan Padawan who had been resting alongside her. “Time for us to get to work then,” Zela says, extending her hand.

The Mirialan, Barriss, takes the offered hand, and they exchange a determined nod before sprinting out into the downpour. The rain hammers down relentlessly, soaking through their robes as they rush across the muddy clearing to the landing pad, their boots splashing through puddles. The loud hiss of a gunship's hydraulics fills the air, and the clamour of activity around them is a mix of shouted orders and the groaning whirr of repulsorlifts. The hover-stretchers are offloaded, each holding wounded clones marked with colour-coded triage cards that flap in the wind.

The wave of pain radiating from the injured hits Zela like a physical blow, the raw emotions pulling at her senses through the Force. She steels herself, focusing on the task ahead, and slides to a stop next to the medic in charge of the triage effort.

“Where do you need us?” Zela asks, the rain streaming down her face as she gestures to the line of stretchers.

“Got three red cards that need immediate treatment,” the medic says, pointing towards a cluster of hover-stretchers bearing red tags.

Zela nods quickly, her eyes darting to assess each one. She points to the second stretcher, “Barriss, you take that one. I’ll take this one,” she says, her voice steady despite the chaos.

Zela moves swiftly to the first patient, stepping into the foot stirrup of the stretcher to keep herself steady. She starts assessing the clone's injuries, her eyes scanning the broken body before her, a pit forming in her stomach. The clone’s legs—or what remained of them—are blown off below the knee. Burns cover his abdomen, and shards of shrapnel are embedded in his chest, visible where his armour cracked and failed to protect him. She runs a medisensor across his body, trying not to grimace at the readings.

“What happened?” Zela asks, her tone neutral, though the dread gnaws at her.

The field medic from the 41st Elite Corps—his armour bearing its signature green markings—barely glances at her as he works on stabilizing another patient. “They walked into a minefield. A whole platoon, before we realized it was there. Gave him one stim in the field, and another in transit,” he says, nodding towards the two empty stim canisters clipped to the clone’s belt.

Zela’s lips press into a thin line. She guides the stretcher into the medical tent, the hover motors whirring quietly. The Republic doctor standing near the entrance steps forward, his gaze cold and clinical as he eyes the patient.

“Move to the next one,” he says curtly, shaking his head as he looks at the clone. “No point working here.”

Zela blinks, stunned by his callous dismissal. “But… he can still be saved!” she protests, her voice rising, her hand tightening its grip on the stretcher rail.

The doctor doesn’t even spare her a full glance, just a slight turn of his head. “We don’t know when the next medical frigate is arriving. Even if he gets stabilized, the chance of survival long enough to reach a station is slim. Resources are better spent elsewhere.” He motions for a medical droid, who obediently steps in to move the stretcher to the back of the tent.

Zela’s heart twists, watching the stretcher roll away, the clone’s life—his pain—dismissed like it was nothing. Her hands shake slightly, and she balls them into fists before moving on. There’s no time for hesitation, no time for second-guessing.

She turns to the next red-tagged patient, running over to join the medic performing chest compressions. “What’s the status?” she asks, her eyes already assessing the injured clone.

“Weak pulse. Multiple fractures, stim times two in the field, still in V-fib,” the clone medic reports, his voice tense as he pulls away the last bits of armour to clear access.

Zela nods, picking up a laser scalpel from the nearby tray. “Hold compressions,” she orders. The medic steps back, and she makes an incision in the clone’s neck, her hands moving quickly despite the chaotic surroundings. She inserts the air tube, ensuring it’s properly secured before glancing at the medic manning the defibrillator.

“Shock to one-twenty. Clear,” she says, stepping back as the medic delivers the shock. The clone’s body jerks, his chest rising for a split second before falling back.

The medic checks for a pulse, his face grim as he looks up and shakes his head. “No pulse.”

“Again,” Zela says, her voice unwavering, despite the knot tightening in her chest. “Shock to two hundred. Clear.”

Another jolt, and this time—a flicker. The machine starts to beep steadily, and Zela lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “He’s back. Get a BP, keep giving him blood.” She steps away, peeling off her blood-stained gloves and tossing them into the bin, replacing them with a fresh pair. There’s no time to dwell—there’s always another patient, always another crisis.

She turns at the sound of Barriss calling her name. Zela rushes over, nearly sliding on the wet tent floor, catching herself just in time to reach the opposite side of Barriss’ patient.

“What do you need?” she asks, her eyes scanning the injured clone.

“Pneumothorax,” Barriss says, her voice edged with nerves. “His right lung collapsed. I need a chest tube.”

Zela nods, her movements quick and precise, her focus sharpening despite the exhaustion. She takes a deep breath, grounding herself in the Force as she cleans the area. With deliberate care, she makes the incision, the laser scalpel slicing cleanly through the skin. The rain-soaked air of the tent seems to hold its breath as she inserts the tube, her eyes locked on the steady trickle of blood draining from around the lung. The tension is palpable, and Zela can feel Barriss’ anxiety, the way her presence wavers in the Force like a candle flickering in a storm. “You’re doing great, Barriss,” Zela says softly, her tone gentle but firm, her words a tether of reassurance. She can feel Barriss steadying, the young Padawan’s focus honing back in on the task at hand. 

Together, they work to stabilize the patient, each movement precise, each decision deliberate. Zela reaches for a bacta patch, her hands moving almost of their own accord, the actions rehearsed a thousand times over in training, yet still carrying the weight of life and death. The bacta patches seal the wounds, and Zela exhales, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease slightly as the patient’s breathing steadies. They step back, their roles done for now, allowing the medics to take over and continue the care. The relief is momentary, but it’s enough—a small victory amidst the chaos.

The tent is quieter now, the rush of the MasCas fading as the latest wave of casualties is stabilized or—Zela forces herself not to look at the rear of the tent—moved elsewhere. The senior medic walks over, his face weary but appreciative.

“You two, take a break. Sixteen hours on duty is long enough,” he says, his gaze flicking briefly towards the Republic doctors who seem to always be taking breaks.

Zela nods, her exhaustion suddenly weighing heavily on her shoulders. She places a hand on Barriss' shoulder, guiding her towards the exit. “He’s right. If we’re tired, we’re more likely to make mistakes,” she says gently, her voice barely audible above the pounding rain.

They step out into the downpour, the water washing away the grime and the blood, but not the memories—not the pain. Zela squeezes Barriss’ shoulder, offering what comfort she can, even as the echoes of suffering continue to reverberate through her.

“Let’s find somewhere quiet,” she says, her voice steady. “Somewhere we can just breathe.”

The two of them walk side by side through the downpour, the relentless drumming of rain almost deafening, soaking through their robes and adding to the exhaustion in their bones. The mess tent is dimly lit, a welcome refuge from the chaotic, rain-drenched medical camp. Zela steers Barriss to a table off to the side, helping her sit down before making her way to the corner of the tent. She prepares a pot of Cassius tea, one of the many blends she always carries with her, taking her time to let the steam rise and swirl, an island of calm amidst the turmoil outside.

With the pot, cups, and a small tray of essentials, Zela walks back over and slides in beside Barriss, pouring two mugs of tea, each tailored to its drinker’s liking. She pulls out a bar of rich, dark chocolate and places it gently in front of Barriss, while she takes out a Tooka treat bar for herself. The comforting aroma of the tea mixes with the faint scent of rain-soaked earth, and for a while, they simply sit in silence, sipping from their mugs, the warmth slowly seeping into them, grounding them.

After a long, quiet moment, Barriss’s voice breaks through, barely louder than the rain. “How… how do you put up with all the pain?” Her eyes are fixed on the surface of her tea, her fingers curled tightly around the warm mug. “It’s… overwhelming.” Her voice wavers, like she’s barely holding herself together.

Zela takes a slow sip of her own tea before setting the mug down, her gaze softening as she looks at Barriss. “It is hard,” she admits, her voice gentle, almost a whisper. “The way I’ve managed is to focus entirely on the pain of the patient I’m treating, even if that means I end up feeling it even more.” Her hand moves to Barriss’s shoulder, squeezing gently, offering whatever comfort she can. “It helps me block out the echoes from everyone else. I know it might not work for everyone, though—Dia says it doesn’t really work for her. You and she are both strong empaths, which makes it even harder.”

Barriss nods slowly, her expression clouded. “She gave me some techniques, but I’ve never needed them as much as today… never when it was so… intense.” She pauses, then adds, her voice even softer, “Thanks for helping me back there. I just… I froze. I’ve never done that on an actual patient before.”

“You did fine,” Zela reassures, her eyes sincere. “I was the same way when I was your age. No amount of practice truly prepares you for the first time—not when it’s real. And that’s okay.” She nudges the chocolate bar closer to Barriss. “Eat some. It’ll help.”

Barriss breaks off a piece of the bar, a hint of a smile ghosting across her lips. “You always seem to be carrying chocolate… or other snacks,” she notes, a bit of curiosity seeping into her weary tone.

Zela chuckles softly, unwrapping her Tooka treat bar. “Yeah, well, I find it helpful,” she admits. “Especially when Dia forgets to eat. She’s terrible for it—gets so focused, she forgets there’s more to look after than just the mission.” A fond smile plays at her lips, her thoughts drifting back to happier times at the Jedi Temple, stealing moments in the gardens, reminding each other to slow down.

Barriss studies her for a moment, her eyes lingering on Zela’s expression. A thought seems to strike her, and she hesitates before speaking. “I never totally believed what they said… about the other doctors,” she says, her voice quiet, almost as if she’s testing the waters.

Zela’s body stiffens for a heartbeat, her mind flashing back to the indifference on the doctor's face when he dismissed that wounded clone’s life as not worth saving. She exhales, her gaze turning downwards. “I didn’t want to believe it either,” she says finally, her voice tinged with a sadness that’s almost palpable. “But after today… I’m not so sure. I hope they aren’t all like that. If they are, I don’t know how the clones put up with it.” Her voice cracks slightly, and she swallows, trying to push the lump in her throat back down.

For a moment, Barriss is silent. Then, she lifts her head, her eyes meeting Zela’s. There’s a determination there, one that Zela recognizes and can’t help but admire. “Then we’ll just have to prove it to them,” Barriss says, her voice steadier now. “We’ll show them how much we care.”

A smile spreads across Zela’s face, a real one this time, warm and proud. She lifts her mug in a small salute. “Agreed, konkir`. We’ll show them.” They sit in a shared moment of quiet solidarity, sipping their tea, the warmth seeping in through their tired bodies, easing the tension that had coiled around their hearts.

After a while, Zela glances at Barriss out of the corner of her eye, her tone taking on a lighter, teasing note. “So… how’s Ahsoka finding her time as a Padawan now?”

Barriss’s face softens, a smile tugging at her lips. “She says she’s doing well, even if it was a rough start. She’s… adjusting,” Barriss replies, her fondness for her friend evident in her voice.

“Good,” Zela says, her tone wistful. “I’m glad to hear it. I haven’t had a chance to comm her for any length of time. Next time we’re all back at the Temple, we’ll have to do something. Can’t let her feel left out, not when the rest of us keep sneaking off to celebrate.” Her mind drifts to the memory of the nights sneaking away from the Temple, laughter echoing down the corridors as they evaded their masters, finding solace in each other’s company—forging bonds that no amount of war could break.

Barriss chuckles softly, nodding. “I’d like that,” she says, her voice hopeful. And for the first time since the rush of casualties began, there’s a sense of warmth that fills the mess tent—an unspoken promise that, despite the horrors they face, they still have each other to hold on to.

The rain drums steadily on the canvas of the tent, but in that small corner, with mugs of tea and stolen moments of companionship, there is a fragile sense of peace—one that both Zela and Barriss desperately cling to.

~~~~

Zela leans against the wall of the training grounds, her eyes focused on the two figures in the middle of the arena. Dia and Ahsoka face each other, their postures both relaxed and coiled with anticipation, moving fluidly back into ready positions as they prepare for another match. Dia takes an Ataru guard stance, her right foot shifted back slightly, her lightsaber held vertically along her right-hand side, the familiar energy of combat settling around her. Opposite her, Ahsoka adopts her reverse grip guard, her eyes alight with determination, a confident grin playing across her lips as she meets Dia's gaze.

The atmosphere seems to grow taut as the two watch each other, measuring, waiting for the right moment to strike. It’s a heartbeat, maybe two, and then Dia makes the first move, launching forward in a fluid motion. Her lightsaber arcs down in a fierce overhead strike, the bright blue blade humming through the air. Ahsoka’s response is immediate—she brings her blade up just in time, the impact echoing in a sharp crackle of energy as their sabers clash. Sparks scatter between them, the intense glow bathing their faces in blue. Before Ahsoka can counter, Dia shifts her weight, using the Force to leap over her opponent in a graceful arc, her body twisting mid-air as she brings her lightsaber around for a rapid series of strikes.

Ahsoka anticipates the manoeuvre, already darting forward through the space Dia has just vacated. Her instincts are sharp, her connection to the Force guiding her actions as if in a dance. Ahsoka brings her saber over her shoulder to block Dia's first attack and spins on her heels to meet each subsequent strike. Their blades clash repeatedly, the flash of their sabers illuminating their focused expressions as they push each other to the limit, testing speed and precision.

Dia’s movements are fierce yet controlled, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next as she presses Ahsoka back. But Ahsoka’s style is just as formidable, her reverse grip giving her strikes a unique angle that keeps Dia on her toes. As their sabers lock together, buzzing in protest as the blades press against each other, Dia shifts her stance with a deliberate movement. She transitions smoothly into Makashi—her body language transforming, her attacks becoming more refined, almost elegant. One hand moves to her side, her lightsaber now wielded in a single, precise grip. The change in Form throws Ahsoka slightly off balance, and Dia seizes the opportunity, pressing her advantage with a series of quick, well-aimed thrusts.

Ahsoka is forced to give ground, her focus narrowing as she parries each thrust. Dia advances steadily, each step forward deliberate, her blade flashing with swift, cutting arcs. Their movements become almost a dance, flowing and rhythmic—Ahsoka on the defensive, her eyes locked onto Dia’s, searching for an opening. Dia’s concentration is absolute, her gaze unwavering, her connection to the Force lending her strikes an almost preternatural precision.

Suddenly, Dia parries a strike to the side, her lightsaber twisting in a smooth arc that leaves Ahsoka's guard momentarily open. She steps into the gap, her saber hovering just inches away from Ahsoka’s neck, her breathing steady as she holds her stance. Ahsoka freezes, her chest heaving as she meets Dia’s calm, steady gaze. A grin spreads across Ahsoka’s face, acknowledging the win.

"She’s good," a voice speaks from behind Zela, making her turn slightly. The voice is familiar, warm, and when she glances over her shoulder, she finds Aayla Secura standing there, her lekku draped gracefully over her shoulders, rainwater still clinging to her cloak.

"Both of them. Dia's a good instructor." Aayla’s eyes twinkle with pride as she watches the two young Jedi.

Zela smiles, her gaze shifting back to Dia, who now stands close to Ahsoka, offering her feedback on the last set. Ahsoka listens attentively, nodding as Dia demonstrates a motion with her lightsaber, her passion for teaching evident even from a distance. Dia moves with a natural ease, the movements of her saber precise, and Ahsoka mirrors them, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Yeah, Dia would say she had a good teacher," Zela replies softly, warmth filling her voice. Her eyes turning back to watch Dia giving Ahsoka tips and feedback from the couple sets they just ran through.

Aayla gives a small shake of her head, an amused smile tugging at her lips. "If anything, the teacher had good students," she says, her voice filled with fondness as she steps closer, placing her hand gently on Zela's shoulder.

Zela flushes slightly at the praise, warmth spreading through her at the gentle acknowledgement. She glances at Aayla, then back at the sparring pair. "Either way, I’m glad you took Dia under your wing," Zela replies, her gaze lingering on Dia, her eyes filled with pride. "It’s made all the difference for her."

Aayla's gaze follows Zela’s, her expression softening, her own memories surfacing. "How could I not?" Aayla says, her voice carrying the weight of experience. "I saw someone who had come from a place so similar to mine, someone who had endured hardships no one should, especially not at that age." Her hand drifts to her abdomen, her fingers brushing against the scar—a reminder of her own painful past, mirrored by the similar mark on Dia’s neck. Ayla could see the resilience in Dia, the strength she herself had to find long ago.

"Numa!" Dia’s joyful voice cuts through their reflections, her presence bright and filled with warmth as she bounds over to them. Her lekku sway with her quick steps, her excitement visible in every movement. “I thought you were still out on assignment.”

Behind her, Ahsoka follows, a grin still plastered across her face, her fangs visible as she smiles brightly.

Aayla chuckles at Dia’s enthusiasm, her affection for her evident. She reaches out, gently patting the top of Dia’s head, her expression soft. "Just got back today," she says. "The mission went well. The assassin was apprehended, and the judicial forces are taking care of the rest." A knowing look crosses her face, a hint of pride in her tone. "I came looking for you because Vos wants to see how you’re doing with your Shadow training before he heads off again."

Dia’s eyes flick to Zela, a silent question in them. Zela smiles, nodding in encouragement. "Go on," she says warmly. "I need to put in more hours at the healing halls anyway. I’ll catch up with you later."

Relief and excitement cross Dia’s face, her eyes lighting up with anticipation. She turns back to Aayla, offering Zela one last grateful smile before following her mentor out of the training grounds. Zela watches them leave, pride swelling in her chest as she sees Dia’s growth and confidence shine through.

Zela then turns her attention to Ahsoka, who still stands there, her vibrancy and energy undiminished even after their intense sparring session. "You should go find Barriss and Scout," Zela says, her voice gentle, but a hint of amusement in her eyes. "They should be finishing their lessons soon, and I’m sure they’d love to see you."

Ahsoka’s grin widens, her fangs showing as her face lights up. "You’re probably right," she says, giving Zela a quick, enthusiastic nod before turning and sprinting down the corridor. Her laughter echoes behind her, full of life and warmth, making Zela’s smile broaden.

Zela watches her until she disappears from sight, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. For a long moment, she stands alone in the training grounds, taking in the quiet now that the sparring is over. There is a sense of peace in the empty arena—a fleeting reprieve in a galaxy always on the edge of chaos. She closes her eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply, centring herself. The training grounds were a place of growth, of learning—of failure, and of triumph.

She finally turns, her mind shifting to her next task. The halls of healing awaited her, and she knew that her work there was never truly done. She walks with purpose, her steps light, her heart full. Amid the chaos, there was this—friends and students, each of them growing, each of them finding their way in the galaxy. It was enough to keep her grounded, enough to remind her why she fought, why she healed, and why she hoped. She was ready, renewed, and determined to help in any way she could—just as they all did, in their own ways.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

VIII

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Dia rolls backward, narrowly dodging the commando droid's blade, feeling the rush of air against her lekku as she comes up into a crouch. Her lightsaber hums in front of her, its blue glow casting eerie, flickering shadows across her face and the jagged terrain around her. The two commando droids armed with vibroswords advance with mechanical precision, while the rest of the droids form a tightening circle, their blasters trained on her with unerring accuracy. Her violet eyes dart across her opponents in the fleeting pause, assessing the danger. She can feel the sting of her wounds—blood trickles down her arms, her right leg throbs with a sharp, stabbing pain, and a warm streak drips from her brow, blurring her vision. Gritting her teeth, Dia draws a focused breath, reaching into the Force to suppress the pain and force her mind into clarity despite the fatigue weighing her down.

The moment hangs heavy in the air, then collapses into chaos as Dia launches herself forward with explosive speed. Her lightsaber arcs downward toward the first commando droid, the blade searing against the droid’s lightsaber-resistant alloy. The resistance jolts through her arm, but she doesn’t hesitate. Twisting her wrist and pivoting on her heel, she redirects her strike, rolling her blade along the droid’s weapon in a maneuver that forces its defense wide. With her off-hand releasing momentarily, Dia brings her lightsaber up in a powerful strike that cleaves through the droid’s arm. Sparks fly as she follows through with a decapitating slash, the headless machine collapsing in a cascade of sparking circuitry.

Before she can catch her breath, blaster bolts zip toward her, searing through the air with deadly precision. Dia ducks low, rolling behind a jagged outcrop of rock where her R4 unit has taken cover. The droid chirps anxiously, its dome swivelling toward her as a wrist rocket from a super battle droid impacts the cliff above. The explosion sends chunks of rock raining down, stinging her back and kicking up a thick cloud of dust. Dia grits her teeth against the sharp fragments tearing into her skin but stays focused, inhaling deeply as she allows the Force to expand her awareness.

With a burst of energy, she vaults over the rock, her lightsaber igniting mid-air. The blue glow reflects against the metallic surfaces of the advancing droids as she lands, deflecting blaster bolts in a flurry of precise, controlled movements. Each rebound finds its mark, taking down a pair of commando droids with calculated ricochets. But the super battle droids press forward, their heavy armour shrugging off stray blaster fire as they unleash an unrelenting barrage.

The second commando droid charges, its vibrosword swinging in a deadly horizontal arc. Dia brings her lightsaber across her body in a downward block, the clash sending a resonating vibration through her bones. She twists her stance, using the Force to amplify her strength as she shoves the droid backward with an open palm, a shockwave rippling outward. The reprieve is brief but enough for Dia to adjust her grip, holding her lightsaber in a two-handed guard. She steps into the droid’s recovery, her blade carving through it in a diagonal strike that bisects its torso in one fluid motion.

Before she can steady herself, another blaster bolt streaks toward her. She pivots, deflecting it upward, but the ground beneath her erupts as a wrist rocket explodes at her feet. The shockwave throws her violently backward into the cliff face. The impact drives the air from her lungs, and her lightsaber flies from her grasp, the blade extinguishing as it spins away.

Dia crashes against the unforgiving stone, her head snapping back against the rock with a sickening crack. Pain lances through her body, and for a moment, her vision blurs with stars. The ringing in her ears drowns out the noise of the battle as she collapses to the ground, her chest heaving in shallow, painful breaths. Blood trickles down her face, mingling with the dirt as she blinks rapidly to clear her vision.

When the world steadies, she sees the droids closing in. The remaining commando droids flank the super battle droids, their swords raised, while blasters from the encircling line of machines all point toward her. The cold realisation washes over her: she is cornered. Her hands scrape against the ground, searching desperately for her saber, but it lies meters away, far beyond her reach. The pain is too great, her strength too sapped to summon the Force in time. Her breath catches, her chest tightening as the circle of metal death tightens around her. But even in this moment, Dia’s resolve does not waver. Her eyes narrow, her focus sharpening despite the odds stacked against her, readying herself for whatever comes next.

Dia forces herself to take a deep breath, feeling the Force swell within her, filling her with renewed determination. She won’t be captured—she refuses to give them that satisfaction. Images flash through her mind: Zela’s smile, the warmth in her eyes, her reassuring presence. She remembers the sound of Zela’s gentle laughter, the way her hand would rest on Dia’s shoulder whenever she needed reassurance. A rush of sorrow floods her as she realises she may never see that smile again, never feel the comforting warmth of Zela’s presence. She clings to those memories, letting them steady her frantically beating heart. ‘At least I’ll be thinking of you,’ she whispers in her mind, trying to find solace in what she believes to be her last moments. Dia centres herself on that thought, her hands curling weakly against the dirt as she opens her eyes, heart steeled for the end.

The droids’ blasters whir to life, and just as they prepare to fire, three detonators drop from above, clattering onto the ground amidst the droids. Dia’s eyes widen. Before she can react, an electric pulse bursts out from the droid poppers, blue arcs of electricity leaping from one droid to another. Circuits fry in a cascade of sparks as several droids collapse in a heap of sparking metal. A moment later, precise blue blaster bolts rain down from above, crashing into the remaining droids and dismantling them before they can recover.

Dia exhales a shaky breath, her body slumping with exhaustion. Relief washes over her, mixed with disbelief as her gaze lifts to see the armoured boots of clone troopers rappelling down the cliff. They land in front of her, forming a protective line as their blasters fire with cold efficiency, ensuring the droids are down for good. Two troopers rush to her side. One kneels beside her, their voice echoing through the comms of their helmet.

“Commander! Hang in there!”

The squad leader—Rose, Dia realises belatedly—quickly assesses her injuries, her gloved hands moving with practised care. Rose’s voice carries a mix of concern and authority. She attaches a grapple device to Dia, securing it around her as the battle continues in the background.

“Rose, thank you,” Dia murmurs weakly, her voice barely audible as the adrenaline begins to wear off. Exhaustion weighs heavily on her, and the pain she’d been holding back seeps into her awareness, making her head swim.

“Stay with me, Commander,” Rose replies firmly, though Dia can hear the underlying concern in her tone. Rose activates the ascension cable, pulling Dia close as they ascend steadily up the cliffside. The wind whips around them, the rugged terrain below fading into the background as Dia’s vision blurs. Her consciousness slips in and out, but Rose’s steady presence anchors her, reminding her she isn’t alone.

At the top of the cliff, Rose places Dia gently on the ground and immediately pulls out the small medkit attached to her belt. Her hands work quickly but carefully as she wipes away the worst of the blood, her jaw tightening as she assesses the severity of Dia’s wounds.

“We need to get her to a medic,” Rose calls over her shoulder, her tone sharp and urgent. She applies bacta patches to Dia’s burns and cuts, cursing under her breath at the limited supplies. Another clone hands Rose Dia’s lightsaber, and she secures it to her own belt before lifting Dia onto her AT-RT walker. The motion jostles Dia’s injuries, and she hisses in pain, her fingers weakly gripping Rose’s armour for balance.

Another clone carefully secures R4 to their walker. The astromech beeps anxiously, its dome swivelling to keep Dia in its sights. With a final glance at the field littered with downed droids, Rose issues the order to move out. The squad forms a protective perimeter around their commander as they set off, their speed increasing as they race back to the Company’s camp.

Dia leans her head against Rose’s back, her vision darkening at the edges. She can barely hear the steady hum of the walker over the rush of blood in her ears. The adrenaline that had sustained her is gone, replaced by a deep, gnawing pain and exhaustion. She clings to the faint memory of Zela’s face, a small spark of warmth amidst the haze.

“Medic! The commander needs a medic!” Rose shouts, her voice ringing with urgency as she waves down two medics. They sprint over, their medkits in hand, quickly directing Rose to lay Dia down gently.

The medics work with practiced efficiency, their movements precise and purposeful. One carefully rolls Dia onto her side, exposing her back to apply a large bacta patch over the deep wounds and fractured bones. The other medic focuses on the injuries to her front, applying another bacta patch to her ribs and wrapping her burned arm in a specialised bacta-infused sleeve that clings snugly to the charred skin. Each action is accompanied by the steady hum of the medisensor as it scans her vitals.

“Right, she should be fine with some rest now,” the lead medic says, his tone steady but tired. “No major internal damage, just shrapnel cuts, contusions, and burns. She’ll heal up with time and rest.” He steps back as his partner administers an injection to ease Dia’s pain and speed the bacta’s effectiveness.

Rose lets out a long, shaky sigh, the tension visibly draining from her shoulders as she unclips her helmet and sets it aside. She rakes a gloved hand through her slightly longer hair, trying to collect herself. “Good…good,” she murmurs, her voice softer now. “It looked close when we got there. A moment longer…” She shakes her head, the weight of the near miss pressing on her as she sinks onto a nearby crate. “Thanks, Draffin. You and your team did great.”

Draffin places a reassuring hand on her shoulder, offering her a brief, understanding nod before heading off to assist elsewhere. Rose remains seated, her gaze fixed on Dia. The scene of the cliffside replaying in her mind—the droids closing in, the helplessness of the moment, and then the relief of their intervention. Her stomach knots as her memories twist, her worst fears bleeding into reality: clones instead of droids, and the face of a Jedi—faceless in her nightmares—now unmistakably Dia’s, staring back at her with fear. She squeezes her eyes shut, willing the image away.

Dia stirs, a faint groan escaping her lips as the medicine takes effect, dulling the edges of her pain. Her violet eyes flutter open, hazy but alert, and her gaze lands on Rose.

“Thank you… for the rescue,” Dia says, her voice soft and faint, but brimming with gratitude.

“Not a problem, Commander. I’m just glad we got there in time,” Rose replies, her voice gentler now, the rough edge of battle replaced with relief. She reaches into a pouch on her belt, pulling out Dia’s lightsaber and handing it to her. “Curve grabbed your saber when we climbed the cliff. Thought you’d want it back.”

Dia’s fingers close around the hilt, the familiar weight grounding her as she holds it close. Her thumb runs along its length, and her mind drifts back to the moment she thought it was all over. She remembers forcing herself to find calm, to prepare for the inevitable, only for her thoughts to be consumed by Zela. Her breath catches as tears well up in her eyes, spilling over before she can stop them. She wipes at her face, her expression crumbling. “I… I’m glad you arrived when you did as well,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “The Force… it was telling me there was nothing I could do.” Her tears flow freely now, her body trembling as the fear she had suppressed finally bursts forth.

Rose shifts off the crate, dropping to her knees at Dia’s side, placing a hand on her shoulder. Her touch is firm yet gentle, grounding Dia in the here and now. “Hey, it’s okay,” she says softly, her voice steady but filled with warmth. She squeezes Dia’s shoulder for reassurance, leaning in slightly to meet her gaze. “We made it, and you survived. That’s what matters. A lot of the vod have similar reactions to their first real brush with death. It’s not something to be ashamed of, ad’ika.” Her tone is calm, almost motherly, a stark contrast to the commanding edge she usually carries in the field.

Dia lets out a shaky sob, her composure breaking as she leans into Rose’s comforting hold. “We’re taught not to fear death,” she says, her words coming out between sobs. “To welcome becoming one with the Force, but I was so scared. I thought I was ready, but the moment I felt it—the finality—I realised I wasn’t. I couldn’t leave Zela. I’m not ready to leave her. She’s everything to me, Rose. Every memory, every dream I have for the future—it all has her in it. I couldn’t stand the thought of never seeing her smile again, never hearing her laugh or feeling her presence in the Force. She keeps me grounded.” Her tears fall freely now, dripping onto Rose’s armour as she clings to her, her body trembling with the release of the fear and anguish she’d held back.

Rose hesitates, caught off guard by the raw emotion pouring from Dia. Her training had prepared her for countless battlefield scenarios, but not this—comforting a crying Jedi, her commander no less. But after a moment, she wraps her arm around Dia’s shoulders, her movements deliberate and reassuring. She pats Dia’s back softly, murmuring, “Sssh, fearing death is normal. We do everything we can to avoid it. And you should know that all the vod will do everything to make sure you don’t leave Commander Taal any time soon.” Her voice lowers, almost conspiratorial. “We’ve all seen how much you two mean to each other.”

Dia nods weakly against Rose’s shoulder, her breathing uneven as she tries to calm herself. “Thank you, but neither Zela nor I want anyone to die for us,” she whispers, her voice tinged with guilt. She pauses, taking a shuddering breath to gather herself. “Of course she means a lot to me… we grew up together in the temple. We caused no end of trouble for our crèchemaster. Especially early on, I couldn’t even speak Basic. Then Aayla taught me and everything else I know, really. She made me part of her zen’ka—her family.” Her voice softens, a faint smile breaking through the tears as she recalls the warm memories of her childhood.

Rose listens intently, her hand tracing small, comforting circles on Dia’s back. “Some of my batchmates were the same,” she says, her tone a gentle murmur. “Always seemed to cause trouble, or at least got blamed for it. But we always had each other—just like you have Commander Taal, General Secura, and now me and the vode. You’re not alone, ad’ika. Not now, not ever.” She pulls back slightly, meeting Dia’s tear-filled gaze with a reassuring smile. “You should rest and heal. The company is planning to move tomorrow, and you’re stuck with us until the rest of the Legion catches up.”

Dia manages a small, shaky smile, wiping her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” she whispers, the weight of exhaustion finally overtaking her. She leans back slowly, her body giving in to the need for rest as her eyes flutter closed.

Rose stays by her side for a moment longer, her gaze softening as she watches Dia drift into a fitful but much-needed sleep. She brushes a stray lock of hair from Dia’s face, her expression thoughtful and protective. Taking a deep breath, she rises to her feet, her movements quiet and measured. She gives a nod to the clone standing nearby, silently assigning him to keep watch over Dia while she rests. With one final glance at her commander, Rose turns and strides back toward the camp, her heart heavy with the realisation of how close they’d come to losing her.

The air in the command tent feels heavy with tension as officers gather around the flickering holographic map. Dia’s near-miss still lingers in the back of everyone’s minds, a stark reminder of the cost of this war and just how close they came to losing their young commander.

“Captain, Lieutenant,” Rose greets, her voice steady, giving each of them a nod before her gaze shifts to the holographic map projected from R4-P29. Her expression is composed, but there’s a tightness to her posture that betrays her own unease.

Captain Zell looks up, concern etched on his features as he turns to her. “Staff Sergeant, how is the commander?” There’s a sharp edge of worry in his tone that underscores the room’s tension.

Rose straightens, every bit the soldier as she replies. “She is recovering. Luckily, there were no major injuries—mostly cuts, bruises, and exhaustion. If we hadn’t arrived when we did, though,” her voice falters slightly, and she clenches her jaw, willing the images of Dia surrounded by droids to fade from her mind. After a moment, she continues firmly, “She’ll be back on her feet soon.”

Both officers visibly relax, a shared sigh of relief escaping Captain Zell as he nods. “Good, good. Thank you, Rose.” His gaze returns to the map, his voice shifting to a more commanding tone as he gestures for the assembled officers to step closer. “Now that everyone is here, let’s get started. The plan for tomorrow is to secure this bridge here,” he says, pointing to a bright marker on the holographic terrain. “This is the only major crossing over the canyon. Without it, our advance on the capital will be significantly delayed, and it will hinder our ability to link up with the 89th Legion once they land in the next few days.” He pauses, letting the weight of the objective sink in. “Recon will push ahead to locate the main Separatist defences, and then we’ll begin bombardment with mortars ahead of the assault. First and Second platoons will lead the charge.”

Lieutenant Slash steps closer to the map, his brow furrowed as he examines the terrain. “Sir, it doesn’t look like we’ll have much cover once we make this bend.” He points to a sharp turn in the pass that leads into a wide, flat expanse before the bridge. The approach is painfully exposed, the kind of ground that turns into a killing field under the right enemy conditions. “If they’ve got emplacements or support units set up, it’s going to be brutal.”

Zell’s lips press into a thin line as he nods. “Ideally, the mortars will take out or suppress their emplacements long enough for us to advance and eliminate them. It’s not perfect, but command has made it clear this bridge is a priority. Someone has to take it.” His tone is resigned, acknowledging the risks without hesitation.

Rose studies the map intently, her eyes tracing every contour of the terrain. Her gaze lingers on the steep incline of the pass and the exposed plateau leading to the bridge. Every ditch, every slope, every outcropping could be an advantage or a deathtrap. She bites her lip, her mind already calculating the best routes and fallback points. She glances at the captain, giving him a firm nod of understanding and commitment.

“Alright,” Zell concludes, his tone decisive. “Brief your people. We move out in the early hours. Let’s make sure this mission doesn’t turn into a disaster.” The officers nod in agreement before dispersing, each heading to prepare their respective platoons for the coming battle.

Rose falls into step beside Lieutenant Winter, her recon commander, with Staff Sergeant Wave joining them. The trio moves a short distance from the main group, settling on a cluster of rocks just beyond the tent. They set their helmets at their feet, huddling together against the chill of the evening air as the faint scent of rain still lingers.

Winter pulls up a datapad, its pale blue glow casting faint shadows on their faces. “Alright,” he begins, his voice measured. “We’ll treat this like a standard bridge assault. Wave, you’ll take the right flank, while Rose, you handle the left. We’ll ascend out of the pass a few hundred meters before the bend and come in from the heights on either side. From there, we can provide overwatch and relay coordinates to the mortars.” He glances between the two sergeants, his expression firm but not unkind.

Wave taps the side of the datapad thoughtfully. “As long as the clankers don’t have any surprises waiting for us, we should have decent cover. Plenty of time to adjust the mortar fire and soften them up before the main assault.” His voice is calm, steady with the weight of experience.

Rose nods, her mind already running through contingencies. She’d seen the fear in Dia’s eyes earlier, the vulnerability that the young commander had allowed her to glimpse. Rose understood that fear. Every mission held the potential for finality, but for clones, it was a fate they’d accepted from the beginning. For Dia, though, it was different. Despite her training, she was still young, still holding on to hopes and dreams that stretched far beyond the battlefield. That thought steels Rose’s resolve even further. If they could secure the bridge and pave the way forward, they’d be one step closer to keeping Dia—and the rest of the company—safe.

“If that’s all, Lieutenant, I’ll check in with my section. Make sure they’re squared away and ready for tomorrow,” Rose says, standing and tucking her helmet under her arm, her voice steady and resolute.

Winter nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Go ahead, Rose. I’ll comm you if anything changes before we move out.” He watches as she and Wave head off, his gaze lingering on Rose for a moment longer, a silent recognition of the weight she carries.

As Rose makes her way back through the camp, she passes rows of clones cleaning their weapons, checking gear, and murmuring quietly among themselves. She pauses briefly, her eyes scanning the familiar faces, each one a reminder of what was at stake. She takes a deep breath, her resolve solidifying as she strides toward her section, ready to face whatever challenges the morning would bring.

While the clones prepare for the coming battle, Dia lies in restless sleep, her mind drifting into the depths of the Force. The soft hum of the camp fades as her awareness sinks deeper and deeper, pulled into an endless, consuming fog. The warmth she usually associates with the Force—the comforting embrace of life and connection—is absent. In its place lies an unsettling void, stretching out in every direction, vast and suffocating. For a moment, there is only silence, a heavy, oppressive quiet that feels unnatural and wrong.

Then, without warning, the stillness is shattered by the blaring of distant alarms. The sound echoes through the void, distorted and growing louder with each passing second. The noise reverberates as if the fabric of the Force itself trembles under its weight. Pain lashes against Dia’s senses, sharp and overwhelming, like icy winds cutting through her very being. It’s not hers, but it feels close, familiar, like a phantom ache borrowed from another’s suffering.

Through the haze of alarms and anguish, another sound emerges—the rhythmic clank of metal claws on metal. The steps are slow and deliberate, each one reverberating like a hammer striking a countdown. The air around her grows heavy with dread as the sound draws closer. Twisted, mechanical laughter cuts through the void, its mocking tone filled with malice and a sinister joy. It echoes endlessly, wrapping around her like chains, each note tightening the grip of fear.

A sudden burst of light cuts through the darkness, and Dia’s eyes are drawn to it instinctively. Four spinning circles of colour appear, their glow searing against the black void. Blue and green lights twirl and clash, forming hypnotic patterns that both mesmerise and terrify. The spinning blades hum with deadly precision, their energy resonating through the Force. They move with a terrifying grace, an unrelenting predator stalking its prey.

Dia’s breath catches as the blades surge toward her, spinning faster, their hum growing into a deafening roar. She tries to move, to retreat, but her body feels leaden, bound by an invisible weight that pins her in place. The air around her grows thick, choking her, as the blades close in. The metal steps grow louder, impossibly close now, each footfall accompanied by the faint hiss of mechanical breathing, slow and deliberate. She feels an oppressive presence looming, cold and suffocating, watching her struggle with cruel detachment.

The lights draw closer, and with them comes a wave of fear that threatens to consume her entirely. As the spinning circles reach her, poised to strike, she catches a glimpse of shadowed metallic limbs, skeletal yet monstrous, illuminated briefly by the glow of the lights. The mechanical laughter rises again, cruel and victorious. Just as the blades descend, there is a blinding flash—a searing white light that consumes everything, obliterating the void and leaving only silence in its wake.

The silence returns for a breath, but it is fleeting. It shatters with a violent suddenness, replaced by cries of pain—raw, wrenching screams that claw at Dia’s senses, making her stomach clench and her heart pound. The voices are disembodied, echoing from every direction, yet painfully real. She instinctively reaches out, trying to touch the Force and find them, to offer solace or aid. But the Force remains distant, silent to their agony, leaving her alone in the void, cut off and blind to suffering she knows is there. A deep sense of helplessness washes over her, a weight she has carried before but never been able to fully shed.

The agonised screams fade, their echoes dissolving into a quiet that feels no less oppressive. Then, the quiet is broken again, this time by soft whimpers of fear. The sound cuts through her, a blade of anguish sharper than the screams. She can hear murmured prayers, whispered in desperation, forming words in a language that pulls at a buried part of her memory. Amatakka. The language of slaves. Her heart twists painfully at the sound, the familiarity of it a cruel reminder of lives lived in captivity and torment. Each prayer is a plea for salvation, voices breaking with hopelessness.

The prayers stop abruptly, swallowed by a scream so raw, so filled with unfiltered agony, that it pierces Dia’s very soul. She flinches, her heart lurching as she recognises the voice calling out her name. “Dia!” Zela’s voice echoes through the void, trembling with terror and pain, a sound that tears through every fibre of Dia’s being.

Rage and fear swell within her, rising like a storm that threatens to consume her entirely. She struggles to move, to act, but she’s frozen, her body locked in place as though bound by chains of shadow. The roar of flames fills her ears, but these are not ordinary flames. They are cold—a biting, unnatural cold that sears her skin and burrows into her bones. The fire blazes, illuminating the suffocating darkness around her, and she sees it reflected off the smooth, unyielding surface of stone walls. Indistinct shapes lie at her feet, twisted shadows etched in the flickering light. They send shivers down her spine, their presence oppressive and wrong. She tries to turn away, but her gaze remains fixed, held by some unseen force.

Zela’s screams cease abruptly, leaving a silence that is deafening in its intensity. Dia feels a familiar presence wrapping around her, a fleeting warmth that sparks hope in her chest. But the warmth twists and corrodes, transforming into something dark and suffocating. The comforting bond she shares with Zela is corrupted, stained by an insidious presence that feels like a living poison. It coils around her, seeping into her thoughts, feeding on her fear and anger. The cries of pain return, but now they are warped, filled with a terror so profound it chills Dia to her core. She can feel the darkness pulsing, thriving on the suffering, and worse, she feels it pulling at her, whispering promises of power and vengeance.

The whispers grow louder, seductive and persuasive, curling like smoke in her mind. A dark satisfaction stirs in her chest, alien and horrifying. It whispers that this is justice—that those who hurt Zela deserve to suffer. The thought plants itself in her mind, a seed of malice that grows with every passing moment. Dia fights against it, her heart pounding as she struggles to separate herself from the darkness, to hold on to who she is. But the whispers are insistent, wrapping around her resolve, eroding it with each taunting word.

For a fleeting moment, she lets herself give in. She lets herself revel in the screams, lets herself feel the twisted satisfaction of retribution. A strange peace washes over her, one born not of calm but of yielding. Yet in that moment, the image of Zela’s face flashes before her—her smile, bright and full of life. The memory pierces through the darkness, and Dia’s heart twists painfully. She realises what she’s doing, what she’s becoming, and the realisation terrifies her. The thought of losing Zela—not just physically, but the connection they share—is more horrifying than anything else.

She tries to pull away from the darkness, to wrench herself free, but it clings to her, its grip cold and relentless. It whispers of power, of absolution, of a path where she will never feel helpless again. The temptation gnaws at her, but Dia forces herself to focus on Zela’s smile, the warmth of her presence, the emotions that bind them. She clings to those memories, using them as an anchor as she fights her way back. The darkness resists, pulling at her with clawed hands, but she pushes against it with every ounce of strength she has left.

Slowly, painfully, the darkness begins to recede, peeling away like a dissipating storm. Dia is left trembling, exhausted, the lingering cold of the flames still biting at her skin. The whispers fade, but she can feel the darkness lurking at the edges of her mind, waiting. For now, she is free, but the shadow has left its mark.

She jerks awake with a gasp, her chest heaving as she struggles to catch her breath. The early morning light filters into the tent, soft and golden, a stark contrast to the suffocating void she’d just escaped. Rolling onto her side, Dia presses a trembling hand to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her body is damp with sweat, her skin prickling with the fading remnants of the cold flames. She closes her eyes briefly, forcing herself to breathe, to ground herself in the present. But the memory of the darkness lingers, and with it, the fear that it might come for her again.

Out of the corner of her eye, Dia catches sight of her reflection in the polished metal surface of a nearby crate. The glint of light draws her attention, and her breath hitches in her throat as her gaze locks onto the image staring back at her. Her heart skips a beat, a cold shiver runs down her spine. Her eyes, once their familiar violet, are tinged with a faint but unmistakable golden hue.

Her hands tremble as she pushes herself upright, her legs weak beneath her. She steps closer to the crate, the golden glint in her reflection growing more pronounced with every second she stares. Her chest tightens, and her lips part in a silent denial. "No… no, this isn’t real," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart. Her hands raise instinctively to her face, fingers brushing against her skin as though seeking proof of what she’s seeing. But there is nothing there—no heat, no glow, just the cold sweat on her trembling fingertips.

Shaking her head vehemently, Dia squeezes her eyes shut, refusing to believe the vision before her. Her breaths come in uneven gasps, her pulse racing as she wills the image away. "This isn’t real," she repeats to herself, her voice breaking. The golden tint lingers in her mind even with her eyes closed, an imprint she can’t erase. For a moment, she stays like that, her shoulders rising and falling with the effort of controlling her breathing.

When she opens her eyes again, she turns sharply away from the crate, as though the act of looking elsewhere could banish the memory of what she saw. The reflection is gone, the golden hue fading from her vision, but the fear it left behind remains. It’s a cold, unrelenting weight pressing against her chest, its grip unyielding.

Dia forces herself to move, pushing the image to the back of her mind. Her legs feel unsteady, her steps hesitant as she makes her way toward the gathering clones. She keeps her head down, her gaze unfocused, her shoulders hunched as though she could shrink away from the world around her. Each step feels heavier than the last, the memory of Zela’s screams echoing relentlessly in her mind. The sound cuts through her, sharp and raw, bringing with it the terror and helplessness she felt in the void. She can’t shake it, can’t escape the feeling of losing Zela forever.

She takes a deep breath, her chest rising with the effort to steady herself, but it does little to dispel the cold tendrils of fear curling around her thoughts. The darkness she felt in the vision clings to her like a shadow, whispering at the edges of her consciousness. Its presence is faint but persistent, lurking in the corners of her mind, a reminder of the thin line she treads between the light and the dark.

Dia’s fingers brush against the hilt of her lightsaber at her side, seeking comfort in its familiar weight. She closes her eyes again, drawing on the memory of Zela’s smile, the warmth of her laughter, the way her presence in the Force had always steadied her. It’s enough to keep her moving forward, one step at a time, even as the darkness lingers. A part of her knows that the fear won’t fade completely, that it will remain as a reminder of how close she came to losing everything she held dear. But for now, she clings to the light, to the hope that it will be enough to carry her through.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

IX

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Dia’s steps are deliberate as she approaches Rose, her eyes fixed on their parked AT-RTs. The low hum of preparations buzzes in the air, the clones’ movements methodical as they double-check equipment and secure their gear. Dia hangs back, her fingers nervously stroking one of her lekku, her usually sharp focus blurred by the lingering emotions from the Force vision. The unsettling sense of dread refuses to leave her, clinging to her like a shadow, wrapping tightly around her thoughts. She fights to push it aside, to focus on the mission, but the echoes of that cold darkness still gnaw at the edges of her mind. Every sound—a distant clang of metal, the hum of an engine spinning to life—tethers her back to that void: the darkness, the screams, Zela’s voice crying out. The fear of losing Zela still twists in her chest, an ache that refuses to let go.

“Commander,” Rose’s voice cuts through the haze. Dia blinks, her attention snapping to the woman approaching her. Rose’s concern is written plainly across her face, her helmet held under one arm, her other hand resting on the hilt of her sidearm. “How are you feeling now?”

Dia tries to summon a reassuring smile, but it feels forced, barely masking her vulnerability. “My injuries are mostly healed,” she replies, her voice steadier than she feels. “The medics would prefer I stick to light duty if we were somewhere safe, but that’s not an option here.”

Rose’s brows furrow, her gaze scanning Dia’s face for a moment before she lets out a quiet sigh. “Nothing I say will change your mind, will it, Commander?” she asks, resignation softening her tone.

“Nope,” Dia replies, forcing a grin as she tries to project confidence. “I’m coming with you. My shadow training suits me better with the scouts than the main bulk of the company anyway.”

Rose’s lips twitch into a reluctant smile. “Fine,” she says, her voice tinged with both amusement and exasperation. “But stick close to us. We’re moving out ahead of the rest of the company in a moment.” She pulls a datapad from one of her belt pouches and hands it to Dia. “The plan is outlined here, along with the map we’ll be following.”

Dia accepts the datapad with a nod, her eyes quickly scanning the outlined route and objectives. Despite her lingering unease, a flicker of determination sparks within her. She belongs here, on the front lines, even if fear still gnaws at her edges. The ARFs are finishing their preparations, Winter’s sharp voice carrying over the bustle as he issues final orders. The troop begins to move out, the low rumble of engines and boots against the ground signalling their departure.

As they march across the plains, Dia falls into step alongside Rose. The tall grass whips against her legs, the sun casting dappled light over the landscape. The air smells of earth and vegetation, tinged faintly with ozone from their equipment. The wind carries distant bird calls and the faint rustling of wildlife, a deceptive calm that belies the tension simmering beneath the surface. Dia’s lekku twitch as she tunes her senses, her mind half-focused on the environment while the other half wars with the remnants of the vision.

The terrain begins to shift as they enter the pass, rocky cliffs towering on either side. The foliage thins, replaced by jagged outcroppings and patches of dry, stubborn grass. Dia keeps pace with the clones, her boots crunching against the uneven ground. Her ribs twinge with each step, a sharp reminder of her still-healing wounds. Despite her best efforts to hide it, Rose’s sharp gaze catches the faint winces, her concern flashing again in the glance she casts toward Dia. Dia bites her lip, ignoring the discomfort and focusing instead on the rocky landscape ahead.

After nearly half an hour of marching, they reach the ascension point. Winter’s voice rings out, giving the order to prepare ascension cables. The clones move with practised efficiency, their movements precise and synchronised. Dia takes a steadying breath as she retrieves her own cable, firing it to the top of the cliff. The grappling hook latches onto the rocky edge, and she activates the mechanism, letting it pull her upwards. As she ascends, she uses the Force to guide and steady her, swinging gracefully over the cliff’s lip before landing in a smooth roll.

The clones follow, scaling the cliff with disciplined ease, their armour glinting faintly in the sunlight. As they regroup at the top, Dia takes her place near Rose, the section forming a loose defensive formation. The air feels thinner at this elevation, cooler and carrying a faint tang of mineral-rich earth. Dia’s ribs protest from the exertion, but she ignores the sharp pangs, focusing instead on scanning the terrain for threats.

Rose’s gaze flicks toward her again, a silent question lingering in the way her eyes narrow slightly. Dia meets her gaze briefly before looking away, unwilling to acknowledge the concern. She can’t afford to show weakness, not now. But the whispers from the vision still linger, gnawing at the edges of her thoughts. The cold fire of that darkness, Zela’s screams, the overwhelming dread—it all presses against her mind, threatening to unravel her resolve. Dia clenches her fists, willing herself to bury the fear beneath the weight of her duty.

As the troop advances, the rocky terrain gives way to a plateau overlooking their next objective. Dia crouches beside Rose, her eyes narrowing as she surveys the landscape below. The wind whips past them, carrying with it the scent of distant fires and the faint hum of Separatist machinery. The tension in the air is palpable, each soldier acutely aware of the danger that lies ahead. Yet in this moment, as the troop prepares to press forward, Dia finds a fragile sliver of clarity. The dread is still there, lingering like a shadow, but so is her determination. She won’t let fear define her—not now, not ever.

They reach the lip of the cliff overlooking the bridge, the section dropping down onto their fronts and crawling the final distance to the edge. Dia pulls out her macrobinoculars, peering through them while Rose comms Winter to signal they are in position.

The rocky ground beneath them is sharp and uneven, pressing into their armour as they inch forward. The air is thick with tension, the faint hum of droid machinery carrying on the wind. Dia adjusts the macrobinoculars, her breath catching in her throat as she focuses on the scene below. A platoon of droid tanks is arrayed in a defensive formation, their hulking shapes casting dark, menacing shadows across the ground. Her heart pounds in her chest as she takes in the sight. The tanks look like immovable giants, their cannons angled towards the pass, waiting for the clones to walk straight into their line of fire.

“Kriff,” she whispers under her breath, her voice barely audible but heavy with dread.

Rose’s head snaps in her direction, her expression sharpening. “What is it?” she asks, her voice tight, the tension palpable.

“A platoon of droid tanks,” Dia says, her voice tight as she lowers the macrobinoculars for a moment. “They’re set up on the far side of the bridge. Defensive formation. If we move in as planned, it’ll be a massacre.”

Rose swears softly, her hand reaching for her own macrobinoculars. She lifts them, peering through the lenses to verify Dia’s report. “Kriffing hell,” she mutters under her breath, her tone grim. “Exactly what we were worried about. There’s not enough cover out there for our launchers to get a clean shot.”

Dia’s mind races as she scans the area again, the weight of the vision pressing heavily on her thoughts. The memory of Zela’s screams and the cold darkness gnaws at her resolve, but she forces herself to focus. Her gaze catches on a shadowed structure beneath the bridge, and she adjusts the focus. “Look under there,” she says, pointing. “There’s a walkway. It’s narrow, but it could get us across without being seen.”

Rose lowers her binoculars and squints at the spot Dia indicates. Her expression shifts as she takes in the narrow walkway, partially obscured by shadows and overgrown foliage. “And we could use that ditch over there with the shrubs as cover to get close,” she says, more to herself than anyone else. Her voice steadies as a plan begins to form. “Damn it, Dia, you might be onto something. I’ll call Winter and see what he thinks.”

As Rose comms Winter, Dia’s heart beats like a war drum, her mind filled with the stakes of the moment. The thought of the clones marching into a slaughter gnaws at her, twisting her stomach into knots. She grips the macrobinoculars tightly, her determination hardening. She can’t let that happen. The fear of helplessness, the fear of loss—it fuels her resolve.

The conversation over the comm drags on, every second stretching like an eternity. Finally, Rose lowers the comm, her eyes locking with Dia’s. “We have the go-ahead,” she says firmly, her tone steady. “Let’s do it. Signal the section.”

Dia nods, her resolve crystalising. She signals to the rest of the section, gesturing for them to move. The soldiers begin to shift, their forms blending into the rocky terrain as they advance with deliberate care. The tension hangs heavy in the air, every sound amplified against the backdrop of silence.

Rose leads the way, her movements precise and calculated. Dia follows closely, her senses heightened, the Force flowing around her like a current. The echoes of her vision tug at the edges of her thoughts, but she pushes them aside, focusing on each step, each breath. The dark whispers are still there, but she refuses to let them take hold. She has a mission to complete, people depending on her, and she won’t let fear control her.

The ARFs and Dia descend the cliff swiftly, using ascension cables to rappel down the rugged, craggy surface. Each movement is deliberate, calculated; the crunch of gravel beneath their boots and the scrape of metal on rock seem amplified in Dia's ears. Her pulse pounds relentlessly as they move, each sound a sharp reminder of how exposed they truly are. The cliff face looms over them, jagged and unforgiving, a stark mirror of the tension gripping her chest. Every step feels precarious, the weight of the mission pressing heavily on her shoulders.

They land softly in a ditch at the base of the cliff, their bodies dropping into the shadows as they press low to avoid detection. The air hums with shared tension, every member of the team hyper-aware of the potential for danger. The rustle of grass against their armour blends with the sounds of the wind, creating a dissonant symphony that sets Dia’s nerves on edge. Her lekku twitch nervously, a physical response to her heightened awareness. She forces herself to take a steadying breath, but the remnants of her dark vision linger stubbornly, whispering fears of failure and loss. They cling to her like an unwanted shadow, coiling around her thoughts despite her efforts to push them away.

As they cautiously advance, the faint sound of droid movements echoes in the distance—metallic feet striking against rocky ground with a sinister, rhythmic clank. The noise reverberates in the stillness, each impact tightening the knots in Dia’s stomach. Her fingers brush one of her lekku, a small gesture of self-comfort as she fights to focus on the mission. But the darkness of her vision gnaws at her resolve. Zela’s scream—etched into her mind like a scar—rings in her ears. The memory of that agony, of the helplessness she had felt, makes her insides churn.

Rose raises her fist in a silent signal, halting the group. Dia drops low, pressing herself into the earth, her body going completely still. A Battle Droid emerges from behind a rock just meters ahead, its head swivelling slowly as it scans the area. The world seems to freeze; even the wind feels like it holds its breath. Dia’s chest tightens as her eyes lock on the droid. The whispers of her vision surge forward, telling her they’ll be discovered, that this is where it all ends.

The droid lingers, its mechanical gaze sweeping across the terrain. Every second feels like an eternity. Dia holds her breath, her muscles coiled like a spring, ready to bolt if necessary. The clones around her remain steady, their focus unwavering. Finally, the droid moves on, disappearing behind a cluster of rocks. Dia exhales slowly, her breath shaky as she regains her composure. Her body trembles faintly, but she forces herself to focus. The clones’ calm steadiness serves as a grounding anchor, even as she envies their apparent confidence.

They move forward again, slipping through the ditch with practised care. The bridge looms ahead, a massive shadow of steel and rusted metal beams stretching across the canyon. Beneath it, the maintenance walkway is partially hidden by shadows and overgrown foliage. It’s narrow, rusted at the edges, and far from ideal, but it’s the best chance they have. Dia knows what’s at stake. One wrong move, one misstep, and they’ll be caught in the crossfire. The fear pulses through her, a relentless drumbeat, but she pushes it down, burying it beneath her determination.

Rose glances back at Dia as they approach the bridge, her gaze sharp and assessing. Dia meets her eyes and nods, forcing a sense of resolve into the gesture. Rose’s concern is palpable, and it stings that Dia can’t fully reassure her. The darkness from the vision still looms, whispering doubts into her ears. But Dia can’t let it win. She has a mission, and people are depending on her.

The clones step onto the walkway first, their movements slow and deliberate. Each step seems to echo too loudly, the creak of metal against their weight sending shivers through Dia’s body. She follows closely, matching their pace, her senses heightened to an almost painful degree. The air feels colder up here, the shadows stretching long and deep across the canyon. Dia glances down, the dizzying depth below making her stomach churn. The thought of falling—of failing—presses against her mind, but she pushes it aside. She can’t afford distractions now.

Reaching the far side of the canyon, they crawl on their bellies, inching their way from the walkway into position. The rocky ground scrapes against Dia’s robes, but she ignores it, her focus locked on the objective ahead. The four droid AATs are arranged in a defensive line, their massive cannons aimed squarely at the pass. The sight of them makes Dia’s breath catch. They look like impenetrable fortresses, their bulk radiating a sense of invincibility.

Dia lifts her macrobinoculars, scanning the tanks and their surrounding area. The droids patrolling the perimeter move in precise, mechanical patterns, their presence a constant threat. The challenge before them is daunting. Taking out those tanks won’t be easy, and the limited cover offers little room for error. Dia’s heart pounds as she studies the scene, her mind racing through possibilities. The fear lingers, but so does her determination. She refuses to let the vision come true. She won’t lose anyone—not today.

"We aren’t going to be able to get close enough to take them out without getting spotted," Rose whispers, her voice tense with frustration. Her brow furrows beneath her helmet, her sharp eyes scanning the terrain, as though willing some hidden path to reveal itself.

Dia crouches beside her, her own gaze fixed on the droid tanks, their hulking forms glinting under the faint light. The droids—methodical, unrelenting—patrol the area like predators guarding their prize. The cold weight of her vision presses on her chest, tightening her breath. She can still hear the echoes of Zela’s screams, the haunting remnants of darkness clawing at her resolve. But she can’t falter now.

"I can do it," Dia says softly, her voice steady with quiet determination. Her lekku twitch faintly as she speaks, the small movement betraying the tension she hides. "Pass me the detonators, and I’ll rig them to blow."

Rose’s head snaps toward her, hesitation flashing in her eyes. "Are… are you sure, Commander? You’re still injured," she whispers, worry etched into every word. Her concern is like a tangible weight pressing on Dia. Still, she motions to Curve, the demolitions expert, signalling him to step closer with his pack of charges.

Dia nods, her resolve unwavering despite the ache in her ribs. "I’m sure. Just be ready to cover me if anything goes wrong." She reaches for the detonators as Curve kneels beside her, his hands deftly unsecuring the pouches. The cold metal of the charges feels heavier than it should, the weight of the mission imbued in its surface. As Dia pockets the devices, she can feel Rose’s gaze lingering, filled with unspoken worry.

Rose exhales slowly, signalling her section to spread out. The clones shift into position like shadows, their blasters raised and ready, their movements silent but deliberate. Dia closes her eyes for a brief moment, drawing a deep, calming breath. The Force burns within her like a flame, vivid and alive, crackling with energy. She channels the heat, focusing it into a steady ember, allowing it to glow just enough to obscure her presence. She becomes like smoke curling upward from a fire, bending attention and presence away from her, seamlessly blending into the environment.

The sensation is like shuttering a lantern—pulling the edges of herself inward, leaving only the faintest flicker visible. The darkness beneath her surface—the fear, the anger—flickers like shadowy flames, but she keeps it hidden, deep and far from sight. The whispers of darkness still linger at the edges of her mind, coiled and waiting to stoke the embers into something uncontrollable, a chill that presses against the heat of her resolve, like a whisper of frost creeping in the corners of her mind. The vision has left her vulnerable, the darkness smouldering just out of reach, waiting to ignite. Dia clings to her light—fragile yet fierce, a stubborn and enduring flame. She smothers the darkness beneath her will, refusing to let its icy pull dictate her path.

With one final breath, she opens her eyes. Her senses sharpen, her body feels weightless, her mind clear. The Force cloaks her, wrapping her movements in an ethereal quiet. She rises into a crouch, her steps fluid and noiseless as she moves forward. The terrain feels alive beneath her boots, every shift of the ground resonating in her heightened awareness.

Dia weaves between droids, her presence so faint it’s as though she isn’t there at all. The droids’ mechanical movements are predictable, their paths precise. She approaches the first tank, her heart hammering in her chest but her hands steady. The rumble of the tank’s systems vibrates through her fingertips as she plants the first detonator on its underside. The cool metal feels almost electric beneath her touch. She places a second charge at the rear, each movement deliberate, her breath held as she listens for any sign of detection.

The first tank secured, she slips into the shadows, her form blending seamlessly with the terrain. The patrols move around her, their patterns repetitive but relentless. She uses the Force to guide her steps, each one purposeful, each one silent. The second tank looms ahead, its dark silhouette framed against the faint glow of the horizon. The whispers return, clawing at her focus—“you won’t make it… they’ll see you… you’ll fail…”—but she pushes them away. There is no room for doubt.

She crouches low, her hands deftly placing the next pair of detonators. The sound of her own breath fills her ears, the rhythmic pounding of her heart a metronome to her movements. The shadows stretch long around her as she moves on, her gaze fixed on the third tank.

Its shadow engulfs her as she approaches, the massive bulk of the vehicle towering over her. The patrols seem closer here, their metallic steps echoing louder against the stillness. Dia’s fingers work quickly, planting the charges with precision, her focus unyielding. She pauses, her breath caught as a droid lingers nearby, its head turning slowly. She freezes, every muscle tense, the fear coiled tightly in her chest threatening to burst free.

The droid moves on. Dia releases a slow, controlled breath, her fingers trembling faintly as she secures the final charge. The dread hasn’t left her—it lingers, a heavy shadow over her thoughts—but she refuses to let it win.

As Dia moves toward the fourth tank, the sudden blare of alarms shatters the tense silence of the canyon. Her heart lurches, the sound cutting through her focus like a blade. She glances toward the bridge and sees the commotion: the lead elements of Hunter Company launching their attack. Droids spring into action, their metallic voices rising in confusion, and the distant hum of battle grows louder with each second.

Krif. Dia curses under her breath, the detonator already in her hand. Her concentration on the Force cloak falters as the cold sensation of the dark side coils around her, squeezing her spirit with its icy grip. It’s there, whispering, urging her to let go of control, to give in to the raw power it promises. But Dia grits her teeth and shoves the dark presence aside, her focus snapping back to the task at hand.

Her fingers tighten around the detonator, and with a steadying breath, she presses the button. Time seems to hold for a moment, the canyon filled with the sharp hum of tension. Then the explosions come.

The first three tanks erupt in a violent cacophony of fire and shrapnel. The ground beneath Dia trembles, the shockwave rippling outward with searing heat. Blinding flashes of light sear her vision momentarily, and fragments of metal rain down like deadly confetti. Dia braces herself, the Force shielding her from the worst of the debris. She feels the cold darkness pressing against her mind, a sharp contrast to the inferno before her, as if taunting her with its presence. The temptation to lash out, to lean into the raw power simmering beneath her surface, flickers for a brief moment before she crushes it with sheer willpower.

“Jedi! Blast them!” a mechanical voice cuts through the chaos, snapping Dia back to reality. The whine of blasters fills the air as the droids orient on her position. She ignites her lightsaber, the cyan blade springing to life with its familiar hum. Its glow cuts through the haze of smoke and fire, a stark contrast to the creeping whispers of the dark side.

She kicks forward, propelling herself with the Force. Her blade arcs in a fluid motion, slicing through the nearest droid with a single, precise strike. The battlefield seems to narrow around her as adrenaline surges through her veins. She leaps onto the remaining tank, her boots landing on the barrel with practised grace. The cold whispers in her mind grow louder, feeding off her momentum, urging her to let go and unleash her fury. She clamps down on the temptation, focusing instead on the rhythmic flow of her training—precise, deliberate, controlled.

With a sharp stroke, she severs the tank’s barrel, the metal screeching as it snaps. Dia pulls a droid popper from her belt, her movements swift and efficient. She yanks the hatch open, catching a fleeting glimpse of the droid inside before dropping the grenade and slamming the hatch closed. The tank shudders moments later, the internal explosion frying its systems and sending smoke billowing from its vents.

Blaster bolts streak toward her as the surrounding droids zero in on her position. She twists, her lightsaber a blur of light as it deflects the incoming fire with almost mechanical precision. Her body moves on instinct, the Force guiding her motions as she leaps off the tank, rolling to her feet and slicing through another pair of droids in one fluid motion.

The acrid scent of burning circuits fills the air as Dia pivots, her eyes scanning the battlefield. Rose and her section are engaging the droids on the flank, their blasters creating a steady rhythm of destruction. Dia pushes forward, her lightsaber carving a path through the metallic ranks. Her strikes flow like a deadly dance, each movement precise and purposeful. The dark whispers press harder, promising power, promising an end to the pain, but Dia’s focus remains unyielding. She channels her fear and desperation into the discipline of survival, refusing to let the darkness consume her.

“I thought we had more time!” Dia shouts over the din, her voice strained but resolute.

“Yeah, so did I!” Rose yells back, her carbine taking down a droid mid-step. “Winter radioed just before the attack started. A large droid force is inbound!”

Dia’s mind races as she processes the news. Her teeth clench, and she nods grimly. “Then they’ll either reinforce the bridge or attack across it,” she says, the weight of inevitability pressing down on her. The dark side curls tighter around her thoughts, feeding off her fear and the rising stakes of the battle. She refuses to let it in, her focus narrowing to the task at hand.

The droids regroup, concentrating their fire on Dia and the ARFs. The sheer volume of blaster fire is overwhelming, streaks of red and blue filling the air. Dia’s lightsaber becomes a blur of motion, deflecting bolts as her feet shift and pivot, her body moving with an almost predatory grace. For a fleeting moment, it feels like the tide might turn against them. The whispers grow louder, more insistent, urging her to unleash the storm within.

But then reinforcements arrive. More blaster fire tears into the droids from a new angle, and Dia feels a flicker of relief as Wave’s section joins the fray. “What happened to being sneaky?” shouts Wave, dropping into position beside Rose. His voice carries a mix of humour and relief, cutting through the tension.

“We were doing fine until the attack started!” Rose snaps back, her tone a blend of exasperation and amusement.

Despite herself, Dia smirks. The relief of reinforcements and the camaraderie in the midst of chaos pushes her forward. She thrusts her palm outward, sending a powerful shockwave through the Force. The wave scatters a cluster of droids, their metallic bodies flung backward like ragdolls. With the additional firepower from Wave’s section, the tide turns swiftly. Together, they cut down the remaining droids on their side of the bridge, though the battle beyond rages on.

The air is thick with smoke and the acrid smell of burning machinery. Dia lowers her lightsaber slightly, her breaths coming in heavy pants. The whispers recede, but they don’t disappear entirely. She knows they’re still there, waiting, lurking in the shadows of her mind. For now, she focuses on the moment—on the lives saved, on the battle won. But the weight of the darkness remains, a reminder of the constant fight she must wage, not just on the battlefield, but within herself.

“Rose, Wave, take a flank each. I doubt this was the main force they reported, so be ready for a hard fight if the company doesn’t make it across before they get here,” Dia commands, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. The dark side—an unwelcome, persistent shadow—clings to her, whispering doubts, urging her to give in, to wield her fear as a weapon. She suppresses it, focusing instead on the clones and the mission.

Rose and Wave nod sharply, immediately signalling their sections to spread out and establish defensive positions. The clones move with practised precision, dragging debris into place to create makeshift cover. Their movements are efficient, but the tension is palpable, hanging heavy in the air as they prepare for the inevitable. Dia steps forward, reaching out with the Force to shift larger pieces of wreckage into sturdier barricades. The strain on her muscles from the exertion is nothing compared to the fraying of her senses as she battles against the pull of the dark side.

The distant rumble of repulsorlifts cuts through the stillness, drawing nearer with every passing second. Dia crouches beside Rose, her lightsaber clipped to her belt but ready to ignite at a moment’s notice. The clones brace their blasters against their barricades, eyes scanning the treeline for the first sign of movement. The oppressive silence is broken only by the distant mechanical grind of the approaching vehicles. The dark presence in Dia’s mind presses harder, feeding on her exhaustion, her lingering doubts, her fear.

“If they have anything heavy, we’ll need to let them get close before we take them out,” Rose warns in a low whisper, her sharp gaze fixed on the tree line ahead.

“Yeah, let’s hope they don’t,” Dia mutters, forcing her voice to remain steady. Her heart pounds in her chest, a relentless rhythm that threatens to drown out her focus. The cold whispers tug at her resolve, urging her to surrender to despair. She pushes them aside, clinging tightly to the light within her.

The treeline shudders as the first vehicle emerges: a massive Multi-Troop Transport. Its imposing bulk casts long shadows, and its twin anti-personnel blasters swivel menacingly toward the defenders. Behind it, the familiar silhouettes of AATs materialise, their cannons already targeting the barricades. The sight sends a fresh wave of dread through Dia, and the dark whispers grow louder, tempting her to act, to destroy, to give in.

“You had to say something, didn’t you?” Rose groans, her tone laced with a grim sort of humour despite the dire situation.

Dia exhales sharply. “Yeah, that’s on me.” She adjusts her position, scanning the incoming convoy. Then, an idea sparks in her mind. “Wait! Pass me a bag of thermal dets. Once it opens its hatch, I’ll launch them in.” Her eyes flick to Curve, the demolitions expert.

Rose radios Wave to relay the plan, while Curve swiftly unfastens his pack and extracts the explosives. His hands tremble slightly as he hands them to Dia, the tension of the moment evident in his every movement.

Dia hefts the bag, gauging its weight. The whispers in her mind persist, questioning her strength, her resolve. She shakes her head, forcing the doubts to dissipate. Her eyes lock onto the MTT as it grinds to a halt, its front hatch beginning to open. Rows of battle droids are lined within, ready to deploy.

She doesn’t hesitate. Channeling the Force, she propels the bag through the air with pinpoint precision. It lands inside the MTT’s open hatch just as the droids begin to march out. Dia ducks behind the barricade, bracing herself as the detonators ignite in a deafening explosion. The blast sends armour and debris flying, the shockwave rippling through the battlefield. A nearby AAT is struck by a massive fragment, its cannon bending grotesquely before it veers off course and crashes into the treeline.

For a fleeting moment, there’s stillness—the eerie silence of stunned anticipation. But it doesn’t last. The droids react, their blasters unleashing a storm of fire. Cannon rounds slam into the barricades, sending plumes of dirt and shrapnel cascading over the defenders. Dia ducks low, her muscles coiled as she shields herself against the barrage. Her lightsaber hums to life in her hand, its cyan blade casting a faint glow as she prepares for the inevitable.

More AATs roll into view, flanking another MTT as it deploys an even larger wave of droids. Dia’s grip tightens on her saber. The dark presence in her mind seems to laugh at her, taunting her with the sheer number of enemies. It presses against her resolve, urging her to unleash her fear, her anger, her desperation.

“We can’t hold here; we need to fall back!” Rose shouts, her voice barely audible over the cacophony of battle. Her eyes meet Dia’s, filled with both determination and concern.

“Damn it, give the—” Dia begins, but Rose cuts her off, holding up a hand.

“We have air support inbound,” Rose reports, her voice steadier now. “They managed to free up a couple of bombers. Hunter Company’s secured their side of the bridge and is sending reinforcements.”

Dia takes a deep breath, her heart still pounding. “Alright. We hold until they get here. Move back to the ditch and set up a defence!”

She uses the Force to lift debris, creating makeshift cover as the ARF sections retreat. Dia moves with them, her lightsaber deflecting blaster bolts with calculated precision. The exhaustion gnaws at her, but she doesn’t falter. The whispers in her mind grow quieter as she focuses on the task at hand.

Sliding into the ditch, Dia presses herself against the dirt wall, her body trembling from exertion. The dark presence lingers, its cold fingers brushing against her thoughts, but she pushes it away. She grips her saber tightly, its warmth a reassuring presence in her hands.

The roar of engines announces the arrival of the bombers. Dia looks up to see Y-Wings streaking overhead, their payloads raining down on the droid formation. The ground shakes with the force of the explosions, AATs and droids alike reduced to smoking wreckage. The cold presence in her mind recoils, the whispers silenced, if only temporarily.

The clones rise from their cover, their blasters cutting through the disoriented droids. Hunter Company’s reinforcements surge across the bridge, their coordinated assault quickly turning the tide. Dia exhales deeply, a wave of relief washing over her. She deactivates her saber, letting herself sink against the dirt wall.

Rose’s hand on her shoulder draws her attention. “We’ve got a moment to breathe,” Rose says, her voice gentle. “Fourth Platoon’s setting up a perimeter. We’ll hold until the tanks push forward.”

Dia nods, a tired smile tugging at her lips. “Good. I could use a break.”

Rose chuckles softly before moving to check on the troops. Dia watches the clones work, their efficiency a testament to their training and resolve. Despite her exhaustion, she pushes herself to her feet, joining them in clearing debris and preparing for the next phase. The camaraderie she feels with the clones grounds her, the warmth of their shared effort pushing back the lingering shadows. For now, they’ve held the line—and that is enough.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

X

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Zela tightens her grip on the strap hanging from the roof of the gunship as it ploughs through the storm, the rain hammering relentlessly against the metal frame. Lightning flashes in the distance, momentarily illuminating the dark canopy of the jungle below. The rumble of thunder is almost drowned out by the roar of the engines as they race above the treetops, the gunship slicing through the turbulent sky. Zela glances at the clones in the gunship with her; their body language is calm, a stark contrast to the tension in the air. The storm outside mirrors the chaos of the front lines, where the advance has been slowed to a crawl by droid ambushes and minefields hidden beneath the thick jungle undergrowth. The sense of urgency hangs heavy, an almost tangible weight pressing down on everyone inside the gunship.

Master Nima has tasked Zela and Foxhound Company with making a push toward a heavily defended droid gun emplacement, one that has been raining fire upon their forces and preventing their ships from landing heavy supplies closer to the frontlines. The stakes are high, and Zela feels the pressure of the mission settle on her shoulders like a heavy cloak. They have to make it through—too many lives depend on them breaking the droid stranglehold. She feels the Force humming at the edge of her senses, a soft presence beneath the chaos, and she clings to it for calm. Despite the howling wind and lashing rain, she closes her eyes for a moment, drawing a deep breath to steady herself, feeling the Force flow through her veins like a comforting warmth amidst the chaos.

The gunship is only minutes away from the landing zone when the tense silence is shattered by the sudden blare of alarms. Zela grips the strap even tighter, her knuckles turning a pale blue, as the gunship banks hard to avoid incoming fire. The shift is so abrupt that her feet nearly leave the floor, her body slamming against the side of the craft. The pilot shouts out warnings, his voice crackling over the intercom. "Incoming missiles! Brace for evasive maneuvers!"

Zela manages a glance out the open side of the gunship, just in time to see the one beside them. The other ship isn't quite as lucky. Missiles slam into it, the explosion lighting up the dark sky before the burning wreckage vanishes into the depths of the jungle below. She clenches her teeth, suppressing the flinch that comes with feeling the sudden disappearance of so many lives in the Force. Fear ripples through the clones around her, though their postures remain set in stoic determination. She can sense the momentary flare of their emotions—fear, shock, and then the steady resolve. It strengthens her own determination, knowing that they rely on her as much as she relies on them.

"Get us down, now!" Zela shouts into the intercom, her eyes darting to the pilot.

"No clear opening in the canopy until the LZ, Commander," the pilot responds, his voice tight, as he wrestles with the controls, trying to keep them steady. The rain pelts against the cockpit, the sound almost deafening, while the flashes of lightning turn the world outside into a chaotic strobe of light and darkness.

Zela lets out a low, frustrated growl, her sharp canines flashing under the flickering red light of the gunship's interior. The storm outside rages on, the rain hammering with an almost deafening intensity. "Do what you can," she commands. She quickly activates her comm, her voice cutting through the static, "Captain, hold off the rest of the company until we take out those AA guns. We can't afford to lose any more ships."

"Copy that, Commander," Captain Cyll's voice comes back, distorted but audible, the weight of the situation clear in his tone. She can hear the tension, the unspoken fear, but also the resolve. They are all in this together.

Zela barely has time to let out a breath before the pilot’s frantic shout fills the comm again. “Brace! Incoming!” The gunship rolls hard to the left, the sudden motion sending her heart racing as she fights to keep her footing. The missiles streak by the open hold, close enough that the air vibrates with the heat of their exhaust. But then one of the trailing missiles clips the gunship’s left wing, and Zela feels the gut-wrenching lurch as they lose control.

The world tilts, and the gunship spirals into chaos. Zela is thrown against the side, her vision blurring as the jungle canopy rushes up to meet them. The pilot fights with the stick, trying desperately to soften the inevitable crash, but the ship is spinning, out of control, and she can feel the rising panic in the Force—the fear of the clones around her, the terror that she can’t afford to let in. Some of the clones are thrown from the gunship, vanishing into the dense jungle, their screams lost in the roar of the wind and the storm. Zela forces herself to breathe, trying to find her center amidst the chaos, even as her heart pounds in her ears. She can feel the pull of the dark side—the temptation to let her fear take over, to let the chaos consume her. But she fights it, focusing on the flickering light of the Force within her, holding onto it like a lifeline.

The gunship hits the jungle with a deafening crash. Metal tears, branches snap, and the world around Zela becomes a blur of sound and movement. She feels the impact rattle her bones, the ship skids through the trees, tearing a path of destruction before finally coming to a shuddering stop. Silence falls, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder and the hiss of something burning. The rain continues to pour down, soaking her to the bone as she fights to catch her breath. Her head pounds, and her vision swims as she pushes herself up, her muscles aching, her joints screaming in protest. The acrid smell of smoke and fuel mixes with the earthy scent of the jungle, the oppressive heat of the wreckage seeping into her skin.

Zela struggles to her feet, her hands shaking from adrenaline as she tries to push the dark haze of panic from her mind. She has to move—she has to find the others. She stumbles out of what remains of the gunship, her legs unsteady beneath her, her eyes scanning the dark, rain-soaked jungle around her. The Force feels off, clouded, like something is pressing against it, and Zela takes a deep breath, trying to push past the fear, trying to find any sense of her clones, of her men. The jungle around her is dense, the trees towering above like silent sentinels, their branches swaying in the storm. The ground is muddy, the rain turning the earth into a slippery mess, and Zela can feel the chill of the dark side at the edges of her senses, whispering to her, feeding off her fear.

The wreckage is scattered, and through the rain, she spots a clone—Prenn—pinned beneath a broken piece of the gunship’s hull. Zela runs to him, her boots slipping in the mud, her hands trembling as she reaches out, the Force flowing through her as she uses it to lift the wreckage, just enough for Prenn to drag himself out. He looks up at her, his armour streaked with grime, but there’s gratitude there broadcast through the Force, that pushes back the fear still gnawing at the edges of her mind.

“We… we made it,” Prenn coughs, giving her a strained smile as he struggles to stand. His voice is hoarse, and Zela can see the exhaustion etched across his face, the weight of the ordeal taking its toll.

Zela nods, her own breath coming in ragged gasps. “We’re not done yet. We have to keep moving,” she says, her voice steady despite the trembling she can feel in her own body. She places a reassuring hand on Prenn's shoulder, feeling the warmth of his presence in the Force. “We need to regroup, find any survivors, and complete the mission. We still have those AA guns to take out.”

Prenn nods, determination flashing in his eyes. “Lead the way, Commander.”

Zela turns, her eyes scanning the dark jungle, her heart still pounding as she reaches out with the Force, trying to find the presence of her men, trying to push back the ever-present feeling of dread. She moves carefully, her senses on high alert, every rustle of leaves, every shadow making her tense. The jungle is alive with sounds—the distant cries of creatures, the rustle of branches swaying in the wind. It all feels amplified, the adrenaline in her veins making everything seem sharper, more immediate.

They move through the wreckage, Zela’s eyes darting from side to side, her senses straining to pick up on any sign of life. The storm continues unabated, the rain coming down in sheets, making it hard to see more than a few feet ahead. She spots another figure, a clone struggling to free himself from a tangle of vines and broken metal. Zela moves to him, her hand extended as she uses the Force to help pull the wreckage away. The clone, Hael, looks up at her with a grateful nod. She can feel his pain—his leg is injured, but he’s alive.

“Can you move?” Zela asks, her voice barely audible over the pounding rain.

Hael grimaces but nods. “I think so, Commander.”

“Good,” Zela says, offering her hand to help him up. “We need to keep moving. We have a mission to complete.”

With Hael picking himself up and grabbing his rotary blaster from the wreck, Zela and Prenn collect the remains of his squad, their steps careful as they navigate the wreckage scattered across the jungle floor. The storm hasn’t let up; sheets of rain are still pouring down, and the darkness of the jungle seems thicker than before, as if it is swallowing the light of the flashes of lightning that cut through the sky above. Each step Zela takes is deliberate, mindful of the uneven terrain, the twisted metal and jagged remnants of the crash that could easily trip them up or worse.

Tracer, Rook, and Flint fall in with them, their helmets nodding in greeting, each of them showing relief at seeing one another alive. Tracer, sharp-eyed as always, takes point, his eyes constantly sweeping the dense foliage for any sign of movement. The rain batters against their helmets, the noise mixing with the rustle of the underbrush as they move forward. Rook moves alongside Hael, his posture steady, his blaster at the ready, while Flint keeps an eye on the rear, his demolition pack swinging slightly with each cautious step. They fall into a loose formation, moving cautiously but with purpose, like a group of ghosts slipping through the dark, rain-soaked jungle.

“Hopefully, some of the gunships got through,” Zela mutters, her voice almost lost beneath the roar of the rain. She tries her communicator again, a frown forming as static bursts back at her, the noise grating in her ears. The uncertainty gnaws at her; she doesn’t know if they’re being jammed, if the communicator’s damaged from the crash, or if there’s simply no one left to receive their signal. None of the options are comforting, and she forces herself to take a breath, pushing away the creeping fear that lingers in the corners of her mind.

Prenn glances over at her, his voice steady, attempting to reassure her. “We’ll link up with the rest soon, Commander. Just gotta trust they’re out there.” His helmet tilts slightly, and Zela can almost feel the confidence radiating from him. Even if there’s fear beneath it, it’s hidden well, held firm in the face of their mission. The rest of the squad nods, their steps sure despite the uncertainty of the situation.

The jungle is a maze of thick vines, sprawling roots, and overgrown foliage, each step requiring caution. They make their way through the thick jungle, pushing towards where the landing zone should be. Zela can feel the Force humming at the edge of her senses, a whisper that brings both comfort and doubt. The dark side lingers there, feeding on her fears, whispering of the dangers that lie ahead. But she focuses instead on the flicker of hope, on the clones around her, each one a light in the Force, each one grounding her as they advance. They have to push through—too many lives depend on them, and she knows every step matters, every second counts.

Suddenly, Tracer raises his fist, the squad dropping low into the foliage, their blasters trained forward, eyes sharp beneath the dark jungle canopy. Zela holds her breath, her eyes scanning the shadows, the rain dripping from the broad leaves overhead. She reaches out with the Force, letting it expand from her, searching, until she feels it—faint presences ahead. Her heart clenches, her breath caught in her throat, but there’s no cold, metallic edge of droids’ presence. It’s not an ambush. Relief washes over her, and she signals the squad to hold position.

Prenn moves up beside her, his helmet tilted towards her, and she nods once before he signals forward. Slowly, they approach, slipping through the underbrush until the shapes of clone troopers emerge, crouched in a small clearing with their weapons at the ready. A mix of relief and tension rolls through the Force as the two groups meet, the shared weight of the mission momentarily lightened by the reunion.

“Commander Taal,” one of the troopers greets her, his armor chipped and scorched from his own crash landing. “Second Lieutenant Lyeffie’s up ahead, setting up a perimeter.” He points in the direction where the rest of the platoon has gathered.

“Thanks, trooper,” Zela responds, nodding as she gestures for Prenn’s squad to fall in with the others. They move as one now, a larger group, more sure-footed as they make their way towards the perimeter. The flickering fire of hope grows a little brighter inside Zela—they aren’t alone, not yet.

As they reach the perimeter, Zela spots Lieutenant Lyeffie, who’s hunched over a small holomap, his helmet off, the rain soaking his dark hair and dripping down his forehead. He looks up at their approach, a look of relief crossing his face. “Commander, glad you made it. We’re regrouping here. It’s a mess. Droid patrols are combing the jungle, and we’re down to half strength, but we’re pressing ahead toward that emplacement.” He points towards the east, where the gun emplacement is hidden within the deep forest, its location marked by a faint red glow on the holomap.

Zela takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of the mission settle heavily on her shoulders again. She forces the worries down, focusing instead on the task in front of them. She nods, stepping closer to study the map. “Alright, we move quietly, no noise. If we engage, we keep it fast and clean. We can’t afford delays,” she says, her eyes flicking to Prenn and the others. “We’ll take point with the scouts—keep the formation tight. No one gets left behind.”

Lyeffie nods, determination flashing in his eyes. “We’ll follow you, Commander.”

The group forms up, Zela at the head with Prenn, Tracer, Rook, and Flint flanking her, moving through the dense, rain-soaked jungle with determination in every step. The jungle seems endless, the rain relentless, the shadows deep and unyielding, but they press on—a unit bound by purpose, moving to face the threat ahead. The muddy ground sucks at their boots, the foliage slaps against their armor, but they are undeterred.

It takes them nearly an hour of marching through the thick, rain-soaked jungle to reach the base of the hill that rises towards the droid gun emplacement. Zela can feel the fatigue settling in her muscles, the relentless dampness of the jungle sapping at her strength, but she pushes it aside, focusing on the mission. The air is heavy with tension, each step up the incline bringing them closer to the fortified droid position. The sound of the storm and the distant rumble of heavy artillery echoes through the night, a constant reminder of the task at hand.

She waves for Lyeffie to move up beside her, the two of them crouching low behind the cover of a fallen tree as they assess the droid fortifications. The gun emplacement looms ahead, surrounded by high walls, its silhouette lit sporadically by the flashes of lightning that cut through the sky. Zela can see the automated turrets scanning the jungle perimeter, and droid patrols weaving their way through the compound—it’s a daunting sight.

“We were planning to take this place with a whole company,” she mutters, her gaze sweeping over the defences. “That isn’t going to work now. Our best bet is if we can take out the local AA defences so Cyll can come in with the rest of the company to hit the heavy guns.” Her eyes trace the path up the side of the wall, looking for any opening, any vulnerability.

Lyeffie nods, following her gaze. “We can take the platoon up the wall there,” he says, pointing towards a section of the wall closest to the jungle. “We can use ascension cables to get over it. The trees will give us some cover.”

Zela considers his suggestion, her eyes narrowing in thought. The approach would be dangerous, but it’s a better option than trying a direct assault with what remains of their forces. She nods slowly. “Alright,” she says, glancing at Lyeffie, “You take the platoon, make your way up the wall, and get those AA guns offline.” She pauses, a grin spreading across her face, her sharp canines catching the light. “I’ll sneak in and cause some chaos—give them something to worry about while you’re getting into position.”

Lyeffie raises an eyebrow beneath his helmet, uncertainty flashing across his features. “Are you sure, Commander? You’re risking a lot going in alone.”

Zela’s grin widens, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “May as well make good use of all the lessons I learned hunting—and being hunted by—Dia during her Shadow training at the temple. Besides,” she adds, “I’m Togruta. Sneaking is in my blood.” She winks at him before turning, slipping away from the squad, her presence blending into the jungle around her.

The moment she steps away, Zela lets herself sink deeper into the Force. Dia has often described her connection to the Force like a flame—fierce, radiant, untamed—while other Jedi might describe theirs with metaphors of calm waters, peaceful rivers. But to Zela, the Force is like the forests of Shili—wild, vibrant, alive. It’s not the quiet peace of the Council’s teachings; it’s the rustle of leaves in the wind, the calls of unseen creatures, the unpredictable harmony of life thriving amidst chaos. It’s a reminder of the balance that exists even in the most untamed of places. She remembers speaking to Shaak Ti, her Hunt-Mother, the Jedi who taught her the ways of Shili. She’d once worried that her view of the Force was wrong, that her connection was flawed. Shaak Ti had only smiled, telling her that the wildness she felt was something they shared—something beautiful, something powerful.

Zela's connection to the Force is distinct from the tranquil, meditative state most Jedi cultivate. For her, it’s less about finding serenity and more about becoming one with the unpredictable energy of life itself. She draws strength from the raw power of the jungle, from the wildness that pulses through her. The Force is not a placid lake—it’s a thriving, chaotic ecosystem, full of both danger and beauty, where every being has its place, and every action has meaning. She’s never been able to find the peace that the Jedi Council speaks of; her connection has always been primal, instinctive. And in this moment, she doesn’t fight it—she embraces it, knowing that the wildness is what will keep her alive.

Focusing back on the task at hand, Zela lets her presence expand, letting the Force unfurl from her. She doesn’t pull her presence inward to hide her light as other Jedi do. Instead, she lets herself spread, becoming one with the jungle. She hides in the sway of the tall grass, the rustling of leaves, the scent of rain-soaked earth. She moves with the wind, each step deliberate, her senses extending outward, feeling the life around her, the pulse of the forest. The Force flows through her, enveloping her in its vastness, grounding her in the balance of nature—and masking her presence from the droids ahead.

Zela keeps her focus on the wildness, the vitality of the Force, on the echoes of her homeworld that remind her who she is. She lets the Force wrap around her, lets the life and energy of Shili flow through her veins, and it makes her strong, makes her invisible.

She moves like a shadow through the rain, darting up and across the wall, leaping from hand hold to hand hold, slipping through the perimeter undetected, her body blending into the darkness, her senses attuned to every movement, every shift in the energy around her. She can feel the droids patrolling nearby, their movements mechanical, predictable. Zela smiles to herself, her heart pounding with adrenaline, her spirit alive with the thrill of the hunt.

Step by step, she advances towards the heart of the droid emplacement. She can see the glow of the anti-aircraft turrets ahead, the harsh lines of the droid structures rising above her. She knows that Lyeffie and the others will be making their way up the wall soon—her job is to keep the droids distracted, keep them looking in the wrong direction. She can feel the Force around her, humming in anticipation, alive with possibility.

Zela lets herself slip further into the embrace of the Force, feeling the way it guides her steps, the way it shifts her movements. She is no longer just a Jedi—she is the jungle, the shadows, the storm. She feels the droids’ presence ahead, but they are blind to her. The chaotic hum of the jungle mingles with the energy of the Force, the two becoming one within her. It’s exhilarating—a dance of life, where every move is dictated by instinct and every breath carries her deeper into the wildness of her being.

Zela positions herself perfectly for the distraction, her eyes narrowing in determination as she senses the droid patrols around her. She takes a deep breath, allowing the energy of the Force to swell within her, before releasing her stealth. With a flourish, she activates her emerald green lightsaber, the familiar hum filling the air and marking her presence unmistakably. Her blade blazes through the darkness, lighting the shadows as she lunges toward the nearest group of droids.

The droids turn, the confusion of her sudden appearance causing hesitation, which is all the opening she needs. She moves like the wind, her blade cutting through the first droids in an arc of bright green energy, her strikes decisive. Blaster bolts streak toward her, but Zela slips into her favoured Soresu stance, her movements an almost effortless series of deflections. The blaster fire ricochets harmlessly away, striking nearby droids or simply disappearing into the ground.

The alarm blares suddenly, a shrill cry echoing off the walls, and Zela hears the mechanical clanking as more droids rush to reinforce their comrades. Zela lets herself sink deeper into the Force, feeling it guide her hands, her feet, her movements. She becomes one with the dance of the battle, pivoting and shifting, each movement flowing seamlessly into the next. Her lightsaber spins with smooth precision, each strike leading to another, each block setting her up for the next counterattack. She dances her way through the droids, her focus entirely on the rhythm of the Force and the life force of the jungle that pulses around her.

The Force tells her where to move, where to strike, and she obeys. She moves through the droids, her emerald blade cleaving through them, leaving a path of shattered metal in her wake. The air smells of ozone and scorched wiring, the chaotic scene somehow harmonious in the wild energy of her mind. The Force thrums through her—each step calculated, every movement a part of the larger whole.

Then, the sound reaches her montrals—the distant, faint sounds of the clones crossing the wall to engage the AA guns. Relief wells up within her for a brief moment—they’re succeeding. But another sound, rolling and mechanical, makes her blood run cold. Droidekas.

Two destroyer droids roll forward, their metal bodies uncoiling into their standing forms as their shields shimmer to life. Their twin blasters begin their merciless barrage, each bolt hammering towards her, and Zela falls into a pure defensive stance. Her lightsaber becomes a blur as she blocks and deflects, her feet stepping backwards, feeling the earth shift beneath her. Her arms ache from the repeated impacts of blaster bolts against her blade, the power of each shot forcing her back, inch by inch.

She assesses the situation, her mind racing to find a plan. Her eyes dart around the area, searching for something, anything she can use to break the stalemate. The droidekas advance, relentless, pushing her closer to the wall of the compound. The pressure builds, her heart pounding in her chest as she feels the tension mounting. The weight of the battle bears down on her, the dark side whispering in her ear, urging her to unleash her anger, to break free from the defensive stance and destroy her enemies. But Zela resists, holding tightly to the balance she knows—the balance of the jungle, where power is tempered by harmony.

Suddenly, she hears the sound of boots hitting the ground—heavy, confident. In the periphery of her vision, she spots two grenades bouncing across the ground, skittering towards the droidekas. They slow just as they reach the energy shields, slipping through and rolling to a stop beneath the droids. Zela’s eyes widen as the grenades detonate, sending a burst of electricity surging through the droidekas, short-circuiting their shields and stunning them.

Blaster shots follow almost immediately—yellow bolts finding their mark, wrecking the droids’ vulnerable forms. Zela spins, her eyes landing on her unexpected ally, her senses brushing against them in the Force—only to find a strange absence. The woman dashes toward her, dual pistols blazing as she takes out a few more battle droids that had closed in during the chaos, her movements agile and sure.

The woman comes to stand beside Zela, her blasters at the ready as she takes aim at the approaching droids. Zela takes a split second to size her up—her Mandalorian armour gleams in the dim light, painted in striking blues and purples, the lines of her armour sleek and deadly. A leather cape flutters behind her, and there is something distinctly regal about her presence. Their helmet, shaped to resemble a wolf’s head, features the iconic T-visor of Mandalorian design, the body of the T running down the ridge of the helmet’s nose. Her digitigrade legs, ending in clawed paw boots, and her long, plated tail mark her distinctly as not human. Her wolf-like ears fit into armoured sections built into her helmet, completing her striking appearance. And then there’s the void Zela senses, or rather, the lack of it. There’s no tangible connection to the Force—no spark of life, no flicker of intent—only emptiness, a void like she’s been taught to recognize in her lessons. Beskar. Armour made to withstand even a Jedi.

“Thanks for the help,” Zela shouts over the cacophony of battle, her lightsaber still humming, “I’m Zela!”

The Mandalorian ducks around her, her pistols firing in a rapid sequence. She turns her head slightly, her voice carrying an edge of dry amusement. “No worries,” she says, blasting a droid squarely in its chest, “Just making use of your attack, so I may as well help. I’m Kia.”

Zela allows herself a small grin—the kind of grin that usually only appears when she’s on a hunt. The Force thrums around her, the droids continuing to press forward, but now, with an ally at her side, she feels a renewed determination. Kia moves with the grace of someone well-trained, her blasters spitting yellow death with practised precision, and Zela adapts her stance to work alongside her. She falls into a rhythm—deflect, counter, attack—each movement in harmony with Kia’s barrage of blaster fire.

Zela sidesteps, her lightsaber slashing through a battle droid that had been lining up a shot on Kia. She feels the Mandalorian’s presence, or rather, the strange absence of it, and marvels at how naturally they seem to fall into sync despite that void. There is something almost comforting in the way Kia fights—a relentless determination, a fierce will that Zela can almost feel in the air between them. And it reminds her of someone—of Dia—of the way they’ve fought together countless times before. The thought pushes her onward, her strikes becoming more forceful, her movements sharper.

Kia spins, her pistols a blur as she fires on the advancing droids, and Zela mirrors her, her lightsaber cleaving through the enemy ranks. For a fleeting moment, amidst the chaos of metal limbs and sparks, there is a connection—a shared purpose, two warriors from different worlds fighting together. It’s fleeting, a moment found in the storm of battle, but it’s enough.

“Nice moves, Jetii,” Kia comments, her voice almost drowned by the blasterfire. She fires off another series of shots, downing two more droids.

“Not bad yourself, Mandalorian,” Zela responds, spinning to cleave through another battle droid, her emerald blade leaving an arc of light. She catches Kia’s grin in the corner of her eye, a smile that’s equal parts thrill and challenge, and she finds herself smiling in return.

The droids seem endless, but Zela can feel the tide turning. With Kia beside her, the droid forces are losing cohesion, their ranks breaking as the two of them cut through. Zela can hear the distant sound of the clones engaging, the AA guns coming under attack, and she knows that they’re making progress. The Force pulses within her, a wild rhythm that matches the beat of her heart, and she channels it, using it to fuel her strikes, to bolster her defences.

Kia ducks low, blasting a droid’s legs out from under it before finishing it with a quick shot to the head. She glances up at Zela, her eyes flashing behind her helmet. “Think you can keep up, Jetii?”

Zela laughs, a sound full of adrenaline and the thrill of battle. “Just try and lose me!” she calls back, her lightsaber flashing as she moves forward, cutting a path through the droids.

The two of them advance together, side by side, Mandalorian and Jedi, cutting through the chaos of the droid encampment. They are an unstoppable force, the emerald glow of Zela’s lightsaber and the bright flashes of Kia’s blaster fire creating a deadly dance, a symphony of light and sound that pushes the droids back, back towards their defeat.

For Zela, the wildness of the Force surrounds her, a forest of life and energy, and she knows that, in this moment, she is exactly where she is meant to be. Fighting, surviving, thriving—connected to the Force, to the life around her, and now, to the Mandalorian fighting at her side.

It’s not long after the destruction of the AA guns that the distinct sound of gunship engines fills the battlefield. Their green lasers arc out, blasting holes through the droid formations, scattering them like leaves caught in a storm. The gunships swoop in with precision, their thrumming engines resonating across the jungle, before lowering to drop off their complement of clones. The rest of Foxhound Company has arrived, their presence transforming the tide of the battle with the disciplined and fierce determination only seasoned soldiers can bring.

Zela feels the rush of energy as the tide shifts in their favour, her senses heightened by the presence of her comrades. There’s a palpable wave of relief and determination coursing through her. She spares a glance at Kia, who gives her a curt nod, and together they push forward, advancing into the main building of the stronghold. The structure looms before them, its fortified walls stark and imposing against the verdant jungle backdrop. They move with purpose, leading the charge as they slice through the droids that stand in their way, each strike deliberate, each movement a testament to their resolve.

Kia moves with the practised ease of a veteran warrior, her dual pistols blaze, each shot precisely aimed to drop a droid where it stands. Her digitigrade legs give her a fluid, almost predatory grace as she navigates the battlefield, her tail swishing behind her and armoured to match her Mandalorian ensemble. Her movements were as calculated as a seasoned hunter. Zela, her emerald lightsaber humming with an almost rhythmic energy, matches Kia’s pace. Together, they are a blur of green light and blaster fire, leading the clones who follow closely behind, their formation fanning out to cover all angles. The corridor is a chaotic mess of blaster bolts and rising smoke, the droids scrambling to hold their position, but they are no match for the relentless advance.

The heavy guns are just ahead—massive cannons that loom like metal giants, their barrels still glowing faintly from recent use. Zela and Kia exchange a glance, no words needed between them, just an understanding. Zela steps forward, her lightsaber slicing through the power cables feeding into the guns, severing their lifeline. Kia is right behind her, deftly priming her thermal detonators, her movements quick and efficient.

“Fire in the hole!” Kia shouts, her voice carrying over the din of battle as she tosses the detonators at the base of the heavy guns. Zela leaps back, landing smoothly beside the clones just as the detonators explode. The blast is deafening, the shockwave reverberating through the structure, shaking the very walls. The cannons groan under the strain, their supports collapsing, and they crash to the floor in a cacophony of twisted metal and smoke.

The destruction of the guns is swift and absolute, leaving no doubt as to their success. Zela takes a deep breath, her eyes scanning the room, the Force still thrumming through her like a drumbeat in her veins. It’s done. She deactivates her lightsaber, the emerald blade retracting with a familiar hiss, and turns to find Kia already holstering her blasters, her expression unreadable behind her wolf-shaped helmet. The mandibles of the helmet are sleek and angular, with the distinctive T-visor of a Mandalorian, and the armoured ears protruding from the helmet give her a unique and fearsome appearance.

Outside, Captain Cyll is already organizing a sweep of the base, his voice crackling over the comms as he directs the troopers. The clones are quick to move, spreading out to ensure all remaining droids are dealt with and a perimeter is established to defend against any potential counterattack. Zela takes a moment to catch her breath, adrenaline still coursing through her veins as she steps away from the wreckage, her body still buzzing from the intensity of the fight.

Kia follows her, and they find a relatively quiet spot outside the main building, sitting down on a crate with a canteen of water between them. Kia removes her helmet, revealing her snow-white fur, the dyed blue streaks catching the fading light of the day. Her wolf-like features soften as she takes a deep breath, her sharp, piercing gaze giving way to something more contemplative.

“So, what brings you here?” Zela asks, her curiosity evident as she hands the canteen over to Kia.

Kia takes the canteen, pausing for a drink before responding. “I was forced to land nearby. Couldn't get off-world with those guns or your fleet in orbit. Figured I’d take out the guns and then see about getting out of here.” She shrugs, her tone casual despite the intensity of the battle they just fought. “Then you started your attack, and I figured if I was going to make use of the chaos, I might as well help.”

Zela smiles, a warmth spreading across her features, her eyes reflecting a sincere gratitude. “Well, thanks for the help. It was definitely appreciated against those destroyer droids.” She pauses, studying Kia thoughtfully. “So, what now? You’re just going to head out?”

Kia leans back slightly, her gaze drifting towards the distant jungle, her expression contemplative. “My plan is to finish the repairs on my ship and then keep moving. I’ve got places to be, things to do—the usual.”

Zela nods slowly, considering Kia’s words. She can feel a restlessness in the Mandalorian—a desire to move, to stay untethered. But there’s also something else, a potential, an openness. She takes a moment before she speaks again, her voice thoughtful. “How about this—I’ll have some of our engineers take a look at your ship. Get it fixed up properly. In exchange, you help us finish this campaign. There’s still a lot of fighting left, and fewer clones have to die for this waterlogged jungle world if you’re with us.”

Kia blinks, her gaze narrowing slightly as she studies Zela’s face, trying to gauge her sincerity. The offer is unexpected, and she takes a moment to consider it. After a beat, she shrugs. “Fine. As good a deal as any I’ve made since leaving home. Let’s do it.”

Zela’s smile widens, her eyes shining with gratitude and hope. “You won’t regret it, Kia. And who knows, maybe by the end of this, you’ll even start to like us Jedi.”

Kia snorts, a hint of amusement colouring her voice. “Don’t push your luck, Jetii.” But there’s a softness in her tone, an almost playful hint, that suggests maybe—just maybe—she’s open to the possibility.

Zela chuckles, the tension of the battle giving way to a lighter mood. She takes a deep breath, letting the air fill her lungs, the fresh scent of the rain-soaked jungle calming her nerves. She looks out at the scene before her—the clones working diligently to secure the area, their movements efficient and methodical. There is something profoundly hopeful about it all, despite the destruction and the cost of war. They are fighting not just for survival, but for something better—for peace, for a future where these battles don’t have to happen.

Kia watches Zela, her own gaze softening slightly. There’s something about the Jedi that is different from what she expected. She had heard stories, of course—everyone had—but seeing Zela fight, seeing her compassion and her connection to the people around her, it was something else entirely. She’s not ready to admit it yet, but maybe there’s more to these Jedi than the legends and rumours.

“Well,” Kia says, breaking the silence, her voice lighter than before, “I suppose if I’m sticking around, we better make sure I don’t end up regretting it.”

Zela grins, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and determination. “I’ll do my best, Mandalorian. Let’s make this count.”

Kia nods, and for a moment, the two sit in companionable silence, the chaos of the battlefield seeming to fade into the background. There’s still much to be done, but for now, they take a breath, a moment of reprieve before diving back into the fray.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XI

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Dia moves like a living whirlwind, her steps fluid yet charged with intensity as she fights in the vanguard of the 42nd battalion, leading Hunter Company through the chaos. Her azure lightsaber blazes a blur of movement, deftly deflecting blaster bolts streaking toward her, sending them ricocheting back into the droid ranks. Each deflection is precise—a deliberate choice—protecting herself, shielding the clones pressing forward behind her, her focus seamlessly shifting between offence and defence.

The roar of battle is deafening, a relentless cacophony of destruction. The rhythmic blast of AT-TE walkers' mass-driver cannons punctuates the sharper, faster shots of AT-APs, while the high-pitched whine of TX-130 Saber hover tanks cuts through the air as they glide across the uneven terrain. The acrid scent of blasterfire, burning metal, and scorched earth permeates the atmosphere, thick and cloying. The ground shudders beneath the artillery's relentless advance, and Dia feels each explosion vibrate through the soles of her boots, a bone-deep rhythm that drives her to move faster, strike harder.

Blaster bolts flash past her in every direction, streaks of red, green, and blue slicing through the smoky haze of the battlefield. The droid lines ahead are thick, their positions fortified with hastily constructed durasteel barriers and heavy cannons. Dia advances, her lightsaber a beacon as she closes the distance, cutting down droids that rise from behind cover. Her body twists and leaps with precision, navigating the jagged remnants of shattered vehicles and barricades. Each swing of her blade cleaves through reinforced metal, turning even hardened positions into useless scrap.

“Push forward! Break their lines!” she calls, her voice cutting through the din of combat. She doesn’t need to look back to know the clones hear her—they always do. Their trust in her is implicit, a bond forged in the fires of battle. The troopers of Hunter Company—the elite of the 42nd—fan out, their white-and-red armour a stark contrast against the dust-covered battlefield. Their blaster's fire in carefully coordinated volleys, each shot precise, cutting down B1 and B2 battle droids with practised efficiency as they press forward, covering Dia’s relentless advance.

A sudden volley of rockets streaks toward them from a squad of super battle droids entrenched in a defensive position. Dia feels the warning through the Force, a flare of danger that sharpens her focus. With a swift motion, she thrusts her free hand forward, the Force surging outward in a powerful wave. The rockets veer off course, exploding harmlessly to the side in plumes of fire and debris. Without hesitation, she charges toward the super battle droids, her lightsaber a brilliant arc as she leaps into their midst. Sparks fly as her blade cleaves through the thick armour of the first droid, then spins to deflect a blaster shot aimed at her mid-air. Landing lightly, she pivots to bring her saber down on another, its mechanical form crumpling under the precision of her strike.

“Commander! More clankers incoming, left flank!” Sergeant Shaker’s voice crackles through the commbead, urgent but steady.

Dia turns sharply, her gaze locking onto the incoming wave of B1 droids advancing on their vulnerable flank. The Force flows through her, centering her mind amidst the chaos. She sprints to intercept the threat, her lightsaber a shimmering blur that carves a path through the droid formation. Each swing is measured, purposeful, dismantling the advancing droids with practiced ease. Behind her, the clones react immediately, their blasters trained on the droid reinforcements as they provide suppressive fire.

The terrain is treacherous, a hellscape of shattered ground and twisted metal that tests the resolve and coordination of the advancing Republic forces. The clones navigate the obstacles with remarkable discipline, maintaining formation as they press forward. The TX-130 Saber tanks swing wide, their twin laser cannons swivelling to pour concentrated fire into the droid ranks. Bolts of red energy streak through the air, striking durasteel barriers and enemy positions, creating brief explosions of light and shrapnel.

Dia vaults over a jagged piece of fallen durasteel, her movements fluid and precise. Her body twists mid-air, her lightsaber arcing to intercept a blaster bolt aimed at Shaker. The shot deflects harmlessly, and she lands in a crouch, immediately slicing through a droid attempting to flank her. The vibrant blue of her blade is a stark contrast against the smoky, chaotic battlefield, its light cutting through the dust and haze like a beacon.

Dia spares a moment to glance back at her troops, their determination shining through the smoke and fire. They trust her, and she won’t let them down. With a renewed surge of energy, she presses forward, her lightsaber a blur as she cuts through the remaining droids, clearing the path for Hunter Company to secure the ground ahead.

Their goal is clear—link up with the 89th Legion's vanguard. Dia knows how vital it is that the two Legions consolidate their lines here. The supply routes from the 42nd’s Acclamators are stretched thin—every kilometre gained adds another layer of vulnerability to their rear. Linking with the 89th and establishing new supply lines could mean the difference between pressing their advance on the capital or stalling altogether. The capital looms in the distance, its silhouette stark against the smoky sky—a fortress, a bastion for the Separatists. Even now, its heavy guns thunder relentlessly, hurling artillery shells that scream through the air and hammer the advancing clones. They must lay siege soon, and for that, they need the linkup.

Dia forces those strategic concerns aside as she dives into cover, blaster bolts slamming into the duracrete where she stood moments ago. Her muscles burn from exertion, but she pushes through the ache, rising to deflect a bolt with her lightsaber before darting to the next position. Her mind flashes to Padawan Eilliage Orden, the young human tasked with leading the 89th’s vanguard. Dia’s stomach tightens at the thought of Eilliage facing the same unrelenting tide of droids. She hopes the young Padawan is holding her own.

The fighting intensifies as they draw closer to the rendezvous point. The droids, aware of the stakes, throw everything they have into holding the line. AATs perched on a ridge open fire, their cannons spewing fiery energy blasts that tear craters into the ground around the advancing Republic forces. Dia’s hand flashes in a sharp signal to Sergeant Shaker, urging him to bring the AT-TE walkers forward. The lumbering machines move into position, their mass-driver cannons swivelling with deliberate precision. Moments later, the walkers unleash a punishing barrage of their own, explosive energy rounds ripping into the AATs and reducing their armoured hulls to smoking wreckage.

Dia presses forward, her azure lightsaber carving a blazing path through the chaos. The Force hums around her, heightening her awareness, guiding her movements. But then, she hears it—a sound that makes her blood run cold. The sharp, mechanical whine of commando droids slicing through the din of battle. Her heart pounds as she instinctively shifts her stance, her saber rising just in time to meet the vibroswords of two droids leaping at her from the shadows of a collapsed building.

The impact jolts through her arms, a visceral reminder of their strength and precision. Her mind flashes back to the crash landing just days ago, when these same droids had nearly ended her life. She remembers the razor-sharp blade cutting through her defences, the searing pain of wounds she barely survived, and the cold, mocking precision of their movements. The memory tightens her chest, a surge of fear threatening to take hold. But she pushes it down, clinging to the Force to steady herself.

“You’re not taking me today,” she mutters under her breath, stepping to the side as she parries the first droid’s strike. Her blade arcs in a sweeping motion, severing its arm at the elbow before driving the saber through its torso. Sparks erupt as the droid crumples, but she barely has time to breathe before the second lunges, its vibrosword slicing through the air toward her head. Dia ducks low, her body moving instinctively, and drives her lightsaber upward into its chassis. The commando droid shudders, its limbs convulsing as electricity arcs across its frame before it collapses in a smoking heap.

Her heart hammers in her chest as she straightens, sweat dampening her brow despite the chill of fear still clinging to her. The clones around her close the gap, their blaster fire cutting down the remaining droids that had flanked the commandos. Dia takes a steadying breath, her grip tightening on her lightsaber as her gaze sweeps the battlefield. Every flash of movement feels sharper, more vivid, as though the memory of her near-death has heightened her senses.

In the distance, amidst the chaos, Dia catches sight of the orange and white markings of the 89th Legion. They’re close. A surge of renewed determination wells up within her, and she pushes forward, her focus honed to a single goal—reaching their allies. Blaster bolts streak through the smoky air, and Dia’s azure lightsaber flashes up to meet them, deflecting the lethal energy with fluid precision. With a flick of her wrist, she hurls her saber into a cluster of droids, the blade spinning in a deadly arc before returning to her outstretched hand.

The clones rally around her, their blasters firing in disciplined volleys, each shot a testament to their rigorous training. The steady rhythm of their weapons provides a foundation of order amidst the chaos as they close the gap between the two forces. Dia’s breath comes in ragged gasps, her chest heaving with exertion, but her resolve remains unbroken. They’re close now. Just one final push and the 42nd and 89th will stand united, a formidable line poised to strike at the heart of the Separatist stronghold.

The battle rages around her, an unrelenting maelstrom of chaos and destruction. The deafening crackle of blaster fire and the screams of the wounded mix with the clank of droids’ metal feet pounding against the broken ground. The acrid stench of burnt ozone and scorched earth fills the air, mingling with the thick haze of smoke that hangs over the battlefield like a suffocating shroud. Dia’s boots dig into the uneven terrain as she propels herself forward, her movements a blur of determination. She kicks off a jagged rock, landing in a controlled roll before springing into action, her lightsaber flashing as she cuts through the droid ranks.

Dust and debris swirl in the wake of her strikes, the bright blue light of her blade cutting through the murky haze, each swing illuminating the battlefield in brief, stark flashes. Dia fights with the intensity of a tempest, her movements fluid yet charged with purpose. She is the vanguard, the tip of the spear, breaking through the droid defences ahead of Hunter Company. Her trust in the clones is implicit—she knows they will guard her flanks, cover her vulnerabilities, and follow her lead. Her lightsaber becomes an extension of her will, a blur of azure light moving from strike to strike, each motion precise and devastating.

As she carves through the droids, she catches sight of the 89th Legion ahead. The orange and white armour of their troopers stands out amidst the chaos, their line holding firm against the relentless droid assault. In their midst, another lightsaber glows blue—the weapon of Padawan Eilliage Orden. The younger Jedi fights with determination, her blade a beacon in the chaos as she defends the clones around her. Her movements are rushed, powerful but lacking the refinement of experience, each strike driven by sheer will rather than practiced technique.

Dia’s heart pounds as she closes the distance, her focus narrowing on Eilliage. The younger Padawan’s form is resolute, but Dia can feel the strain in her movements, the weight of the battle pressing heavily on her shoulders. Every strike Eilliage makes is filled with raw intensity, but there is an underlying fragility to her efforts, a sign of her youth and inexperience. She’s barely fifteen, her determination at odds with the grim reality of the battlefield she’s thrust into. She fights valiantly, her blue blade carving a path through the droids, but Dia can sense the fear laced beneath her resolve, the quiet tension of someone desperately holding on.

The sight of Eilliage’s struggle stirs something deep within Dia, a mix of protectiveness and urgency. She quickens her pace, her strikes becoming sharper, more precise as she carves a path toward the younger Padawan. The droids press in from all sides, their blaster fire unrelenting, but Dia’s focus is absolute. She deflects a volley of bolts with a sweeping arc of her lightsaber, sending the shots back into the droid formation. Her body moves instinctively, every step and strike guided by the Force as she closes the gap.

Eilliage’s lightsaber arcs downward, cleaving through a battle droid, but the motion leaves her momentarily exposed. A super battle droid raises its arm, its blaster cannon aimed squarely at her back. Dia’s senses flare with warning, and she leaps forward, her lightsaber slicing through the air as she intercepts the droid’s shot mid-flight. The bolt dissipates against her blade, and in the same motion, she cuts down the droid, its massive frame collapsing in a shower of sparks.

The chaos of the battle swirls around her, and Dia feels the Force surge with warning—a pulse of dread that seems to slow time itself. Her senses sharpen, her vision tunnelling on Eilliage as blaster fire rains down from multiple angles, converging on the young Padawan. She watches as Eilliage deflects bolts, her blue blade spinning defensively, but the barrage is relentless. The fire is too intense, overwhelming even the desperate efforts of the clone troopers around her, who fight with every ounce of resolve they have. Their blasters fire at full capacity, but the sheer number of droids presses them back.

“No!” Dia’s voice tears from her throat, a raw, desperate cry that is swallowed by the roar of the battle. She pushes forward, her legs burning as she leaps over the shattered remains of a destroyed droid. The Force screams in her mind, a cacophony of warnings and despair, telling her what she already knows: she’s too far away. Every heartbeat is a second lost, every breath a reminder of the distance she cannot close in time.

A blaster bolt slips past Eilliage’s guard, slamming into her shoulder. The young human staggers, her blue lightsaber dipping as her stance falters. Dia’s heart clenches, her breath catching in her chest as she watches, helpless. The moment stretches into an agonising eternity as Eilliage struggles to recover, her blade trembling in her grasp. Another bolt strikes her side, and her knees buckle. Her face contorts in pain, her grip on her weapon loosening. Yet she fights to stay upright, refusing to fall.

But the droids are relentless. A third bolt strikes her chest, and Dia sees the light in Eilliage’s eyes flicker. The clones nearest to her, desperate to protect their young commander, leap from cover to form a protective barrier around her. Their armour gleams briefly in the smoky haze before blaster bolts cut into them, one after another falling under the unyielding onslaught. Their blasters fire in frantic volleys even as they collapse, their final acts of defiance to shield Eilliage from the storm of droid fire.

More bolts slam into Eilliage, each one a hammer blow that Dia feels deep in her soul. The Padawan’s lightsaber slips from her grasp, extinguishing as it falls to the dirt. Eilliage collapses, her auburn hair fanning out around her head, streaked with dust and blood. Around her, the lifeless forms of the clones who tried to protect her lie scattered, their sacrifice a haunting testament to their loyalty and courage.

Dia’s vision blurs, tears stinging her eyes as she watches the life fade from Eilliage’s bright blue gaze. Her Force presence winks out like a candle extinguished by the wind, leaving an empty void that cuts through Dia’s heart like a blade. The pain is unlike anything she has ever felt, a raw, searing grief that leaves her breathless. It’s as though a star has been snuffed out, and the darkness left behind threatens to consume her.

“Eilliage!” Dia screams, her voice breaking with anguish. She charges forward, her lightsaber blazing, her strikes fueled by a storm of emotions—grief, rage, helplessness. The Dark Side whispers to her, seductive and insistent, offering her power in exchange for her pain. For a moment, she lets it in—just a sliver—and feels the raw strength surge through her veins. Her strikes become faster, fiercer, her blade cleaving through droids with brutal efficiency. Metal bodies collapse around her, sparks flying as she carves a path toward Eilliage’s fallen form.

The battlefield becomes a blur, the cacophony of war fading to a distant hum as Dia focuses solely on reaching Eilliage. Her muscles burn, her breath comes in ragged gasps, but she doesn’t stop. She fights like a force of nature, her movements desperate and unrelenting. Each strike is a scream of defiance against the despair threatening to overwhelm her.

Finally, she reaches Eilliage’s body, dropping to her knees beside her. The battlefield around her seems to blur, the chaos fading into the background as her focus narrows to the still form before her. Dia’s hands tremble as she gently reaches out, closing Eilliage’s lifeless eyes. The sight of the young Padawan’s pale face, streaked with dirt and blood, twists her heart. She can feel the emptiness where Eilliage’s presence once was, a cold void that gnaws at her soul.

Tears stream down Dia’s face as she bows her head, her shoulders shaking with grief. The weight of Eilliage’s death presses down on her, suffocating in its intensity. Around her, the battle rages on, the clones pushing forward with grim determination, their blasters firing in steady bursts as they fight to hold the line. They know their commander’s pain, and they fight all the harder for it, their loyalty to her unwavering.

Dia takes a shuddering breath, forcing herself to stand. Her legs feel weak, her body heavy with exhaustion, but she refuses to give in to despair. Her jaw tightens, her grief hardening into resolve as she ignites her lightsaber once more. The azure blade hums with renewed intensity, its light cutting through the haze of battle. She lifts her head, her gaze locking onto the droid ranks ahead, her eyes blazing with determination.

“Push forward!” she shouts, her voice carrying over the chaos. “For the Republic! For Eilliage!”

The clones echo her cry, their voices rising above the din of battle as they charge forward. Their blasters blaze, each bolt a tribute to the fallen Padawan. Dia moves with them, her lightsaber a beacon of light amidst the darkness. Her strikes are precise, each droid that falls a promise to Eilliage that her sacrifice will not be in vain. With every step, Dia channels her pain into purpose, her heart filled with a burning resolve. The battle is far from over, but Dia fights with a singular focus—to honour Eilliage, to ensure her death was not meaningless, and to drive the Republic one step closer to victory.

She fights at the head of the charge, her lightsaber cutting through the droids, her focus unwavering. Each movement is precise, purposeful, as she carves a path through the chaos. The clones around her fight with renewed vigour, their blaster fire precise and unyielding as they press forward. Together, they move like a tide, relentless and determined, driving back the droid forces inch by inch. Dia can feel the power of the Force flowing through her, guiding her strikes, giving her strength. But alongside it, the darkness lingers, a cold presence coiling around her heart, whispering insidious promises, urging her to give in. She steels herself, letting the Force drown out the pain and loss, channelling its light to propel her forward.

The cacophony of battle crescendos, only to end abruptly with a whisper as the final droid position is obliterated by concentrated cannon fire from the AT-TEs. The silence that follows is deafening, an almost unnatural stillness after the roar of blasters, the shrieks of droids, and the thunderous pounding of heavy artillery. Smoke hangs in the air, rising in dark plumes against the overcast sky. The battlefield is a graveyard of twisted metal and scorched earth, the acrid scent of ozone and destruction thick and cloying. The quiet feels surreal, as if the world itself is holding its breath in the aftermath of chaos.

With the battle over, Dia allows herself a moment to release the Force that had been sustaining her. Her senses ease, the heightened awareness dimming as the adrenaline fades. Exhaustion rushes in like a tide, her muscles trembling with the effort of standing, her breaths coming heavy and laboured. The weight of the lightsaber clipped to her belt feels grounding, its presence a familiar comfort even in the face of her overwhelming fatigue. She takes a shaky step forward, her eyes scanning the battlefield until they find what they seek—Eilliage’s still form.

Two clones from the 89th Legion stand vigil over the fallen Padawan. Their orange-and-white armour is streaked with scorch marks, dirt, and ash, their shoulders slightly hunched as they await her approach. As Dia nears, they straighten, nodding to her with a solemn respect that cuts through the lingering haze of grief. She can feel their emotions radiating through the Force—a heavy mixture of sorrow, anger, and guilt. The loss of their young commander weighs on them like a physical burden, their usual stoicism replaced by a quiet, unspoken mourning.

Dia crouches beside Eilliage’s body, her movements slow and deliberate, as if the weight of the moment demands reverence. The young Padawan looks heartbreakingly small, her auburn hair matted with dirt and blood, her face eerily peaceful in death. The sight drives a pang of grief through Dia’s chest, sharp and unrelenting. Eilliage had barely begun to live—a girl of fifteen, thrust into the horrors of war, robbed of the life she should have had. Gently, Dia picks up Eilliage’s lightsaber, the metal cool against her fingers, and places it atop her chest. She folds the Padawan’s hands over it, the gesture one of quiet tenderness, a final honour for a fellow Jedi.

The clones move with solemn precision, lifting Eilliage’s body onto a stretcher. Their movements are almost ceremonial, their reverence evident in every step. To them, she is more than a commander; she is a symbol of the sacrifice they all bear. The air feels heavy, thick with unspoken grief and the weight of what has been lost. Dia closes her eyes, searching for the words that will honour Eilliage’s memory. Her mind drifts to the teachings of her people, to prayers whispered in times of loss, to the lessons Aayla had passed down. The words come, soft and melodic, a blend of ancient tradition and heartfelt emotion.

Placing a hand gently atop Eilliage’s head, Dia begins to speak, her voice steady but tinged with sorrow. The cadence of her native tongue carries through the air like a song, each word a tribute to the life that was lost:

"Nolee ootay foroe, Eilliage. Sil dei vulis ejan ji ksa'a cea myekan geo, vil dei karawn n'u cli anoyan. Akohan guo, chee, dei vatak ohk nie. Sil dei tuka birtan ersae ji ayy, jemae vil osalo."

(Depart in honour, Eilliage. May your courage become the starlight that guides us, and your strength flow through the Force. Rest now, warrior, your fight is done. May your spirit dance among the stars, free and eternal.)

Her voice wavers, her fingers brushing lightly against Eilliage’s hair as she finishes the prayer. The words hang in the air, carrying the weight of her grief and the love she holds for her fallen comrade. Around her, the clones bow their heads, their silence a testament to the depth of their shared loss. Dia breathes deeply, allowing the Force to wrap around her like a comforting embrace, a gentle reassurance that Eilliage is now one with something greater, her essence eternal in the Force.

Slowly, Dia rises, her gaze lingering on Eilliage’s still form for a moment longer. The ache in her heart is a reminder of the cost of war, but it is also a call to persevere, to honour the sacrifices made by those who gave everything. She turns to the clones, her voice quiet but resolute. “Get her back to the medics,” she says, her eyes meeting theirs. “Her master will want to say his farewells and will know what else to do.”

The clones nod, their movements deliberate as they lift the stretcher, carrying Eilliage’s body with the respect she deserves. Dia watches them go, her heart heavy but resolute. Turning back to the battlefield, she takes in the remnants of the fight—the shattered droids, the scorched earth, the broken weapons littering the ground. Each piece of debris tells the story of the struggle they endured, the lives lost and the courage displayed.

Every step Dia takes away from Eilliage feels heavier, the weight of exhaustion and grief settling deep into her bones. But she pushes forward, the promise she carries burning brightly in her heart: to honour the sacrifice of those who fell, to see this mission through, and to ensure that their loss will not be in vain.

She moves through the battlefield, her eyes scanning the area, taking in the faces of the clones as they regroup, as they begin to assess the damage and tend to the wounded. The weight of command is a heavy burden, but it is one she bears willingly, for those who have given everything. Around her, the clones’ movements are methodical despite the exhaustion etched into their postures. Medics work with quiet urgency, applying bacta patches and bandages to wounded troopers, their white armour streaked with grime and blood. Others sift through the debris, salvaging what equipment they can, while a few stand solemnly over fallen brothers, their helmets cradled in their arms.

The acrid scent of scorched earth and ozone lingers in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. Dia’s boots crunch against the rubble-strewn ground as she walks, her lightsaber clipped securely to her belt, its weight a steady reminder of her purpose. She pauses by a group of clones huddled around a makeshift comms array, their voices low as they exchange reports. Their respect for her is palpable, their eyes meeting hers briefly before returning to their tasks. She offers them a nod, a small gesture that feels woefully inadequate in the face of their sacrifices.

She feels the presence of the Force around her, a subtle hum that ebbs and flows, a gentle reminder of the connection she shares with all those who fought beside her. It’s a comforting sensation, a reminder that even in the chaos of war, they are not alone. Yet beneath it, she senses the echoes of pain and loss, the lingering grief that clings to the survivors like a shadow. The battle may be over, but the war continues, and Dia knows she must be strong—for herself, for the clones, and for the memory of Eilliage.

Dia takes a deep breath, the air thick and heavy in her lungs, letting the grief settle into something more manageable. She’s learned to compartmentalise, to push the pain to the edges of her mind where it won’t consume her. There will be time to mourn later, but for now, there is still work to be done. She moves toward the forward command post, her steps deliberate, her expression composed despite the storm of emotions roiling beneath the surface.

The next day, Dia finds herself standing beside her master at the command post, staring out across the open fields toward the fortified capital city. The air is tense, vibrating with the distant sounds of artillery fire and the ceaseless rumble of engines. Dark plumes of smoke rise from several spots inside the city walls, where bombing runs have already hit their mark. The sight is both daunting and surreal—a tableau of destruction that seems almost frozen in time, the calm before the chaos of battle, and a stark reminder of what is yet to come.

The early morning sun casts long shadows across the landscape, its glare sharp against the horizon. Dia squints, her gaze fixed on the city’s defences. The massive walls bristle with anti-aerospace emplacements and mounted blaster cannons, their barrels glinting ominously in the light. In the distance, she can see droid patrols moving methodically along the battlements, their metallic forms stark against the smoke-streaked sky.

Overhead, another flight of Y-Wings arcs across the sky, their engines a thunderous roar that rattles the air. Dia watches as their bomb bays open, releasing a fresh barrage of explosives that streak downward in precise formations. The ground shakes with the force of the impacts, fiery plumes erupting from within the city as buildings collapse and defensive positions are obliterated. The relentless bombardment has been ongoing for hours, the steady rhythm of shells and rockets a grim prelude to the coming assault.

Beside her, Master Emmari Vinives stands with her arms crossed, her expression as unreadable as ever. Yet Dia can sense the tension in her master’s Force presence, a faint ripple of unease that betrays the calm facade. “The city’s defences are formidable,” Emmari says, her voice measured but firm. “This will not be an easy fight.”

“It never is,” Dia replies, her tone quieter, tinged with exhaustion. Her gaze doesn’t waver from the city, her mind already running through the strategies they’ve discussed, the contingencies they’ve planned. Despite her fatigue, she feels a flicker of determination ignite within her. They’ve come too far, lost too much, to falter now.

Behind them, the command post is a hive of activity. Officers and clone commanders confer over holographic maps, their voices sharp with urgency as they finalise plans for the assault. Comms operators relay orders and updates, their fingers flying over consoles as they coordinate with units scattered across the battlefield. The hum of machinery and the steady cadence of clone boots on durasteel create a rhythm that feels both frenetic and oddly reassuring.

“The artillery has softened their defences,” Emmari continues, her gaze shifting to the smouldering city. “But it won’t be enough. When the time comes, we’ll need to strike hard and fast.”

Dia nods, her jaw tightening as she absorbs her master’s words. She knows what’s at stake, knows the cost of hesitation. Her thoughts drift briefly to Eilliage, to the young Padawan’s bravery and sacrifice. It’s a memory that cuts deeply, but it also steels her resolve. She glances at Emmari, her voice steady despite the weight of her emotions. “We’ll be ready.”

As another barrage of shells crashes into the city, the ground beneath them trembles, the vibrations resonating through Dia’s boots. She takes a deep breath, letting the tension settle into something sharper, more focused. The battle ahead looms large, a daunting challenge that will test them all.

“So what is the plan?” Dia asks, her voice just loud enough to carry over the din of the bombardment. She keeps her gaze fixed on the distant city, her eyes tracing the line of the walls, searching for any sign of weakness, any hint of what lies ahead.

Emmari keeps her eyes on the city for a moment longer before answering. “We will continue the bombardment for the day,” she says, her tone calm and measured, “to launch the attack at dawn.” She gestures subtly toward the distant walls, where a few of the heavy droid gun batteries are still managing to return fire despite the clones’ best efforts to suppress them. Even now, a group of AT-TE walkers are lining up for a new salvo, their massive cannons adjusting angles, trying to pin down those guns before they can cause more damage. The barrage feels endless, a testament to the scale of the challenge they face in taking this fortified stronghold.

Dia nods slightly, her gaze following the streaks of energy as they arc from the clone artillery toward the walls. “What do you want me to do?” she asks, turning back to her master. Her voice is steady, but there’s a slight edge of weariness to it, the kind that comes from days of constant fighting and the weight of loss. She feels the exhaustion in her bones, the aftermath of the intense battles they’ve faced, the long days with too little rest in between. The echoes of Eilliage’s last moments still whisper in her mind, lingering like a shadow she can’t quite shake. The battlefield has taken so much from them, and the losses weigh heavily on her heart.

Emmari looks at Dia, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if measuring the toll the past days have taken on her. The pause stretches for just a moment too long, and Dia can’t help but feel the weight of her master’s gaze, the scrutiny there. It’s not judgment, not really, but she can sense the concern beneath it, the careful consideration of her master’s next words. The silence between them feels thick, as if Emmari is weighing Dia’s readiness, her resolve.

“You will join me,” Emmari says finally, her voice softening just a touch. “This is our first siege assault like this. We will stick close to adapt to any changing situation once we are inside.” Her eyes hold Dia’s for a moment longer, a silent message passing between them—an acknowledgement of the dangers ahead, of the trust Emmari has in her. Dia knows that her master wouldn’t bring her along if she didn’t believe she was capable, but the thought of the battle still sends a shiver down her spine.

Dia meets her master’s gaze, and there’s something in Emmari’s eyes that makes her chest tighten—an understanding that this will be a brutal fight, a test not only of their abilities but of their endurance. Dia nods, the hint of a smile touching her lips, a small attempt to mask the lingering fatigue. “I’ll be ready,” she says. Her voice is steady, but deep down, she feels the weight of the words, the unspoken promise she is making to her master and herself.

Emmari places a hand on Dia’s shoulder, her grip firm but comforting. “I know you will,” she says. “Just remember, Dia—we are not alone in this. Trust in the clones, trust in your training, and trust in the Force. We will see this through.” There is an intensity in her voice, a reassurance that feels like a lifeline in the midst of the chaos that surrounds them.

Dia takes a deep breath, letting her master’s words sink in. She lets her eyes drift back to the city, watching the smoke billow and the artillery hammering away at the walls. She tries to let go of the anxiety, the fear of what’s to come. She knows that, as a Jedi, she is supposed to rise above those fears, to find peace in the Force. And she tries—but the memories of the past few days, the screams, the blaster fire, the sight of Eilliage falling—all of it is still too fresh. The lessons from the Order feel distant, like something from another life, an ideal that seems almost unreachable amidst the brutal reality of war.

But Emmari’s words are enough, for now. They are a reminder that she is not alone, that there are people she can rely on, people who will stand by her side in the fight to come. She turns her gaze to the clones bustling around the command post, their expressions determined, their movements efficient as they prepare for the assault. These soldiers, who have fought by her side, who have shared in the losses and the small victories—they are part of her strength.

Dia straightens her shoulders, squaring them against the city and the battle waiting beyond it. Together, they will face whatever comes. No matter the fear, no matter the exhaustion, she knows she has to push forward. Because that is what it means to be a Jedi, to stand in the face of darkness and keep moving.

~~

The first rays of the sun break over the horizon, painting the sky in soft hues of gold and pink. The serene colours of dawn stand in stark contrast to the brutal reality that awaits. Dia and Emmari stand at the forefront, leading a company of clones different from the familiar faces of Hunter Company, who are held in reserve for now. The soldiers around them shift in their armour, weary yet resolute. Their expressions, hidden beneath helmets, carry an unspoken determination; they know the cost of failure and the weight of what lies ahead as they prepare to breach the fortified capital.

The city looms before them, its towering walls a grim silhouette against the smoky sky. Massive breaches mar the once-imposing barriers, torn open by relentless cannon fire and bombing runs. Smoke rises in dark, curling plumes from within the city, carrying with it the acrid stench of burning fuel, scorched metal, and ash. The air is heavy with the foreboding scent, mingling with the distant hum of machinery and the intermittent thunder of artillery fire echoing from other sectors of the siege. Every breath Dia takes seems to carry the weight of the destruction ahead.

The two Jedi move silently with the company, their lightsabers un-ignited but ready at their sides. Each step is deliberate, their senses attuned to the subtle ripples in the Force, alert for the inevitable violence that lurks just beyond the rubble. As they approach one of the breaches, the full scale of the destruction becomes evident. Jagged piles of rubble form a chaotic pathway through the city’s shattered walls. Burnt-out vehicles lie strewn across the path, their twisted frames a testament to the ferocity of the bombardment. Shattered duracrete and exposed rebar jut from the ruins, a deadly obstacle course leading into the heart of the city.

Dia pauses briefly, the Force tugging at her awareness. There is an urgency to the pull, a whisper of danger that sharpens her focus. The moment stretches into a tense silence, the air heavy with anticipation. Then it comes—the first blaster bolt cracks through the stillness, a crimson streak barely missing Dia as she shifts instinctively. The Force screams its warning, and Emmari’s lightsaber ignites in a flash of brilliant purple, intercepting the bolt with a sharp hiss. The sound reverberates across the rubble, shattering the fragile morning calm.

“Forward!” Emmari’s voice cuts through the commotion, commanding and resolute. She charges ahead, her lightsaber a streak of light as she ascends the rubble pile, her figure outlined by the golden glow of the rising sun. Dia follows without hesitation, igniting her own azure blade. The steady hum of the weapon is a calming counterpoint to the chaos, a reminder of her purpose as she moves with precision and focus.

The droid defenders are thinly spread at the breach, their resistance immediate but disorganised. Dia’s lightsaber arcs through the air, slicing cleanly through the first droid that steps into her path. Another swings its blaster toward her, but she deflects its fire with a sharp twist of her wrist, sending the bolt ricocheting into a nearby droid. She presses forward, her movements fluid and purposeful, each strike a precise extension of her connection to the Force.

Emmari is a whirlwind of motion ahead of her, her blade spinning and cutting with lethal efficiency. The older Jedi moves with an elegance born of experience, her steps measured, her strikes devastating. Together, they carve a path through the droids, their blades flashing as blaster fire fills the air around them. The sharp scent of ozone and the metallic tang of molten metal mix with the acrid smoke, creating a sensory overload that Dia pushes aside, her focus narrowing to the task at hand.

Behind them, the clones surge forward, their blaster rifles firing in disciplined volleys. They move as a single unit, their formation tight as they advance into the breach. The Jedi serve as the tip of the spear, drawing enemy fire and clearing the way for the soldiers to pour into the city. The breach opens into a wide avenue, its once-bustling road now a desolate wasteland. The charred remains of buildings line the street—homes, shops, lives reduced to ash and rubble. The destruction is staggering, each step forward revealing new horrors. A toppled speeder rests half-buried in debris, its frame blackened and warped. The faint smell of burned fabric clings to the air, a haunting reminder of the lives lost here.

As they push deeper, the droid resistance intensifies. Squads of B1 battle droids pour out from side streets, their blasters raised in unison. Dia senses the surge in danger before it happens, her blade snapping upward to deflect a volley of fire aimed at the advancing clones. She spins into a defensive stance, her lightsaber a blur as she redirects the bolts back into the enemy ranks, dropping several droids in quick succession.

“They’re regrouping ahead,” Emmari warns, her voice calm but urgent as she gestures toward a barricade farther down the avenue. The makeshift defensive position bristles with blasters and heavy weapons, manned by a mix of battle droids and super battle droids.

“Keep pressing forward!” Dia shouts, her voice carrying over the din of combat. She steps into the fray, her blade carving through the advancing droids with practised precision. A squad of clones takes up position beside her, their fire covering her as she moves toward the barricade. The droid’s fire is relentless, bolts hammering against the rubble and the protective shields carried by the troopers. The Force thrums through Dia, guiding her movements as she deflects bolt after bolt, inching closer to the enemy position.

The clones, armed with PLX-1 rocket launchers, move into position behind rubble and the remains of shattered vehicles. The sharp hiss of a rocket firing cuts through the cacophony, its trail a white-hot streak as it hurtles toward the droid barricade. The impact is immediate and devastating, the explosion tearing through the droid defences in a fiery eruption of debris and smoke. The battle droids manning the heavy weapons are obliterated, their metal frames flung apart like toys under the concussive force. More rockets follow in quick succession, each blast pushing the droid line closer to collapse.

“Push forward!” a sergeant yells, his voice cutting through the smoke-filled chaos as the clones seize the moment. They leap from cover, firing their blasters in coordinated bursts, each volley carving through the remaining droids. Dia’s lightsaber blazes as she charges alongside them, deflecting blaster bolts with deft precision. She darts into the fray, her blade cutting through the last remnants of resistance at the barricade.

The droid defences crumble under the combined assault, the barricade reduced to a smouldering ruin. The clones cheer, their voices rising above the destruction as they surge forward to secure the street.

Dia takes a moment to catch her breath, her chest heaving as she surveys the scene. The avenue is theirs, for now, but the battle is far from over. The city stretches out before them, a labyrinth of destruction and danger. Smoke continues to rise from the ruins, the air thick with the sounds of distant combat. She exchanges a glance with Emmari, who nods once, a silent acknowledgement of what they’ve achieved and what still lies ahead.

The Jedi and their company regroup, their formation tightening as they prepare to press deeper into the city. Dia can feel the weight of the battle pressing down on her, the toll it’s taken on her body and mind. But she pushes it aside, drawing strength from the Force and from the soldiers who fight beside her. The capital must fall, and they will see it through—together.

“Clear a path to the gates!” Emmari commands, her voice ringing out even as she deflects a barrage of blaster fire. Her lightsaber arcs in a blur of violet, cutting through incoming bolts with precision. Dia follows close behind, her own azure blade igniting in a brilliant flash, the hum of it a steady rhythm against the chaos. Together, they lead the charge, their movements fluid and purposeful, weaving through the storm of blaster fire as if guided by the Force itself.

A squad of clones splits off to flank the enemy, moving with grim determination toward the gates. Their mission: to secure the mechanisms and open the massive durasteel barriers, allowing the tanks still waiting outside to enter the city. The rest of the company presses forward, advancing house by house, street by street, dismantling the entrenched droid defences with ruthless efficiency. The clones call out orders and movements, their voices sharp and clear over the comms, their resolve unshaken despite the relentless fire raining down on them.

The sound of battle is deafening. Blaster bolts streak through the air, their impacts sending sparks and debris flying. Explosions rock the ground, shaking loose chunks of rubble from already crumbling buildings. The metallic shriek of collapsing structures echoes through the streets, a discordant symphony of destruction. Dia glances at the buildings around them, her eyes catching on the flickering flames consuming what’s left of someone’s home. The acrid stench of burning flesh and melting metal fills her nostrils, clawing at her senses, and she feels a knot tighten in her chest. They are advancing, but at what cost? Civilians—caught in the crossfire—lie lifeless among the rubble, their bodies twisted in unnatural poses. Some are crushed beneath the remains of their homes, others sprawled in the streets. Innocent lives extinguished in the fury of war.

Dia feels the Force reverberate with the echoes of fear and anguish, a chorus of pain and anger that threatens to pull her under. It is an oppressive tide, and the Dark Side whispers at its edges, insidious and tempting. It offers her release, a way to channel her frustration and grief into power, to strike back at the suffering around her. But she forces herself to stay focused, to keep moving. She cannot afford to give in to despair, not now. Too many rely on her strength—on her resolve—to falter.

Blaster fire crackles around her, each shot a stark reminder of how fragile life is in these moments. The droids fight with cold precision, their programming driving them to show no mercy. Dia finds herself almost envying their lack of fear, their inability to feel the weight of what they do. Her lightsaber becomes an extension of her body, a streak of blue light that deflects bolts and cuts through droids with practised precision. Her muscles ache, her wounds from the previous battles burn with every movement, but she pushes on. There is no room for weakness here, no time to rest.

The street is littered with the aftermath of their advance—smoking remains of droids, shattered armour plates, and amidst it all, the lifeless forms of those caught in the crossfire. The grim reality of their mission weighs heavily on Dia’s shoulders. The brutality of war is laid bare in every direction, stripping away the illusions of honour and heroism she once held as a youngling. This is not the elegant combat of her training—this is survival, raw and unrelenting. She feels the despair, the anger, and the pain of the clones around her, their emotions a sharp edge in the Force. Each one pushes forward because they have no other choice, their determination unwavering despite the cost.

The clones press on, their movements precise and coordinated despite the chaos. Their faces are hidden behind helmets, their voices calm and steady as they call out targets, issue orders, and confirm kills. They fight with a relentless drive that Dia has come to admire deeply, but she knows that each one of them feels the weight of this battle just as much as she does. They are not droids; they are not unfeeling machines. They are soldiers, with hearts and souls, pushing forward because it is their duty.

As they near the gates, Dia catches sight of a child’s toy—half-buried in the rubble, scorched by the flames. It is a small thing, a bright splash of colour in an otherwise grey and black landscape, and it makes her stomach twist. The innocence lost in all this violence feels like a heavy stone in her heart. She turns her eyes away, focusing on the next group of droids, on the next swing of her lightsaber. She cannot afford to dwell on what has already been lost. All she can do is keep fighting, keep pushing forward, and hope that, by the end of this, there will be something left worth saving.

“Dia, focus!” Emmari’s voice cuts through the fog of Dia’s thoughts, sharp and commanding. It pulls her back to the present, anchoring her in the moment. Dia nods, swallowing the lump in her throat as she tightens her grip on her lightsaber. She presses forward, her blade flashing as it cuts through another droid. The gates are close now, their massive frame looming ahead, and with them, the promise of reinforcements—tanks and heavy support that will help turn the tide in their favour.

But until then, it is just them—the Jedi and the clones—fighting through the burning streets, step by bloody step. The oppressive heat from the fires burns at Dia’s skin, the acrid smoke stinging her eyes, but she keeps her gaze forward. Her lightsaber arcs in swift, precise strikes, her movements a blur as she deflects blaster fire and carves through the droids blocking their path. She feels her connection to the Force waver under the strain of the battle and the mounting loss, but she clings to it, letting its energy steady her as they push deeper into the city.

The clones beside her are relentless, their voices crackling over the comms as they issue tactical updates, their movements perfectly coordinated even amidst the chaos. Dia hears them calling out targets, giving cover to one another, their voices tight but unwavering. She draws strength from their presence, their resolve bolstering her own. She pushes aside her doubts and fears, focusing on the task ahead. They are close now—so close to breaching the gate and bringing in the much-needed reinforcements. Each step forward is a victory, each fallen droid a step closer to their goal.

As the gate comes into view, the final push begins. The clones move in tight formation, their movements precise and disciplined as they cover one another under the relentless hail of blaster fire from the battlements above. The red bolts of enemy fire streak through the thick smoke, their impacts sending sparks and fragments flying. The noise is deafening—the crack of blaster rifles, the explosions of grenades, and the cries of soldiers mingling into a chaotic symphony of war.

Dia leads the charge, her azure lightsaber a beacon of light amidst the gloom. The blade hums as it moves in arcs of deadly precision, deflecting bolts back toward the droids, cutting down those that stand in her way. Her movements are fluid yet fierce, every step forward carrying the weight of her resolve. She is aware of every breath, every shift of her body, as the Force flows through her, guiding her strikes and heightening her senses. Each moment is a blur of action and intent, her mind focused entirely on reaching the gate controls.

The air is suffused with the acrid stench of burning metal and scorched earth, and the smoke hangs heavy, stinging Dia’s eyes and filling her lungs with every breath. She can feel the strain in her muscles, but she refuses to falter. The memory of Eilliage’s sacrifice lingers painfully in her mind, fueling her determination.

“We’re almost there!” Emmari’s voice rings out over the chaos, steady and commanding, her purple blade carving through the droids with precise, measured strikes. Her presence is a steadying force, a reminder that they fight not as individuals, but as a unit. Dia glances back briefly, catching sight of the clones pushing forward with unwavering resolve, their white armour streaked with grime and scorch marks. They fight as one, a testament to their training and their unyielding will.

The gate controls loom just ahead, a cluster of consoles surrounded by hastily constructed barricades and defended by a squad of B2 battle droids. Dia narrows her focus, her grip tightening on her lightsaber hilt. The droids fire in unison, their wrist-mounted cannons spewing bolts of energy toward her. She deflects them with a flick of her wrist, the impacts sending ripples up her arms. With a burst of speed, she closes the distance, her blade slashing through the first droid’s chest in a shower of sparks. She spins, her movements fluid and efficient, cutting down the next two droids before they can react.

Behind her, Emmari and the clones hold the line, their blasters firing in coordinated volleys that cut swaths through the advancing droid ranks. The air vibrates with the intensity of the battle, the ground trembling beneath the weight of explosions. “Hold the line!” Emmari commands, her voice firm. “Give her the time she needs!”

Dia reaches the gate controls, her breath ragged as she deactivates her lightsaber and extends her free hand to the console. Her fingers fly over the controls, guided by both her training and the Force. The mechanism groans in protest, its servos strained from the damage inflicted by the siege. For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happens, and Dia feels the weight of the battle pressing in on her. Then, with a metallic screech, the massive durasteel gate begins to grind open, the heavy panels sliding apart to reveal the forces waiting beyond.

“The gate is opening!” Dia calls out, her voice raw but filled with triumph. The cheer that erupts from the clones is a moment of defiant hope, a rallying cry that cuts through the cacophony of the battle. Through the widening gap, the hulking forms of AT-TE walkers become visible, their mass-driver cannons swivelling into position as they prepare to unleash devastation on the enemy lines. Behind them, TX-130 Saber tanks roar to life, their engines a low, menacing growl as they roll forward to join the fray.

The droids, sensing the shift in momentum, redouble their efforts, their blasters firing furiously. Dia reignites her lightsaber, stepping back from the console to rejoin the fight. She feels the clones surge forward around her, their movements fueled by the promise of reinforcements. The first AT-TE fires, its cannon releasing a deafening blast that obliterates a droid emplacement in a fiery explosion. The tanks follow suit, their laser cannons cutting swaths through the enemy ranks, forcing the droids to fall back under the relentless assault.

Dia moves to Emmari’s side, her blade a blur as she cuts down a pair of B1 battle droids attempting to flank the clones. “The reinforcements are through,” she says, her voice strained but steady. “The tide is turning.”

Emmari nods, her gaze fixed on the battlefield. “Good. But the battle isn’t over yet. Stay sharp.” Her tone is firm, a reminder that vigilance is their greatest weapon. Together, they press forward, leading the charge as the tide of battle shifts in their favor.

As the tanks roll through the gate, their cannons blasting apart enemy formations, Dia allows herself a fleeting moment to breathe. The battle is far from won, but for the first time, hope feels tangible. The city’s walls, once an unyielding barrier, have been breached, and with it, the Separatist’s hold begins to crumble.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XII

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Dia stands in the central command room of the palace in the heart of the capital, the air thick with the acrid scent of smoke and charred metal. The debris-strewn floor crunches under her boots, and the heavy silence of a room that had just been a war zone lingers. Flickering holograms sputter on shattered consoles, casting ghostly blue light across the wreckage. The Separatist general lies motionless near the tactical table, the stain of blaster fire still smoking on her uniform, the cold lifelessness in her eyes a stark reminder of the battle's brutal conclusion. It was over. The city had fallen, and with it, the last remnants of the Separatist resistance. Dia glances at the fallen general, her eyes hardening with resolve. The war had taken so much—from everyone—and she wonders if there was any part of this battle that felt victorious.

The silence is broken by the steady, deliberate footsteps of Emmari, her presence calm and commanding as she approaches Dia. Her master rests a hand on Dia's shoulder, the warmth and steady pressure a rare source of comfort amid the desolation. Dia takes a steadying breath, the tension in her chest loosening slightly as she looks up into her master's composed face.

“I want you to take a gunship back up to the Leviathan,” Emmari says, her voice even but carrying a quiet authority. “We will be dealing with holdouts for a while—securing the city, waiting for reinforcements and supplies. I've made arrangements for you to return to the temple in the meantime, to continue your lessons there. There are still several modules you need to complete if you wish to be knighted.”

Dia blinks, the mention of the temple dragging her from the fog of war. She feels the familiar weight of frustration settling on her shoulders. The idea of returning to the temple, sitting in classrooms, felt almost jarringly mundane after the chaos of the front lines. It was like stepping from fire into the stillness of water—the stark contrast leaving her feeling oddly displaced. A soft groan escapes her lips before she can suppress it, a sound of resignation born from the clash between duty and desire.

“Of course, Master,” she replies, her voice tempered but respectful. “How long will I be at the temple?”

“At least until our next deployment,” Emmari responds, her gaze steady, as if measuring Dia's reaction. “I do not know how long your Shadow instructors will need you, but Master Vos has informed me that there is an assessment you still need to complete with him. He’ll be at the temple for the foreseeable future.”

Dia's heart quickens at the mention of Master Vos. She forces herself to maintain a neutral expression, but inwardly, her spirit lifts. Training under Vos always felt different—raw, intense, unfiltered. It spoke to a part of her that craved something beyond the strict structure of the Jedi Code. Vos wasn't afraid to confront the darkness, to understand it, and that resonated with Dia in ways her own master could never fully comprehend. She was acutely aware of Emmari's distrust of Vos and the Jedi Shadows—the way her master's lips would tighten whenever his name was spoken, the silent disapproval that lingered in every unspoken word. Dia knew she walked a fine line, and that knowledge stung, a quiet reminder that perhaps she, too, was inching dangerously close to that shadow.

Emmari's steady hand lingers a moment longer on Dia's shoulder, as if sensing the turbulent thoughts churning beneath her apprentice's composed exterior. Then, with a subtle nod, she withdraws, her expression returning to its stoic calm. “Gather your things. The gunship will be ready within the hour.”

Dia inclines her head respectfully, the gesture masking the swirling emotions beneath—relief at stepping back from the battlefield, excitement at reuniting with Master Vos, and a gnawing dread at the thought of being confined within the temple walls. She turns without another word and strides from the palace, her boots echoing through the hollowed corridors, each step reverberating with the weight of conflicting duty and desire.

The city beyond is a landscape of ruin—buildings gutted by fire, streets choked with debris, and the smouldering remnants of battle casting a hazy veil over the once-proud capital. Clones move methodically through the wreckage, securing zones, aiding the wounded, and salvaging what little remains. Dia's eyes briefly catch on the weary faces of the soldiers—each one burdened by the same war that had taken so much from her. She feels the familiar tug of responsibility, the unspoken promise to carry on despite the cost.

And so, she moves forward—toward the waiting gunship, toward the temple, toward a future clouded with uncertainty—each step a quiet defiance against the war that sought to consume her.

The walk through the ruined city is haunting, each step echoing with the remnants of battle. The streets are a labyrinth of destruction—burnt-out speeders lie twisted and blackened, shattered windows glint dangerously in the low light, and walls are pockmarked with deep craters from relentless blaster fire. Smoke coils upward in dark tendrils, mixing with the acrid scent of burning metal and scorched flesh. Makeshift medical tents line the battered roadway, their fabric stained and sagging, as medics and clones work with grim efficiency to recover the fallen and clear debris. Muffled groans of the wounded cut through the air, each one a haunting reminder of the battle’s toll. Dia feels the weight of it all settle heavily on her shoulders, pressing like an invisible hand. This wasn’t the peace she had imagined bringing to the galaxy.

She pauses mid-step, her gaze catching on something small amidst the rubble—a doll, half-buried and scorched, its fabric singed and colours dulled by ash. Its glassy eyes stare up at nothing, a chilling contrast to the devastation around it. A child's toy, now a relic of a shattered life. Dia swallows hard, her throat tight. She crouches down, brushing soot gently from its fabric, feeling the delicate stitching beneath her fingers. This small, fragile thing doesn’t belong here—not in the ruin, not in the aftermath of destruction. She carefully places it atop a nearby ledge, away from the rubble, as if protecting it from the carnage. A silent promise that not everything had to be lost. Maybe, somehow, it would find its way back to the hands that once cherished it.

She continues forward, each step heavier than the last, her thoughts a tangled storm of doubt and exhaustion. The war had demanded everything from them—from her. And yet, victory seemed like a distant star, always just beyond reach. It felt as if they were trapped in an endless cycle, one battle bleeding into the next, with peace remaining a cruel illusion. Whether she stood on the front lines or sat in quiet meditation within the temple walls, the galaxy still burned. Was any of it enough?

Dia closes her eyes, drawing in a slow, steadying breath. The cold air bites at her lungs, sharp and bracing. She reaches out to the Force, feeling its familiar currents swirl around her, steady and constant. It wraps around her like a cloak, anchoring her, easing the tempest within. This was her purpose—to stand as a protector, a shield for the vulnerable, a beacon of hope for those lost in darkness. Even if the road ahead felt endless, even if doubt and fear clawed at her spirit, she would keep walking it. She would fight for those who had no voice. For the clones who marched tirelessly beside her. For Zela, whose presence grounded her more than any Jedi teaching ever could.

A sudden gust of wind sweeps through the ruined streets, stirring the soot and ash into swirling ghosts of smoke. Dia halts, watching the clones moving with practised precision, their armour dulled and scorched by battle. Their faces are hidden behind expressionless helmets, but through the Force, she feels their exhaustion weighing on them. Beneath that weariness is something stronger—an unshakable resolve. They had stood beside her in every fight, had given everything they had, and would do so again without hesitation. These men, born for war, had become more than soldiers. They were her brothers-in-arms, and she bore a deep, unrelenting responsibility to them. She could not—would not—fail them.

The gunship looms ahead, its engines rumbling with a deep, throaty growl as it idles among the shattered remains of the city street. Its side doors stand open, the faint glow of interior lights casting long shadows across the debris-strewn ground. The hull is scorched and pitted from previous engagements, streaks of carbon scoring marring its once-pristine plating. Dia approaches slowly, each step deliberate, her boots crunching against the loose stones and shards of permacrete scattered across the ground. The acrid scent of smoke and burning metal still lingers in the air, wrapping around her like an oppressive shroud. She pauses at the open side hatch, casting one last glance over her shoulder at the ravaged cityscape. The skeletal remains of buildings jut toward the sky like broken fingers, clawing at the ash-laden clouds above. Columns of smoke rise steadily, merging with the bruised horizon. There was so much left to do, so much left to rebuild, and the sheer scale of it all threatened to crush her spirit. But she clenched her jaw and drew strength from the steady hum of the Force within her. She would keep moving forward—for them.

She steps into the gunship, the dim interior bathed in the soft red glow of emergency lights flickering along the walls. The cold, metallic air inside is a stark contrast to the choking heat of the battlefield. The clone pilot gives her a curt nod, his visor reflecting the faint glow of the cockpit displays. Dia reaches up, grasping one of the straps as the gunship shifts beneath her feet, the fabric biting into her palm. Clones stand shoulder to shoulder around her, gripping the same straps, their helmets angled forward in quiet focus, their armour scorched and battle-worn. The gunship’s side doors remain open for a moment longer, the wind whipping through, carrying the distant sounds of the burning city before they grind shut with a hydraulic hiss. The city disappears from view, swallowed by the cold, unfeeling walls of the gunship.

Dia steadies herself against the gentle sway of the flight, the vibration of the engines thrumming up through the floor and into her bones. She closes her eyes, exhaling slowly, and lets her head tilt forward, bracing against the constant motion. Her mind drifts far from the wreckage, seeking solace in the distant memory of the Jedi Temple—the quiet shuffle of younglings in the halls, the scent of ancient stone and parchment in the Archives, the soft hum of lightsabers clashing in training. It feels like a distant dream, a world untouched by war and death. A world that now feels impossibly far away. But maybe, just maybe, it was exactly what she needed.

The gunship lifts off with a deep shudder, the engines rising to a deafening crescendo before stabilising into a steady hum. The vibrations ripple through the cabin, and Dia tightens her grip on the strap above her before letting her hand drift to the hilt of her lightsaber. Her fingers curl around the familiar metal, grounding her. Its weight is comforting, a silent promise of protection and purpose. She takes another deep breath, deeper this time, steadying herself. She would return to the temple, complete her training, sharpen the skills that had been dulled by relentless combat. And when she was ready, she would return to the front lines, stronger than before. Because this war was far from over, and she would not falter.

~~~~

Light years away from Dia on Orinda, Zela and Kia lead Foxhound Company, advancing through the dense, oppressive jungle. The humid air clings to their skin, the suffocating heat wrapping around them like a shroud. Thick undergrowth scratches against their armour, offering scant cover as blaster fire crackles through the heavy canopy. Zela's emerald green lightsaber ignites with a sharp hiss, its energy humming as she expertly deflects the incoming barrage of blaster bolts. Each movement is a seamless blend of grace and precision, the blade a vivid beacon in the dim, shadowed jungle. Kia moves fluidly around her, ducking under low-hanging branches and fallen trunks, her twin WESTAR-35 blaster pistols snapping off brilliant yellow bolts, their brilliance briefly illuminating the foliage.

The sounds of the jungle are deafening—the high-pitched whine of blasters, the barked commands of clone officers, the anguished screams of the wounded, all blending with the alien screeches and rustling of native creatures disturbed by the chaos. The air is thick with smoke and the sharp scent of scorched wood and ozone. Zela's heart pounds in rhythm with the hum of her lightsaber, her sharp eyes scanning the dense undergrowth for a path forward. Every inch is hard-fought, their progress painfully slow as the droid defences lay down relentless suppressive fire from well-fortified bunkers concealed within the tangled vegetation.

Without warning, the ground trembles violently beneath their feet. A brilliant flash of searing orange light bursts through the thick trees, the force of the explosion sending shockwaves rippling through the jungle. An AT-TE walker, caught in a deadly crossfire, erupts in a fireball, its armoured frame torn apart by a concealed mine or heavy cannon. The shockwave hammers into Zela, nearly throwing her off balance. She stumbles forward, catching herself against the gnarled roots of a massive tree. Her montrals ring painfully from the blast, the world momentarily reduced to a dull roar.

Captain Cyll, armour spattered with mud and ash, dives into cover beside her behind a splintered log. The once-lush jungle is now a twisted graveyard of shattered branches, smouldering craters, and burning wreckage. The thick scent of burning metal and scorched vegetation clings to the heavy, humid air. Smoke hangs like a suffocating blanket, obscuring their vision and turning the battlefield into a suffocating maze.

"Commander, the tanks are getting bogged down in the marsh!" Cyll's voice strains over the cacophony, sharp and urgent. His visor is streaked with grime, but the tension in his stance is unmistakable. "We can't advance without support! The droids have anti-armour emplacements dug in!"

Zela ducks lower behind the log, grimacing as she surveys the treacherous terrain ahead. The marshland stretches out before them, a mire of sucking mud and deep pools of stagnant water, expertly churned into a deathtrap by the droid defenders. Crude barricades of fallen trees and sharpened stakes break up the landscape, forcing any advancing walkers into narrow, predictable lanes—lanes now locked in the deadly sights of Separatist cannons.

"Blilka!" Zela curses in her native Togruti, the word slipping from her lips in frustration. She watches grimly as another AT-TE lurches, its heavy legs struggling for purchase before sinking deeper into the muck, becoming an easy target. A sudden burst of cannon fire slams into its side, the explosion sending debris skyward. The walker belches smoke as its systems fail.

Zela turns sharply to Cyll, resolve hardening in her expression. "Order the company to find cover and dig in! Form a defensive line and hold position. We need to survive long enough for reinforcements to punch through."

Cyll nods sharply, rolling out from cover and sprinting through the undergrowth to relay the order. Clones scramble into defensive positions, diving behind fallen logs and shattered rocks, returning fire with disciplined volleys. The jungle is alive with flickering energy—red and blue bolts streak through the misty air, illuminating the haze with deadly light. The mechanical voices of B1 battle droids bark out commands, emotionless and cold, contrasting the raw determination in the clones' voices.

Zela's grip tightens on her lightsaber as she rises from cover, deflecting a blaster bolt aimed at a nearby clone. She draws the Force into herself, grounding her against the creeping dread of being pinned down. They would hold the line. They had to. The swamp might have slowed them, but it wouldn't stop them. Not today.

Zela taps her wrist communicator, her heart pounding in her chest as she waits for the channel to open. The sound of static crackles in her ear, almost drowning out the distant echoes of blaster fire and explosions. Finally, her master’s voice cuts through, calm yet commanding.

"Master, this is Zela! We are pinned down! Droid fire is heavy, and our tanks can't advance in this marshland. We need support!" 

A tense silence follows, broken only by the hum of distant machinery and the rustling of the dense jungle. Then, Master Runi Nima’s voice returns, steady and resolute. "Copy that, Padawan. Hold your current position. The rest of the battalion is advancing and will draw some of the fire away from your company. We must neutralise the planetary shield generator before air support can be deployed. Hold the line, Zela. Help is coming."

Zela exhales slowly, a tight knot of anxiety loosening slightly in her chest. She closes the comm channel and looks toward Captain Cyll, who has crouched beside her, his armour streaked with mud and scorch marks. His visor turns toward her, waiting.

"Master Nima's orders are clear. We hold this position until the battalion breaks through," Zela says, her voice firm despite the tension coiled in her muscles. "Get the men into defensive formations. We need to dig in and weather this storm."

Cyll gives a sharp nod. "Understood, Commander." He turns away, his voice rising over the din as he shouts commands. Clones move with practised efficiency, diving behind shattered trees and barricading themselves behind fallen logs and moss-covered rocks. Blaster fire cracks through the air, a relentless exchange as they fortify their lines.

Zela turns to Kia, who is crouched beside a tree, casually checking the power cells on her twin WESTAR-35 blasters. The Mandalorian glances up, the reflective T-visor along the muzzle of her helmet hiding any expression, but the cocky tilt of her head conveys enough.

"How are we holding up?" Zela calls over the din of battle, trying to sound more confident than she feels.

Kia's reply crackles through her helmet's vocoder, laced with dry humour. "Still breathing, so could be worse. You really know how to pick the best places, Jetii."

Zela's eyes narrow as she scans the tree line. Through the haze of smoke and the tangle of vines, she spots a squad of B2 super battle droids slogging through the marsh, their heavy arms raised and ready to unleash torrents of blaster fire.

"Remind me to file a complaint about this planet's hospitality," Zela mutters, igniting her emerald lightsaber with a sharp snap-hiss. The green blade bathes her face in its glow, casting stark shadows that dance with the flickering fires in the jungle.

Kia chuckles darkly. "Next time, I'll book us a beach vacation. Somewhere with less humidity and fewer homicidal droids."

Zela can't help the brief smirk that tugs at her lips, but the weight of the moment quickly crushes the levity. She inhales slowly, grounding herself as the sounds of battle press in. Blaster fire crackles, distant explosions rumble through the jungle, and the air vibrates with tension. Closing her eyes, she reaches out with the Force. The chaos softens at the edges as she senses the web of life surrounding her—the steady, unyielding determination of the clones holding the line, the cold, methodical advance of the droids, and the wary, skittish movements of the jungle predators slinking away from the conflict.

The gravity of their situation presses down on her chest like a weight, the uncertainty of their fate gnawing at her resolve. She breathes deeply, letting the Force surge through her veins—a familiar warmth that banishes the cold fingers of fear creeping up her spine. Her senses sharpen, the distant hum of energy weapons and the rustling of leaves growing clearer, each sound slotting into place as part of the battlefield's rhythm. They cannot afford to falter. The battalion's entire advance depends on this fragile foothold, and if they fail, the droids will crush their momentum.

Zela opens her eyes, steeling herself. She listens to the rustling leaves overhead, the distant, guttural calls of unseen creatures, the quiet murmurs of clones adjusting weapons and coordinating movements. And Kia—always steady, always ready—stands at her side, a silent anchor in the storm. Zela draws strength from this unspoken bond, from the unity forged in fire and fear. Each soldier here fights not for glory but for the lives beside them. That fierce, unbreakable loyalty fuels her determination, igniting a fire within that no droid army could extinguish.

"Get ready," Zela says, her eyes opening, the green glow of her lightsaber reflecting in her determined gaze. "We hold here, no matter what." She looks to Kia, her voice firm, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "You with me, Mandalorian?"

Kia lets out a low, rumbling chuckle, sharp white fangs flashing beneath the sleek edges of her Mandalorian helmet. Her lupine ears, partially visible through specialised slits in the deep blue and vibrant purple armour, swivel instinctively at the distant echo of blaster fire. The armour, painted in shifting shades of midnight blue and violet, clings to her lean, muscular form—designed for agile strikes and lethal precision. Battle scars mar the once-pristine plating, each scrape and dent a testament to the brutal fights she has endured. Her twin WESTAR-35 blaster pistols glint in the scattered light, the matte black finish blending seamlessly with the bold hues of her armour.

Her digitigrade legs, powerful and honed for agility, end in pawed feet with sharp, retractable claws, housed within custom-engineered boots that seamlessly accommodate her natural gait. The boots are designed with flexible soles for silent movement and superior traction, ensuring she remains agile even on the slick, marshy ground. Her shin armor is crafted with expert precision, contoured to fit the curve of her legs and adorned with subtle etchings of Mandalorian sigils, blending functionality with heritage. Her clawed gauntlets flex with a predatory elegance, each digit armoured yet nimble, gripping her twin blasters with practised ease. Down her back, a long, sinuous tail sways with calculated intent, its entirety encased in segmented armour plates that shimmer in hues of deep blue and violet. The armoured tail moves in perfect harmony with her body, offering balance and serving as both shield and weapon. Every step Kia takes is a symphony of Mandalorian craftsmanship and feral instinct, a living weapon poised to strike with lethal precision.

"Always, Jetii. Let’s show these clankers what a real fight looks like," Kia growls, her tail flicking behind her for balance as she rises into a ready stance.

The tension mounts as the droid forces push forward, their ranks moving in eerie unison, blasters firing relentlessly at the clone positions. Zela feels the ground beneath her tremble as a fresh barrage of cannon fire detonates in the marshy terrain. The explosions send shards of splintered wood and muddy water spraying into the air, painting the jungle in chaos. She reaches out instinctively, her senses expanding, feeling the subtle shift in the Force as the droids intensify their attack. She can sense the cold, calculated precision of their relentless advance.

Zela knows they must disrupt the droids' momentum to buy their battalion the precious time they need. She glances at Kia, who is already surveying the enemy formation, her wolf-like instincts on high alert. Kia’s helmet tilts slightly as she tracks movement, the sharp claws on her gauntleted fingers flexing around the grips of her pistols.

"We need to draw their attention, pull them away from the clones," Zela says, her voice steady and resolute, yet tinged with urgency.

Kia's low, rumbling chuckle vibrates through her helmet, sharp white fangs flashing beneath the midnight blue and violet Mandalorian visor. Her lupine ears flick back instinctively, catching the faintest shifts in the jungle's sounds beyond the blaster fire. Her armoured tail coils behind her, its segmented plates glinting dully in the scattered light, moving with a calculated, predatory grace.

"You lead, I’ll cover you. Just don’t get yourself fried, Jetii. I’ll have to drag you out by that fancy montral of yours—and trust me, it won’t be gentle," Kia growls, flashing a feral grin that Zela can almost feel despite the helmet.

Zela smirks despite the tension, drawing strength from Kia's unwavering confidence. The Mandalorian is a wall of ferocity and focus amid the chaos, her predator's poise and deadly precision a constant reminder that they could weather this storm together.

Zela rises from behind the fallen tree, her emerald lightsaber igniting with a sharp snap-hiss, becoming a radiant blur as she surges forward. Each step is calculated, the marshy ground squelching beneath her boots as she moves with unyielding purpose. Blaster bolts scream toward her in a deadly hail, but she is a beacon of calm in the storm, her saber flashing in precise arcs, each deflection a masterful dance between survival and aggression. The Force coils around her, guiding every twist and parry, heightening her awareness to the smallest shifts in the battlefield.

Kia moves in perfect synchrony beside her, a lethal shadow forged in steel and instinct. Her twin WESTAR-35 blaster pistols bark in staccato bursts, each yellow bolt surgically targeting advancing droids. Kia’s digitigrade legs, encased in custom-engineered blue and violet armour, propel her forward with fluid, feral grace. Her clawed gauntlets tighten around the grips of her blasters, steady and unrelenting. Her armoured tail, segmented and gleaming, snakes behind her in seamless balance, its movements as purposeful as the rest of her body. She ducks low, sliding behind shattered stumps, tail flicking for balance, before springing up to unleash another precise volley of blaster fire.

The droids, momentarily stunned by the ferocity of their assault, adjust their formation. Their mechanical voices crackle in eerie unison, emotionless and cold, as they redirect their firepower toward the Jedi and the Mandalorian. Zela can feel the tension in the air shift, the focus of the enemy settling squarely on them.

"Come on, clankers!" Kia snarls, baring sharp fangs beneath her helmet, her voice dripping with taunting bravado. She pivots smoothly, her pistols spitting deadly light as she fires with pinpoint accuracy. "You’ll need more than tin cans to stop us!"

Zela presses forward, bounding over twisted roots and fallen logs, her lightsaber a searing streak of green light. Each slash and parry is deliberate, cutting through the advancing droids with fluid grace. Sweat clings to her brow, but she does not falter—each movement is purposeful, each strike bolstered by the steady rhythm of the Force.

The jungle erupts into chaos—blaster fire rips through the canopy, mingling with the metallic screech of droids and the battle cries of clones. Explosions shake the ground, sending plumes of dirt and debris skyward. Through it all, Zela and Kia push onward, twin forces of nature cutting through the tide.

"Zela, heads up!" Kia barks, her sharp eyes catching a glint of metal through the smoke. Zela pivots instinctively, spotting a B2 battle droid levelling its arm cannon. In a blink, her saber rises, deflecting the charged bolt directly back into the droid’s chestplate. The machine jerks and collapses in a smoking heap.

Zela lands in a crouch, rolling to her feet in one fluid motion. Her eyes lock with Kia’s visor, the Mandalorian giving her a curt nod, her armoured tail flicking once in silent approval before turning back to engage another wave of droids.

"We hold here," Zela murmurs under her breath, the words grounding her amidst the chaos. Despite the creeping fatigue gnawing at her limbs, she steadies herself, the Force a steady, empowering current flowing through her veins.

And beside her, Kia is the embodiment of relentless fury—her armour dirtied by the fight, her pistols blazing as she moves with deadly intent. Together, they stand resolute, warriors bound by battle and the unyielding will to endure.

Together, Zela and Kia surge forward—into the heart of the storm—determined to hold their ground, no matter the cost. The jungle around them is a battlefield, but in this moment, they are the eye of the storm—focused, unwavering, and ready to face whatever comes next.

Zela charges into the squad of B2 Super Battle Droids advancing on the clone lines, her emerald-green lightsaber flashing in a blur of motion. Each movement is precise, fluid. The torrential rain hisses and sizzles as droplets make contact with the burning energy blade. The scent of scorched ozone mingles with the earthy musk of churned mud and crushed foliage. The first B2 droid pivots to face her, its blaster arm raising, but Zela's lightsaber cleaves through its waist before it can even fire. Sparks and hydraulic fluid spray into the air as the bisected droid collapses. She lets the momentum of the strike carry her, sliding through the mud, her legs and torso twisting as she spins to meet the next droid. She pivots, the tip of her blade slicing through the chest plate of another B2, its mechanical groan cut short as it crashes to the ground.

Kia moves swiftly behind her, her twin WESTAR-35 blaster pistols firing in rapid succession. The yellow bolts pierce through the storm, striking with deadly precision. Each shot is placed with lethal intent, targeting exposed joints and power cores. The hiss of discharging blasters merges with the roar of the rain, the jungle illuminated in brief flashes of yellow light. One of her EMP grenades sails through the air, tumbling end-over-end before landing between the droids. It detonates with a sharp crack, a pulse of electric-blue energy rippling outward. The droids within its radius seize up, their limbs jerking erratically before they collapse in lifeless heaps, the scent of scorched circuits rising into the air.

“Nice throw!” Zela shouts over the chaos, her voice rising above the overlapping blaster fire and the crackle of energy.

Kia flashes a grin beneath her helmet, the glow of distant explosions reflecting off the glossy blue and purple armour. Her armoured tail flicks behind her for balance as her pistols continue their relentless barrage. “I aim to please, Jetii!” she calls back, vaulting over the slumped form of a fallen B2. Her claws dig into the muddy ground, propelling her forward. She ducks under the swinging arm of a still-functioning droid, rolling fluidly through the muck before coming up, both blasters snapping to target. A squeeze of the triggers sends a twin barrage into the droid’s torso, dropping it instantly.

The two warriors advance in perfect synchrony—Zela’s lightsaber carving elegant arcs of deadly green light, while Kia’s blasters punctuate the rhythm with precise, lethal bursts. Rain streaks off their armour, blending with the mud and grime of the battlefield. The jungle quakes with distant explosions and the high-pitched whine of incoming artillery.

Zela senses a surge of incoming fire and shifts her stance, spinning her blade in tight, controlled arcs to deflect a concentrated barrage of bolts aimed at their position. Her arms move with practised precision, her grip unyielding as the green blade becomes a shield of light. The Force surges within her, sharpening her senses and quickening her reflexes. She anticipates every shot, every threat, reacting with seamless fluidity.

Kia, ever the predator, capitalises on the momentary distraction. She sprints forward, her digitigrade legs carrying her in swift, bounding strides. Her armoured tail balances her every move, slicing through the air behind her. She lunges into a gap in the droid line, both pistols barking as she moves, cutting down the machines before they can react. Her movements are brutal and efficient—a blur of blue and violet against the chaos of battle.

"On your left!" Kia snarls, catching sight of a B2 bringing its arm cannon to bear on Zela. Without hesitation, she pivots and unloads a blistering salvo into the droid, sparks bursting from its chassis as it stumbles backwards and collapses.

Zela offers a quick nod of thanks, not breaking stride. She channels the Force, leaping high into the air, somersaulting over a cluster of droids. Her blade descends in a sweeping arc, cleaving through metal as she lands amidst them. Sparks and fragments rain around her, the green glow of her lightsaber casting eerie shadows on the jungle floor.

The droid ranks begin to falter, their formation breaking under the relentless assault. The clones rally behind Zela and Kia, surging forward with renewed vigour. Blaster fire intensifies as the line of soldiers advances, their war cries mingling with the mechanical shrieks of dying droids.

Together, Jedi and Mandalorian carve a path through the chaos—unstoppable, unyielding—holding the line with every ounce of strength they possess.

But just as they seem to be gaining momentum, Zela’s montrals pick up something else—a low, resonant vibration, the heavy, rhythmic pounding of something approaching through the thick undergrowth. She falters for a brief moment, her head turning, eyes scanning the tree line. Her heart sinks as she catches sight of it.

“Kia! Incoming!” Zela shouts, her voice filled with urgency.

The ground quakes as a massive Crab Droid crashes through the dense jungle foliage, its heavy, armoured shell slick with rain and mud. Its four spindly, yet powerful mechanical legs slam into the swampy ground, each step sending tremors through the earth and leaving deep, cratered footprints in the muck. The droid's bulky brown armour plates glisten under the stormy sky, resembling a walking fortress. Multiple glowing photoreceptors snap and focus in rapid succession, locking onto the two figures. A deep, mechanical hiss escapes the droid as its heavy blaster cannon begins to glow, charging ominously.

“Well, that’s a problem,” Kia mutters, her voice a mix of irritation and eager anticipation. She shifts her weight, adjusting her grip on her blasters, her armoured tail flicking with tension. Her digitigrade legs tense, claws flexing inside her specialised boots as she begins circling to the left, sharp eyes locked on the lumbering war machine.

Zela swallows hard, tightening her grip on her lightsaber. The vibrant green glow reflects off the rain-slicked mud, casting an eerie light on her focused face. She centres herself, steadying her breath and letting the Force guide her instincts, pushing the chaos of battle to the edges of her mind.

The Crab Droid emits a mechanical screech, and its blaster cannons erupt in a hail of red plasma. Zela reacts in an instant, launching herself sideways with the Force, flipping over twisted roots as bolts of energy scorch the ground where she stood. Clumps of mud and shattered wood explode upward, pelting her as she manoeuvres swiftly, her heart pounding in her chest.

Kia charges forward without hesitation, a feral grin hidden beneath her helmet. She darts between fallen trees and debris, her twin WESTAR-35 blaster pistols barking yellow bolts of concentrated energy. She takes aim at the Crab Droid’s photoreceptors, striking one dead-on. The sensor flares and sputters, and the massive droid momentarily staggers, its targeting thrown off. Kia uses the opening, ducking beneath one of the droid’s towering legs and unloading blaster fire into the vulnerable joints. Sparks burst from the impact points, and the droid lets out a mechanical groan.

“Over here, you oversized bucket of bolts!” Kia snarls, her voice sharp and taunting. She rolls to the side as a blaster bolt narrowly misses her, slamming into the ground with a hiss of vaporised mud. Coming up on one knee, she fires off another precision volley.

Zela seizes the opportunity. Channeling the Force, she sprints toward the droid, her lightsaber a streak of emerald light. The Crab Droid's blaster swings to track her, but Zela thrusts out her hand, sending a powerful wave of the Force that jerks the cannon's aim just wide. Blaster fire rips into the jungle canopy, tearing apart thick branches in a spray of splinters.

Drawing deeply on the Force, Zela leaps high into the air, flipping gracefully over the Crab Droid. Her saber arcs downward in a precise, devastating strike, slicing clean through one of the mechanical legs. Sparks and hydraulic fluid spray as the severed limb crumples, causing the droid to stagger and shift awkwardly.

Kia is already moving, sliding low through the mud and skidding beneath the droid’s massive frame. With deft fingers, she yanks a thermal detonator from her belt and slaps it onto the droid’s exposed underbelly. She kicks off with powerful legs, rolling to safety as she calls out, “Fire in the hole!”

The detonator explodes with a deafening boom, muffled slightly by the droid’s thick armour. Flames and shrapnel tear through its core, and the Crab Droid lets out a distorted mechanical screech. Its legs tremble, then collapse entirely, the colossal machine crashing sideways into the mud with a thunderous impact. Smoke and steam billow from its ruined form, photoreceptors flickering once before going dark.

Zela lands in a crouch, panting heavily, her lightsaber humming in the rain-soaked air. She watches the destroyed droid for a moment, chest rising and falling with exertion. Slowly, she rises, the saber still lit, casting its glow against the smouldering wreckage.

From the swirling smoke, Kia emerges, her armoured figure striding confidently, splattered in mud and ash. She holsters one of her pistols, giving Zela a cocky tilt of her helmet.

“Well,” Kia drawls, flicking mud off her tail, “if they send another one, we’re charging them for overtime.”

Zela lets out a shaky breath, a small, relieved chuckle escaping her. She deactivates her saber, the glow vanishing into the mist.

“Let’s hope they’re too broke for that,” Zela murmurs, her voice lighter despite the fatigue.

Kia gives her a firm, encouraging nudge with her shoulder, her metal armour clanking softly against Zela’s robes. “Come on, Jetii. Reinforcements or not, we’ve got a war to win.”

Zela nods, her eyes hardening with renewed determination. She reaches out with the Force, sensing the ongoing battle around them, feeling the weight of every life fighting for survival.

“We hold the line,” she whispers, her grip on her saber tightening. “No matter what.”

Kia’s ears twitch beneath her helmet. “Always.”

And together, shoulder to shoulder, they turn back toward the raging battlefield, ready to face whatever nightmares the jungle has left to throw at them.

They fight like that for the next few hours, Zela's lightsaber a constant blur of emerald light, carving through droids with unwavering precision. Kia's twin WESTAR-35 pistols blaze in synchrony, each yellow bolt fired with deadly intent, cutting through the mechanical horde. Wave after wave of Separatist droids descend upon them, relentless in their assault. The jungle itself becomes a twisted battlefield—trees reduced to splinters, roots scorched and tangled, and the air thick with acrid smoke and the scent of scorched metal.

Sweat mingles with the rain on Zela’s face, streaking down her mud-splattered skin. Her montrals ring from the relentless cacophony of blaster fire and explosions. The ground beneath them churns into a mire of mud and blood, thick and unforgiving, swallowing the fallen. Cries of the wounded pierce through the haze of war, blending with the mechanical screeches of damaged droids. Despite the fatigue dragging at her limbs, Zela pushes forward, channelling the Force to steady her breath and renew her strength. Every fleeting glimpse of Kia—fierce, agile, unwavering—bolsters her resolve.

Kia moves with predatory grace, her digitigrade legs and armoured tail giving her an otherworldly silhouette amidst the carnage. Her armour, streaked in blue and purple, is scratched and scarred, a testament to the hours of brutal combat. Her movements are fluid, almost feral—sliding through mud, vaulting over debris, and weaving between enemy fire with instinctive agility. Blaster bolts arc from her pistols, each shot expertly aimed, striking droid joints and optics with lethal precision. Her armoured tail flicks and shifts, aiding her balance, while the segmented plates clink with each movement.

The battle feels endless, an unrelenting tide of metal and fire, until at last—the distant rumble of AT-TE walkers and the roar of Republic gunships signal the arrival of reinforcements. The ground trembles under the heavy, steady advance of the walkers, their mass-driver cannons roaring to life, blasting apart entrenched droid positions. Gunships scream overhead, their side doors open as clone troopers rappel into the thick of the fight. The relentless weight on Zela and Kia’s position finally begins to ease, the droid forces faltering under the combined might of the Republic's reinforcements.

Slowly, the storm of battle subsides. Blaster fire dwindles to sporadic shots, then silence. The droid stronghold falls, leaving behind only smouldering wreckage and the groans of the wounded. The jungle—once vibrant—now stands scarred and broken.

Zela trudges forward into the secured area, her shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion. Her lightsaber dangles loosely in her grip, its emerald glow casting faint reflections in the muddy ground. She supports a wounded clone trooper, his scorched armour marred by blaster fire. His weight leans heavily against her, but Zela doesn't falter. Kia moves beside her, one arm supporting another injured soldier whose leg hangs limp, twisted unnaturally. The Mandalorian’s usual bravado is muted, replaced by a quiet, steadfast focus as they carry the wounded to the waiting medics.

Zela watches silently as the injured are loaded onto stretchers, the clone medics working swiftly under the flickering glow of portable lights. The adrenaline that had fueled her begins to ebb, leaving a cold, heavy emptiness in its wake. She draws in a slow breath, wiping the mud from her brow as her wrist communicator crackles to life.

Her master’s voice filters through, distant but steady. “Padawan, well done. Medical transports are en route for the critically wounded. I’m ordering you to return with them to the Jedi Temple for recovery and further training. The Healers in the Halls of Healing are accelerating your assessments.” Master Runi’s tone is calm, but fatigue laces her words—even she is not immune to the war’s toll.

Zela lowers her head slightly, the weight of the command settling over her. “Yes, Master. And what of the campaign here?” she asks, her voice quieter now.

“We’ll hold the line until reinforcements stabilise the sector,” Runi replies. “It's unlikely you'll rejoin us until we've finished our operations here and are ready for the next battle. May the Force be with you.”

“And with you, Master,” Zela murmurs. She closes the channel and slowly lifts her gaze. Around her, clones work diligently, securing the perimeter, aiding the wounded, and gathering what little salvageable supplies remain. Smoke still curls from the wreckage of fallen droids, rising into the darkening sky. The battlefield is quiet now, but its scars run deep.

Kia steps up beside her, silent for a long moment. Then, with a quiet snort, she mutters, “Well, Jetii, guess that means you’re leaving me to clean up this mess.”

Zela offers a faint, tired smile. “Only for a little while. Don’t get too comfortable without me.”

Kia’s helmet tilts slightly, her tail flicking behind her. “No promises.”

And as the medical transports arrive, Zela watches the fading light of the sun dipping below the scarred jungle horizon, knowing that her path leads away from this battlefield—but not from the war. Not yet.

The battle-weary air around the secured outpost was thick with the scent of scorched metal and damp earth. The sky above, darkened by plumes of smoke, seemed heavier as the remnants of conflict clung to the air. The steady hum of Republic transports echoed in the background as clone medics moved methodically, tending to the wounded and retrieving the fallen.

Zela stood a few paces away from the landing zone, the faint hum of her deactivated lightsaber still lingering in her ears. She watched as the medics loaded injured clones onto stretchers, the subtle flicker of portable lamps casting long, wavering shadows across the mud-streaked ground. Her grip tightened around her lightsaber hilt, the weight of the day pressing down on her slender frame. The fatigue was bone-deep, yet her senses remained sharp, her montrals picking up every distant rumble of machinery and muffled voices.

“So, this is where we part ways, then?” Kia’s voice cut through the haze of Zela’s thoughts. It was lighter than the atmosphere warranted, but not without a hint of something softer beneath the usual bravado.

Turning, Zela found Kia leaning casually against a supply crate, her helmet tucked beneath one arm. The Mandalorian’s blue and purple armour bore fresh scorches and scratches, souvenirs of the brutal fight they'd endured. Her segmented armoured tail swayed slightly, the motion absent-minded yet rhythmic, reflecting an ease that Zela both envied and admired.

Zela closed the gap between them, drawing a small datapad from her utility belt—her personal comm code displayed on the screen. She extended it toward Kia, meeting her amber gaze without hesitation.

“The engineers should have your ship patched up by now,” Zela said, voice softer than usual. “But… stay in touch, yeah?” The vulnerability in her words felt strange on her tongue, but it was honest.

Kia accepted the datapad, her gloved fingers brushing briefly against Zela’s. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. “I will, Jetii. You’re not as stiff as I thought.” Her tone was teasing, but there was a genuine warmth behind it.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The din of the base faded slightly, the world narrowing to just the two of them. It wasn’t dramatic, but it felt…significant.

Kia straightened, slipping the datapad into a pouch at her side. “Well, I’d say it’s been fun, but I’d be lying. Let’s just call it memorable.”

Zela chuckled, shaking her head. “I’ll take memorable.”

Kia turned, starting toward the waiting gunship, her cape catching in the breeze. She paused briefly, glancing back over her shoulder. “Don’t get yourself killed, Zela. I won’t be around to drag you out next time.”

“No promises,” Zela called after her, her tired smile lingering.

As Kia disappeared into the transport, Zela stood in the fading light, the weight of war pressing in again. But for the first time in a long while, the burden felt lighter—not gone, but shared.

“May the Force be with you, Kia,” she murmured, the words barely more than a breath.

And then, with a slow inhale, Zela turned back toward the bustling outpost. There was still work to be done, and the war was far from over.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XIII

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Dia lies quietly on one of the medical beds in the ship's medbay, the low hum of the engines a steady rhythm that underscores the muted activity around her. The sterile scent of bacta, metal, and disinfectant fills the air, mingling faintly with the faint ozone tang left by the ship’s systems. The medbay is dimly lit, the glow of status monitors casting soft, shifting lights over the walls. Dia’s armor has been removed, her underlayer torn and replaced in parts with bandages and patches of bacta gel. Her injuries, the most severe from her crash landing, throb dully under the numbing agent, but the worst of the pain has ebbed for now.

She shifts slightly, the stiff mattress pressing into her back as she adjusts her position, mindful of the soreness across her ribs and the sharp sting in her left arm. Her breaths are slow and deliberate as she closes her eyes, reaching out to the Force to ground herself. It’s a habit as instinctive as breathing, and the familiar warmth of the Force wraps around her, easing the tension in her muscles. She lets herself sink into the connection, trying to push away the memories of battle—the chaos, the noise, the weight of the crash. But despite her efforts, something stirs at the edges of her thoughts, a restlessness she cannot quiet.

And then, just as she begins to drift deeper into the Force, she feels it—like a ripple across still water. A presence. Warm, steady, and unmistakable.

Zela.

Dia’s eyes snap open, her heart skipping a beat as Zela’s familiar Force signature brushes against hers. It starts faint, almost hesitant, but it grows stronger with every passing moment, weaving around her own presence like an embrace. The warmth of it floods Dia’s senses, carrying with it a surge of emotions—relief, worry, and an overwhelming sense of connection. It’s a feeling so familiar, so achingly comforting, that Dia’s breath catches in her throat.

Her own Force presence responds instinctively, reaching out to Zela’s like a tether snapping back into place. It’s not just a connection—it’s a reunion. A silent conversation shared across the stars, wordless but rich with meaning. In that moment, the distance between them feels meaningless. Dia can feel Zela’s emotions as clearly as her own: the fierce determination, the undercurrent of worry, and the flood of relief at finding Dia’s presence alive and whole.

Dia’s fingers curl against the edge of the medical bed, her chest tightening as the connection deepens. The noise of the medbay fades to a dull murmur, drowned out by the intensity of what she feels. “Zela,” she whispers softly, her voice trembling with equal parts joy and longing. The name carries everything she’s wanted to say since they were separated: I missed you. I’m still here. Don’t let go.

The ship’s gentle vibration shifts slightly as it changes course, the subtle movement barely registering as Dia closes her eyes again, this time not to meditate but to focus on the bond. Through the connection, she senses Zela’s worry—the concern that radiates like a protective shield. Dia smiles faintly, despite the exhaustion weighing her down. She knows Zela too well to miss the strength behind that worry, the quiet determination that has always been a part of her.

But the smile fades as another thought surfaces, unbidden and sharp: What will Zela see when she finds me? Will she see the cracks I’ve tried to hide? The weight of the battles, the mistakes, the near-death experiences that have left their marks on me? Dia’s breath catches, her chest tightening. She’s always tried to be strong, to be steady, but Zela has a way of seeing through the barriers she puts up.

Taking a shaky breath, Dia forces herself to push those doubts aside. Zela’s presence is a lifeline, a reminder of the bond they share, and Dia knows she can’t let her fears overshadow this moment. She lets the Force flow through her, steadying her thoughts, grounding her in the connection that bridges the stars. Whatever happens, whatever Zela sees, Dia knows they will face it together.

The medbay hums with quiet activity as medics move between patients, their voices low and measured. But Dia remains still, her focus inward, her senses locked onto the warmth of Zela’s Force signature. It’s like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, a beacon of hope and strength that cuts through the haze of her exhaustion. Dia exhales slowly, her fingers loosening their grip on the bedframe.

The door to the medbay hisses open, and Dia doesn’t need to look up to know it’s Zela. She feels her presence through the Force—strong, familiar, and filled with emotions so intense they make Dia’s heart ache. Zela’s Force signature crashes into hers like a tidal wave, carrying with it a mix of relief, worry, and frustration. Dia turns her head slowly, her body heavy from exhaustion, and her eyes lock onto Zela’s as the Togruta strides toward her bed with purposeful urgency.

“Dia,” Zela breathes, her voice barely above a whisper but laden with so much emotion that it makes Dia’s chest tighten. Zela reaches the bedside, her emerald eyes scanning Dia’s injured form. The bacta patches covering Dia’s bruised and battered body seem to ignite something deep within Zela—a sharp pang of fear and anger that she struggles to suppress. Her lekku twitch slightly, betraying the storm of emotions roiling beneath her calm exterior. “What in the name of the spirits happened to you?”

Dia manages a faint smile, the corners of her lips curving upward despite the pain radiating through her body. She tries to ease the tension in Zela’s expression with her usual humor. “It was just a tactical landing,” she says softly, her voice laced with a teasing lilt. She lifts her hand slightly, her fingers brushing against Zela’s. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Zela’s lips press into a thin line, her gaze narrowing as she takes in the full extent of Dia’s injuries. “A tactical landing?” she repeats, her tone incredulous, a sharp edge of exasperation creeping into her voice. “Dia, you look like you crashed headfirst into a kriffing asteroid field. Don’t downplay this.” She reaches out, her hand trembling ever so slightly as her fingers brush against Dia’s cheek. Her touch is featherlight, as if she’s afraid that even the slightest pressure might hurt her.

Dia leans into Zela’s touch, her eyes closing for a brief moment as she savors the warmth of her hand. “I’m fine, really,” she murmurs, her voice soft and soothing. When she opens her eyes again, they’re filled with quiet reassurance. “I’ve survived worse, Zela. You know that.”

Zela’s frown deepens, her thumb gently tracing along Dia’s jawline. She’s trying to stay calm, to keep her emotions in check, but the sight of Dia lying there, so vulnerable, tears at her composure. She sees past the faint smile and teasing words, sees the exhaustion etched into Dia’s features, the faint wince she tries to hide with every movement. It makes her heart ache in a way she can’t put into words. “That doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to worry,” Zela says, her voice cracking slightly. The fear she’s carried since they were separated—the fear of losing Dia—threatens to spill over, and she swallows hard, trying to push it down. “You scared me.”

Dia’s eyes soften, and she reaches up, her fingers wrapping around Zela’s wrist in a gentle but firm grip. “I know. I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice thick with guilt. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.” Her gaze drops for a moment, the weight of Zela’s worry pressing heavily on her. She knows how much Zela cares, how deeply she feels things, and the thought of being the cause of her pain twists something deep in Dia’s chest.

Zela shakes her head, her lekku twitching again as she takes a deep breath. “Just promise me you’ll be more careful,” she says, her voice barely audible but carrying an unmistakable plea. “I can’t… I can’t lose you, Dia.” Her voice trembles, the vulnerability in her words laid bare. She hates how raw she feels, how her emotions seem to spill out despite her efforts to hold them back. But she can’t help it—not when it comes to Dia.

Dia’s chest tightens at the emotion in Zela’s voice, and she gives her a small, reassuring smile, her fingers tightening slightly around Zela’s wrist. “I promise,” she says softly, her voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside her. “I’ll always find my way back to you.”

Zela closes her eyes for a moment, letting out a shaky breath as she leans down, resting her forehead against Dia’s. The gesture is tender, intimate, a silent expression of everything she can’t put into words. They stay like that for a long moment, the world around them fading away as they take comfort in each other’s presence. The warmth of Zela’s Force signature wraps around Dia like a protective shield, and for the first time since the crash, Dia feels truly safe.

“Just rest now,” Zela whispers, her voice gentle but firm. “I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.” Her fingers brush against the top of Dia’s lekku, her touch lingering as if she’s afraid to let go. She wants to shield Dia from everything that could hurt her, to take on her pain and fears, but all she can do now is stay by her side.

Dia nods slightly, her eyes fluttering closed as exhaustion finally catches up with her. She lets herself relax, her body sinking into the bed as she lets the Force flow between her and Zela, their connection steady and unwavering. And as she drifts off to sleep, she knows she’s safe—because Zela is here, and Zela will always be here.

Zela watches Dia for a long moment, her heart aching with both love and fear. She takes a deep breath, settling herself beside Dia’s bed, her hand resting lightly over Dia’s, their fingers intertwined. She can feel the gentle rise and fall of Dia’s breathing, the warmth of her presence, and it eases some of the tension she’s been carrying.

“Sleep well, Dia,” Zela murmurs, her voice barely audible as she closes her eyes, letting herself draw strength from their connection. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.” And in that moment, surrounded by the quiet hum of the medical transport, Zela feels a sense of peace settle over her—a peace that comes from knowing that, no matter what happens, they will always find their way back to each other.

The next day, Dia sits up in the medical bed, her back propped against a stack of pillows, her legs stretched out in front of her. The medics had insisted she rest, but the steady monotony of the hours passing had grown almost unbearable. The stark white walls of the medbay seemed to close in on her, the faint hum of machinery doing little to distract her from the ache in her body or the weight of her thoughts. She lifts her head as the door to her room hisses open, a faint glimmer of hope sparking in her chest. The moment she sees Zela step inside, a smile spreads across her face, her entire posture relaxing. Zela’s presence feels like a breath of fresh air in the sterile, clinical space.

“I thought you might want some company,” Zela says, her voice soft but warm, carrying the kind of comfort that only she could provide. Her emerald-green eyes shimmer with unspoken emotion as she steps into the room, carrying a small container in her hands. Her lekku sway slightly with her movements, and the subtle grace in her stride speaks of both her strength and her gentleness.

Dia’s gaze shifts to the container, her curiosity piqued. “What’s that?” she asks, her smile widening as she raises an eyebrow.

“I convinced the cook to give me something other than ration paste,” Zela replies, setting the container down on the small table beside Dia’s bed. She pops the lid open, revealing an assortment of small, colorful fruits. Their sweet, tangy scent fills the room, momentarily cutting through the sterile medbay smell. “Figured you could use something that doesn’t taste like it was scraped from the bottom of a tank.”

Dia lets out a soft laugh, the sound light and genuine, a stark contrast to the tension she’d carried since her crash landing. Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she reaches for one of the fruits. “You’re a lifesaver,” she says, biting into the fruit. The sweet juice bursts across her tongue, and she lets out a small sigh of satisfaction. “Spirits, that’s good.”

Zela grins, pulling up a small chair to sit beside the bed. “I’m glad you like it,” she says, her voice tinged with amusement. Her gaze, however, lingers on Dia, her smile fading slightly as her eyes drift to the bandages wrapped around Dia’s arms and the faint bruises still visible on her face. Her brow furrows, worry etching lines into her expression. “How are you feeling?”

Dia pauses, considering the question as she swallows the bite of fruit. “I’m okay,” she says softly. Her hand moves instinctively to brush against Zela’s, her fingers grazing over the Togruta’s. “Better now that you’re here.”

Zela’s eyes soften, her fingers curling around Dia’s in a gentle but firm grasp. “I wish I could’ve been there sooner,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible. The words hang heavy in the air, laden with the weight of unspoken guilt. “When I felt you through the Force, when I knew you were hurt…” She trails off, her gaze dropping to their intertwined hands, as if she’s afraid to finish the thought.

Dia’s chest tightens at the vulnerability in Zela’s voice, and she squeezes her hand gently, her thumb brushing over Zela’s knuckles in a soothing gesture. “You’re here now. That’s enough for me,” she whispers, her voice steady but tender, her eyes searching Zela’s face.

Zela meets her gaze, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She nods slowly, her other hand moving to rest lightly on the edge of the bed. “I just… I can’t help worrying about you,” she admits, her voice cracking slightly. The thought of losing Dia, of not being there when she needed her most, has haunted Zela ever since their paths first diverged. “Every time we’re apart, I wonder if… if I’ll get to see you again.”

Dia’s heart aches at the raw honesty in Zela’s words, and she leans forward, her forehead gently pressing against Zela’s. Their lekku touch, the sensation a deeply intimate gesture that speaks volumes about the bond they share. “I know,” she whispers, her voice soft and soothing. “But I’m not going anywhere. Not as long as I have you to come back to.”

They stay like that for a long moment, the hum of the medbay fading into the background as the warmth of their connection through the Force wraps around them both. Dia closes her eyes, letting herself bask in the comfort of Zela’s presence, the strength and love radiating from her. For the first time in what feels like days, she feels truly at peace.

Zela pulls back slightly, her hands still resting on Dia’s, her gaze steady but filled with a quiet intensity. “Just promise me you’ll be more careful,” she says, her voice firm but tinged with a vulnerability she rarely shows. “I can’t… I can’t lose you.”

Dia smiles softly, her fingers tightening around Zela’s. “I promise,” she says, her voice carrying the weight of that promise. “I’ll always find my way back to you.”

Zela takes a deep, steadying breath, her lekku twitching slightly as she nods. She brushes her fingers lightly over Dia’s cheek, the touch lingering before she lets her hand fall away. “Good. Because I’m holding you to that,” she says, a small, almost teasing smile breaking through her worry.

Dia chuckles softly, the sound light and genuine. “I wouldn’t dream of breaking a promise to you,” she replies, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of affection and determination.

Zela settles back in the chair, her hand still resting lightly on Dia’s, their fingers intertwined. The quiet moment stretches between them, the chaos of the galaxy outside forgotten as they find solace in each other’s presence. For now, at least, they are together, and that is enough.

“Want to play a game of holochess?” Zela asks, her voice lighter, a smile tugging at her lips, though the ever-present weight of war still lingers faintly in her eyes.

Dia raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk forming as she shifts slightly in her bed. Her injuries, though aching, momentarily fade from her focus. “Are you challenging me? Because you do know I’m going to win, right?” she teases, her tone carrying a familiar warmth.

Zela lets out a soft laugh, the sound cutting through the sterile quiet of the medbay. She shakes her head, her lekku swaying gently. “We’ll see about that,” she says, crossing the room with easy grace to retrieve the small holochess set from a nearby shelf. Returning to Dia’s bedside, she sets it up on the small tray resting over Dia’s legs. Her eyes glint with mischief as she meets Dia’s gaze. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when I win.”

Dia chuckles, her heart feeling lighter than it has in days. “Bring it on,” she says, her tone dripping with mock confidence, though her affection for Zela shines clearly in her eyes.

As the game begins, the tension and fear of the past few weeks seem to dissolve, replaced by the warmth of their bond and the comfort of being together. Zela moves her first piece, her brow furrowing slightly in concentration as she studies the board. Dia watches her, her hand hovering over one of her own pieces, her thoughts momentarily drifting. The intensity of their recent battles, the chaos and danger they’ve faced, feels distant now—replaced by this quiet, intimate moment.

“Are you going to make your move, or are you just going to stare at me all day?” Zela teases, her voice breaking through Dia’s thoughts, her lekku twitching with amusement.

Dia blinks, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “Maybe I was just trying to distract you,” she counters, her smirk widening as she finally moves her piece across the board. Leaning back against the pillows, she adds, “Did it work?”

Zela tilts her head, a sly grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Not a chance,” she retorts, deftly moving her next piece. Her fingers are precise, the small claws at the tips tapping softly against the controls. “You forget, I know all your tricks by now.”

Dia’s grin deepens, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Maybe I’ll surprise you this time,” she says, leaning forward slightly, her voice filled with warmth and just the right amount of playful defiance.

The game progresses, their banter weaving effortlessly into the rhythm of their moves. Zela’s focus is razor-sharp, her fingers dancing over the controls as she carefully maneuvers her pieces. Her concentration is matched by the occasional mischievous glance she throws at Dia, as if daring her to keep up. Dia, for her part, matches Zela’s energy, though her own moves are tinged with calculated risk. Her smirk falters only slightly each time Zela claims one of her pieces, though she laughs it off with a shake of her head.

“You’re getting better at this,” Dia concedes, though her tone carries a hint of playful exaggeration. “Or maybe I’m just going easy on you.”

Zela arches a brow, her grin widening. “Oh, is that what you’re telling yourself?” she quips, her voice light but triumphant as she deftly traps one of Dia’s key pieces. “Because it looks like I’m about to win.”

Dia shakes her head, laughing softly. “You’re lucky I’m injured,” she teases, though her heart feels lighter with each passing moment. The sound of their laughter fills the room, a balm against the sterile stillness of the medbay and the lingering weight of the war beyond.

When Zela finally moves her last piece, a triumphant grin spreads across her face. “Checkmate,” she announces, her voice filled with satisfaction.

Dia lets out an exaggerated groan, though she can’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “I guess you’ve got me,” she says, her tone light and affectionate. “You win this time.”

Zela leans back in her chair, her grin softening into a gentle smile as her eyes meet Dia’s. “It’s not about winning,” she says softly, her voice tinged with sincerity. “It’s about being here. With you.”

Dia’s playful demeanor fades slightly, replaced by a warmth that spreads through her chest. She nods, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah,” she murmurs, her eyes glistening. “That’s all that matters.”

Reaching across the bed, Zela’s hand finds Dia’s, their fingers intertwining. The holochess game is forgotten between them, the only thing that matters now is the connection they share. In this moment, the galaxy beyond the medbay fades away, leaving only the two of them, the strength of their bond holding steady against the chaos of the world outside.

They sit like that for a while, the soft hum of the ship’s engines a distant backdrop, their hands clasped, their hearts full. And as the stars streak past the medbay’s small window, the quiet promise of more moments like this lingers between them, unspoken but deeply felt.

That evening, Dia is finally cleared to leave the medical bay, though under strict orders to rest. Zela is by her side, her arm wrapped securely around Dia’s waist, her other hand gently steadying her as they make their way to the shared quarters assigned to them. Each step is careful and deliberate, the slow pace comforting them both in its own way. For Dia, it’s a reminder that she doesn’t have to rush, that she can lean on Zela for support. For Zela, it’s the assurance that she can protect Dia in this small way, ensuring her safety with each measured stride. Zela’s gaze flickers to Dia frequently, her emerald eyes filled with quiet concern, her expression soft yet intent.

When they reach the door, Zela presses the panel to open it, using her shoulder to nudge it wider. She guides Dia inside with gentle precision, her movements deliberate as she helps her friend navigate the small space. The room is modest, barely more than a small barracks setup—a pair of bunks stacked one on top of the other, a couple of lockers, and a single shared desk. Despite its simplicity, the space feels like a sanctuary, a quiet retreat from the chaos and destruction they’ve endured.

Dia sinks onto the lower bunk with a sigh of relief, her body relaxing into the mattress as the tension she’s been carrying begins to ebb. Zela hovers for a moment, her sharp gaze taking in every detail of Dia’s posture, every wince that crosses her face. “Easy, Dia,” she says softly, her voice a soothing counterpoint to the quiet hum of the ship. “You need to take it slow. No sudden heroics.” Her tone is light, but there’s an underlying firmness, a quiet determination that brooks no argument.

Dia chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Don’t worry, I’m in no rush to end up back in the medbay.” She leans back, letting herself fully relax for the first time in what feels like days. “Besides,” she adds with a teasing glint in her violet eyes, “you’d probably drag me back there yourself if I tried anything.”

Zela raises an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a small smile. “Oh, there’s no ‘probably’ about it,” she retorts, her tone playful. She begins to climb onto the top bunk, her lekku swaying slightly with the motion, but she pauses mid-step when she feels a gentle tug on her wrist. She looks down, surprised to see Dia’s hand wrapped around her arm.

“Zela,” Dia says, her voice quieter now, softer. She looks up, her eyes shimmering with a vulnerability she rarely shows. “It’s been too long since we’ve… just been. Like this. Together.”

For a moment, Zela is still, her breath catching as she meets Dia’s gaze. The sincerity in Dia’s words, the raw emotion in her eyes, makes Zela’s chest tighten. Without a word, she nods, her expression softening as she steps down from the ladder and settles onto the lower bunk beside Dia. The space is small, barely enough for the two of them, but neither seems to mind. Zela leans back, her presence a steadying force beside Dia, and the tension in her shoulders begins to ease.

As they adjust, Zela’s arm naturally hooks around Dia’s shoulders, drawing her close. Dia leans into her without hesitation, her head resting against Zela’s shoulder, her lekku curling slightly around Zela’s arm in a gesture of comfort and trust. Zela’s free hand comes to rest lightly on Dia’s, their fingers intertwining in a quiet, unspoken reassurance.

“This feels… right,” Dia murmurs, her voice barely audible. Her eyes close as she lets out a contented sigh, her body relaxing further against Zela’s warmth. “I missed this.”

Zela’s heart aches at the words, a pang of guilt threading through her for the time they’ve spent apart, for the battles that have kept them on separate paths. She lifts her free hand, her fingers brushing lightly against Dia’s cheek. “I missed it too,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. She rests her head gently against Dia’s, her eyes closing as she allows herself to fully feel the moment, to let go of the worry and fear that have haunted her.

The hum of the ship fades into the background, the steady rhythm of Dia’s breathing grounding Zela in a way nothing else can. For the first time in what feels like forever, the chaos of the galaxy seems distant, the weight of their responsibilities lifted, if only for a while. Here, in this quiet, shared space, there is only them—a bond unbroken by war, strengthened by every challenge they’ve faced together.

For a long while, they stay like that, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the weight of the day slowly melting away. The room is quiet, the only sound the soft breathing of the two Padawans. The shared quarters assigned to them aboard the ship feel almost too small, but in this moment, the closeness is comforting. The muted hum of the ship’s engines vibrates faintly through the walls, a constant backdrop to the peace they’ve found in each other’s presence. Zela can feel Dia’s heartbeat, steady and strong, beneath her palm, and she finds herself matching her own breathing to its rhythm, letting it ground her. It’s a rhythm that speaks of life, of resilience, and it helps to push away the lingering fear of what they had faced.

Dia shifts slightly, her hand resting against Zela’s chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of her tunic. Her voice, when she speaks, is soft, almost fragile. “Promise me,” she murmurs, her words barely more than a breath, “that we’ll always be like this. That no matter what happens, we’ll always find our way back to each other.”

Zela’s breath catches at the vulnerability in Dia’s words. Her emerald eyes soften, glistening in the dim light as she tilts her head to meet Dia’s gaze. For a moment, she’s struck by how small Dia seems—so different from the confident, fiery presence she’s used to on the battlefield. The raw honesty in her expression tugs at Zela’s heart, and she feels the weight of the unspoken fears that linger between them. Swallowing the tightness in her throat, Zela leans down slightly, her lekku brushing softly against Dia’s.

“I promise,” Zela whispers, her voice filled with a quiet, unshakable sincerity. “No matter what happens, Dia, I’ll always find my way back to you.” Her words carry more than a simple vow; they carry the depth of her feelings, the trust and bond that has grown between them through shared battles and quiet moments like this. The intensity of her tone is enough to settle the nervous flutter in Dia’s chest.

A faint smile spreads across Dia’s lips, her violet eyes closing as her body relaxes further into Zela’s embrace. “Good,” she murmurs, her voice soft and drowsy, as if those few words have eased a burden she’d been carrying for far too long. “That’s all I need to know.”

Zela watches her for a moment longer, her gaze tracing the soft curve of Dia’s face, the way her lekku rest gently against her shoulders, and the peaceful expression that’s finally begun to settle over her features. It’s a look Zela hasn’t seen in too long, and it fills her with a quiet sense of relief. Leaning down, she presses a featherlight kiss to Dia’s forehead, her lips lingering for a moment against her warm skin. “Rest now,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, yet carrying the weight of all the care and affection she holds for Dia. “I’ve got you.”

Dia lets out a soft hum of acknowledgment, her breathing evening out as exhaustion finally takes hold. The steady rise and fall of her chest against Zela’s side brings a soothing rhythm to the room, and Zela finds herself relaxing as well. She shifts slightly, adjusting their position so Dia can rest more comfortably, her arm remaining securely around her friend’s waist. The connection between them—both physical and through the Force—is a lifeline, grounding them amidst the chaos of their galaxy-spanning war.

As Dia drifts off into sleep, her presence in the Force grows softer but remains steady, a quiet reassurance that she’s at peace. Zela, however, stays awake a while longer, her thoughts drifting over everything they’ve endured. She thinks about the battles that have scarred them both, the moments when she’d feared she might never feel Dia’s presence in the Force again. The memory of those fears is still fresh, but they are tempered by the reality of this moment, of having Dia here, safe and whole, in her arms.

Zela lets out a slow, steady breath, her hand absently brushing against Dia’s lekku, a soft, protective gesture. “You’re stronger than you think, Dia,” she whispers, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. “And no matter what happens, we’ll face it together.”

She closes her eyes, resting her cheek against Dia’s head. The weight of the day lingers in her muscles, but the warmth of their bond wraps around her like a protective cocoon. Slowly, the tension in her body begins to fade, and the constant thrum of worry that’s followed her for weeks eases into the background. In this quiet moment, with Dia safe in her arms, Zela feels a rare sense of peace—a peace she’s almost forgotten was possible.

As sleep begins to take her, Zela’s last conscious thought is a simple, unwavering promise to herself and to Dia. Whatever the galaxy throws at them, whatever battles lie ahead, they will face it together. And no matter the distance or the danger, Zela knows she will always find her way back to Dia—because this bond, this connection, is something she will never let go of.

Dia, even in sleep, seems to feel the quiet strength of Zela’s resolve. She shifts slightly, nuzzling closer, the faintest smile gracing her lips. The galaxy outside may be vast, filled with chaos and uncertainty, but in this small room, in this moment, they have everything they need. Together, they find solace in each other, a light that will guide them through whatever darkness may come.

~~~~

The late afternoon sun casts a warm, golden light over the Jedi Temple’s courtyard, stretching long shadows across the polished stone paths. The tranquil atmosphere of the temple is momentarily disrupted by two figures darting through a side exit, their movements quick and precise. Dia leads the way, her violet eyes gleaming with excitement, her lekku twitching in anticipation. Zela follows close behind, her emerald eyes darting around nervously, her brow furrowed in a mixture of worry and exhilaration.

The scent of blooming flowers from the nearby garden mingles with the crisp Coruscant air, and the faint hum of distant speeders fills the space around them. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" Zela whispers, her voice barely audible but tinged with apprehension. Her gaze flicks back toward the towering structure of the temple, as though she expects a Master to step out at any moment and reprimand them.

Dia glances back, her lips curving into a mischievous grin. "Of course it’s not a good idea. But when have good ideas ever been fun?" Her voice is light, teasing, as she grabs Zela’s hand and tugs her forward. "Come on! If we don’t catch the next transport, we’ll miss the start!"

Zela huffs out a soft laugh despite herself, letting Dia pull her along. "Just remember," she mutters, her voice wry, "if we get caught, this was all your idea." Still, there’s a glimmer of excitement in her eyes that belies her feigned reluctance. Together, they navigate through one of the quieter pathways leading out of the temple grounds, their robes wrapped tightly around them in an attempt to remain inconspicuous.

The moment they step onto the bustling streets of Coruscant, the serenity of the temple is replaced by the chaotic energy of the city. Neon signs glow in vibrant hues, illuminating the endless streams of speeders zipping through the sky lanes above. The hum of engines and the chatter of countless beings create a symphony of urban life that feels electric, thrilling. Zela’s gaze sweeps over the towering skyscrapers and the maze of streets below, a mixture of awe and apprehension washing over her.

Dia, however, seems entirely at ease, her grip on Zela’s hand firm and reassuring. "Stick with me," she says, her tone brimming with confidence. "I’ve got it all planned out."

A short speeder ride later, they arrive at their destination: an old-fashioned theater nestled between two towering buildings. The marquee flashes the name of the latest holofilm in bold, glowing letters, and Dia’s excitement is almost palpable as she points toward the entrance. "There it is! This one’s supposed to have swoop bike chases, explosions, and the best fight scenes in the sector. You’re going to love it."

Zela raises an eyebrow, her lips twitching with amusement. "You and your swoop bikes," she says, shaking her head. "Fine, but you’re buying the snacks."

"Deal!" Dia’s grin widens, her lekku flicking with delight as she practically drags Zela toward the ticket booth. The attendant, a middle-aged Twi’lek with a bored expression, glances up as they approach, her gaze briefly lingering on the way Dia’s hand is still clasped tightly around Zela’s.

"Two tickets, please!" Dia chirps, her tone bright and cheerful.

The attendant’s lips curl into a teasing smile as she hands over the tickets. "You two on a date, then?" she asks, her tone playful, her brow arching as she watches their reactions.

Zela’s cheeks flush a deep shade of blue, her emerald eyes widening as she stammers, "N-no, we’re just—"

"We’re here for the movie," Dia interjects smoothly, though the faint pink tint on her cheeks betrays her. She quickly snatches the tickets, giving the attendant a playful glare. "Come on, Zela. We’re going to miss the previews."

Still flustered, Zela allows herself to be pulled along, her heart pounding in her chest. As they step inside the theater, she casts a sideways glance at Dia, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "A date, huh?"

Dia chuckles softly, her lekku twitching with amusement. "Hey, it’s not my fault we make a cute couple," she quips, her tone light and teasing. She nudges Zela gently with her shoulder as they make their way to their seats. "Besides, it’s kind of funny, isn’t it? Us, on a date."

Zela rolls her eyes, though her smile grows wider. "You’re impossible."

"I know," Dia replies, her grin cheeky as she settles into her seat. "But you love me anyway."

Zela shakes her head, her amusement evident as she watches Dia. There’s a warmth in her chest, a sense of ease she rarely feels. Whether it’s the thrill of sneaking out, the excitement of the holofilm, or simply being with Dia, she isn’t sure. But whatever it is, she lets herself enjoy it, her worries slipping away.

The theatre darkens, the large screen lighting up as the opening scene bursts to life. As the first scenes of swoop bike chases flash across the screen, Dia nudges Zela, her eyes wide with excitement. "Did you see that?" she whispers, her voice vibrating with awe, her lekku twitching in excitement.

Zela chuckles softly, shaking her head. "Alright, alright, you were right. This is pretty great," she admits, her voice barely audible over the booming sound effects that reverberate through the small, packed theatre.

Dia beams at her, the glow of the screen reflecting off her violet eyes. She reaches out without thinking, resting her hand on Zela's arm, a gesture so casual yet filled with warmth. "Told you," she whispers back, her voice carrying a mix of pride and affection. In the dim light of the theatre, surrounded by the cacophony of the holofilm’s explosions and dramatic soundscapes, everything outside this moment feels distant, as if nothing else matters but being here together.

As the holofilm unfolds, the action intensifying with high-speed chases and daring stunts, Zela’s gaze drifts away from the screen. Her focus instead falls on Dia. The bright flashes from the screen illuminate Dia’s face in intervals, highlighting the joy in her expression, her wide eyes glued to the spectacle on the screen. Her lekku twitch slightly, a telltale sign of her excitement, and Zela can’t help but smile.

The sight of Dia this carefree and unguarded stirs something deep within Zela. She marvels at the way her friend’s excitement is so contagious, so pure. Amidst the rigid structure of their lives as Jedi, Dia’s unrelenting passion and enthusiasm are a rare and precious thing. It’s moments like this that remind Zela why she cares so deeply for Dia.

Dia catches her staring and raises an eyebrow, leaning closer. "You’re missing the best part! Pay attention!" she teases, her voice light and playful. She nudges Zela with her elbow, her grin widening.

Zela laughs softly, shaking her head. "I am paying attention," she replies, her voice gentle. Her emerald eyes soften as she adds, "But I still think the company is better than the movie."

Dia’s cheeks flush faintly at the comment, the grin on her lips faltering for just a second before widening into something brighter, more genuine. "Stop being sappy," she mutters, though her voice carries no real protest. She squeezes Zela’s arm lightly and turns her attention back to the screen, her lekku curling slightly in a way that Zela has come to recognize as a sign of embarrassment—and maybe something more.

The holofilm’s climax approaches, the music swelling to a dramatic crescendo. Dia leans forward in her seat, her entire body engaged in the thrill of the moment. Zela leans back, her lips curling into a soft smile as she watches Dia. The thrill of the movie is infectious, but for Zela, the real joy comes from sharing it with Dia. The galaxy outside, with its wars and turmoil, fades into insignificance. Here, they are just two young Padawans, sneaking out of the temple to feel alive.

As the credits roll and the lights slowly come up, Dia stretches her arms above her head, a satisfied grin on her face. "See? Told you it would be great," she says, turning to Zela with a sparkle in her eyes that is brighter than any neon light outside.

Zela rolls her eyes, though her lips curve into an amused smile. "Alright, you win this time. It was pretty great," she concedes.

Dia’s grin widens as she reaches over, giving Zela’s arm a playful squeeze. "That’s all I wanted to hear." She stands, offering her hand to Zela. "Come on, let’s get out of here before someone recognizes us."

Zela takes her hand without hesitation, letting Dia pull her to her feet. The warmth of Dia’s fingers around hers sends a small jolt through her, one that she’s not entirely sure how to interpret. Together, they step out of the theatre and into the bustling streets of Coruscant’s lower levels. The city’s neon lights paint the night in hues of red, blue, and gold, their glow reflecting off the damp pavement.

Dia’s hand remains in Zela’s as they weave through the crowd, her pace quick but her grip steady. She glances at Zela, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. "So, what did you think of our not-date?"

Zela laughs softly, her chest warming at the playful term. "I think it’s exactly what we needed," she replies honestly, her voice carrying a rare note of tenderness. After a beat, she adds with a small smile, "And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t mind another one."

Dia’s grin spreads wide as she stops abruptly, spinning to face Zela and throwing her arms around her neck in an impulsive hug. Zela’s arms instinctively circle Dia’s waist, her hands resting lightly on the fabric of Dia’s robes.

"I’ll hold you to that," Dia whispers, her voice soft but filled with a quiet intensity. The noise of the streets seems to fade, leaving only the two of them standing together under the glow of the city lights. For a moment, everything else falls away—the temple, the war, the expectations placed on them as Jedi. All that matters is the warmth of Dia’s embrace and the bond they share.

Zela smiles, her heart pounding as she leans back slightly to meet Dia’s gaze. "Maybe next time you’ll be the one sneaking us out," she says, her voice teasing but filled with affection.

Dia laughs, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Zela can’t help but join in. The two of them stand there for a moment longer, their laughter mingling with the hum of Coruscant’s nightlife, before they begin walking again, hand in hand. The galaxy may be vast and uncertain, but in this moment, they are exactly where they’re meant to be—together.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XIV

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Dia wakes suddenly, her heart pounding in her chest as the shrill blare of alarms echoes through the cramped room. Her vision blurs for a moment, adjusting to the flashing red lights, and her immediate surroundings come into focus—Zela’s arms wrapped protectively around her, the warmth of her body a comforting presence amidst the chaos. Zela has always curled around Dia like this, using her height to shield Dia from whatever nightmares threaten to disturb her. But the comfort of Zela’s embrace is quickly shattered as the ship rocks violently, throwing them both against the bunk’s side railing as the ship shudders under impact.

“Dia, wake up!” Zela’s voice is urgent, her montrals twitching as the roar of turbolaser fire reverberates through the metal hull. The shields must be failing; Dia can feel it in the way the floor trembles beneath her. Zela’s green eyes are wide with alarm, her grip on Dia tightening as she tries to keep them both steady.

Dia pushes herself upright, her muscles still stiff from sleep, her head spinning as she takes in the panic around them. The ship lurches again, a deep groan emanating from the structure, and she knows it—they’re under attack. The red light of the alarms casts eerie shadows across Zela’s face, her expression a mixture of determination and fear as she looks down at Dia.

“We have to move,” Dia says, her voice hoarse as she shakes off the last remnants of sleep. She looks around their small room, trying to focus through the adrenaline flooding her senses. Zela nods, already pulling away, her fingers lingering on Dia’s for a brief moment before she moves to her feet. The contact grounds Dia—a fleeting connection that keeps her from spiralling into the panic she can feel clawing at the edges of her mind.

“Stay close,” Zela says, her voice steady despite the fear that Dia can sense rolling off her in waves. She grabs their lightsabers from the nearby stand, tossing Dia’s to her before strapping her own to her side. “We need to get to the cockpit. Find out what’s going on.”

The ship rocks again, more violently this time, and Dia stumbles as she catches her saber, barely managing to clip it to her belt before Zela pulls her towards the door. The sound of the turbolaser fire outside is deafening, the ship’s hull creaking and groaning as the shields struggle to hold. Dia can feel the anxiety of the crew through the Force, the chaotic jumble of fear and determination, and it takes all her focus to keep her senses from being overwhelmed by it.

They step into the narrow hallway, the flashing lights casting everything in an unsettling red glow. Clones and medics rush past them, some heading towards the escape pods, others towards the medbay. The air is thick with the acrid scent of smoke and burnt wiring, and the ship’s intercom crackles with distorted orders. “All hands, prepare for emergency landing. Brace for impact.”

Dia exchanges a glance with Zela, her stomach churning. “They’re trying to force us down,” she mutters, her voice almost drowned out by the chaos around them.

“We’re not going down without a fight,” Zela replies, her jaw clenched. She moves with purpose, her taller frame guiding Dia through the narrow, crowded hallways. Dia can feel Zela’s resolve, her strength, and she clings to it, letting it bolster her own courage as they make their way towards the cockpit.

Another blast rocks the ship, and the floor beneath them tilts dangerously. Dia grabs onto the wall for support, her fingers brushing against the cold metal as she steadies herself. The impact sends a shudder through her body, and she can feel the panic rising again—the fear that they won’t make it, that they’ll crash on whatever barren world lies beneath them.

Zela’s hand finds hers, squeezing tightly, and Dia looks up at her, meeting her gaze. “We’ll be alright,” Zela says, her voice firm, her eyes filled with a determination that Dia can’t help but believe. “Together, remember?”

Dia nods, swallowing hard as she grips Zela’s hand, letting the warmth of her touch anchor her. They push forward, the hallway seeming to stretch endlessly before them as the ship shudders and groans, the lights flickering above them. Dia can feel the shift in the Force, the tension, the fear—but also the hope, the strength of the crew fighting to keep them in the air.

As they continue, the ship suddenly jerks to the side, the violent movement throwing them against the wall. Dia grits her teeth as her shoulder slams into the cold metal, a sharp pain radiating through her arm. Zela grunts beside her, her eyes narrowing as she looks ahead, her montrals twitching as she listens for the next blast. The ship is twisting and turning, attempting evasive manoeuvres to dodge the relentless fire from the Separatist fleet. The distant booms of impact reverberate through the ship, and Dia can hear the groan of straining metal, the ship fighting to stay intact.

They finally reach the cockpit, the door sliding open to reveal the frantic scene inside. The pilots are shouting over the noise, their hands moving swiftly over the controls as they try to stabilise the ship. Through the viewport, Dia can see the barren planet below, the rocky terrain growing closer with each passing moment. The Separatist fleet looms above them, their turbolasers lighting up the void of space as they continue their relentless assault.

“We’re losing altitude!” one of the pilots shouts, his voice strained as he wrestles with the controls. “Brace for impact—we’re going down!”

Zela pulls Dia close, wrapping her arms around her as the ship begins its rapid descent. Dia closes her eyes, her heart pounding in her chest as she focuses on the warmth of Zela’s embrace, the strength she draws from her presence. She reaches out to the Force, letting it flow through her, trying to calm her racing thoughts, to find the peace amidst the chaos.

The ship sways violently as it spirals towards the surface, the pilots desperately trying to regain control. The viewport shows the ground rushing up to meet them, the barren landscape growing larger and more menacing. Dia can feel every jolt, every shudder, her stomach churning as the ship tilts and banks. The roaring of the engines fills her ears, a constant reminder of the precariousness of their situation.

“Hold on!” one of the pilots yells, his voice nearly drowned out by the chaos. The ship hits the ground with a bone-jarring impact, the metal creaking and groaning as it skids across the rocky terrain. Dia feels herself being thrown forward, her grip on Zela tightening as they brace against the force of the crash. The world around them becomes a blur of noise and motion, the ship’s structure shuddering as it finally comes to a halt, the echoes of the crash fading into silence.

Dia opens her eyes, her ears ringing, her body aching from the impact. She looks up at Zela, their foreheads almost touching, and for a moment, all she can feel is the overwhelming relief that they’re both alive. Zela’s eyes meet hers, and Dia can see the fear and worry there, but also the fierce determination that hasn’t wavered.

“We made it,” Zela whispers, her voice barely audible over the ringing in Dia’s ears. Dia nods, her breathing ragged as she lets herself relax, if only for a moment, her forehead resting against Zela’s. They’re not out of danger yet—not by a long shot—but right now, in this moment, they have each other. And that, Dia thinks, is enough.

Zela pulls back slightly, her fingers brushing against Dia’s cheek as she studies her face, as if making sure that she’s truly alright. “Come on,” she says softly, her voice steady despite the fear that still lingers in her eyes. “We need to get out of here, find the others.”

Dia nods again, her body still trembling from the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She forces herself to her feet, her legs unsteady beneath her, and Zela is there, her arm wrapped around Dia’s waist, supporting her as they move towards the cockpit door. The pilots are already working to open the hatch, their faces grim as they prepare to evacuate the ship.

“We need to move quickly,” one of them says, his voice tight with urgency. “The droids will be on us any minute.”

Zela nods, her expression hardening as she looks out at the rocky landscape beyond the cockpit. The barren planet stretches out before them, a desolate wasteland of jagged rocks and dust, the sky above a dull, lifeless grey. “We’ll make it,” she says, her voice filled with determination.

Dia takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself as she reaches out to the Force, letting it fill her, strengthen her. She can feel the fear still lingering at the edges of her mind, the uncertainty of what lies ahead, but she pushes it aside. They’ve faced worse, she tells herself. They’ve survived battles, ambushes, and the horrors of war. They can survive this too.

As the hatch opens, the harsh wind of the planet’s surface rushes in, carrying with it the scent of dust and ozone. Dia squints against the brightness, her eyes adjusting to the light as she grips Zela’s arm, her heart pounding in her chest. Together, they step out of the ship, the rocky ground crunching beneath their boots as they move away from the wreckage. The pilots follow close behind, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of droids.

Dia’s eyes dart around, taking in their surroundings—the jagged rocks, the barren landscape stretching out endlessly, the oppressive grey sky. The weight of the situation settles heavily on her shoulders, but Zela’s presence beside her is a constant source of strength. They’ve survived the crash, and now they have to survive whatever comes next. Together, they will face whatever challenges this harsh world throws at them.

Zela squeezes Dia’s arm gently, her eyes meeting Dia’s with a determined glint. “We’ll get through this, Dia. I promise.”

Dia nods, her heart swelling with gratitude for Zela’s unwavering support. She takes another deep breath, letting the Force flow through her, filling her with a sense of purpose and resolve. They’ve come this far, and they’re not giving up now.

“Let’s go,” Dia says, her voice steady as she looks towards the distant horizon. “We’ve got a fight to win.”

Dia looks up, her eyes widening as she sees the Munificent frigates above them, descending towards their position. The massive ships loom in the sky, like vultures circling their prey, and she can see the smaller gunships launching from their hangars, accompanied by other landing craft that are coming down to finish them off. The sense of impending doom settles in her chest, tightening like a vice as the stark reality of their situation sets in. The sky is filled with the dark shapes of droid gunships and landing craft, their engines a dull roar that grows louder as they descend. The horizon is thick with smoke, the fiery remnants of their crash still burning, and Dia swallows, her throat dry, her heart pounding as she takes in the sight. She can feel the fear bubbling within her, the urge to run, to escape, but there is nowhere to go. They are stranded here, on this barren, desolate world, and the only option left is to fight.

Zela, on the other hand, is already moving. The Togruta's face is hardened with determination, her montrals twitching as she assesses the wreckage, her eyes scanning for any sign of life. Most of the clones and crew had died on impact, their presence in the Force extinguished in an instant, leaving a deep, hollow void that echoes loudly across the barren planet. The emptiness of it weighs heavily on Dia, pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. She can feel the loss like a physical weight, each extinguished life a silent scream that reverberates through her entire being, threatening to overwhelm her.

But there are still survivors—few as they are—and Zela is determined to help them. She pulls a clone trooper free from the wreckage, his armour scorched and battered, and props him up against a piece of debris, checking his injuries. Her movements are swift and efficient, her focus unshakable as she works. Dia shakes herself from her stupor, forcing herself to focus. She reaches out with the Force, trying to find any sign of life amidst the wreckage, her senses brushing against the faint, flickering presence of the clones that remain. Each one is injured, some severely, their pain a sharp, biting sensation that makes her wince. She pushes the pain away, letting it flow through her and into the Force, trying to find the strength to keep going.

She pushes herself forward, stumbling slightly as her legs protest the movement, and moves towards one of the downed clones. He is lying face down in the dirt, his armour cracked, one of his legs bent at an awkward angle. Dia kneels beside him, carefully rolling him onto his back, her hands trembling as she tries to assess his injuries. The clone groans, his eyes blinking open, and Dia offers him a reassuring smile, even though she knows her own fear is evident in her eyes.

"Hey," she says softly, her voice barely audible over the sound of the approaching droid gunships. "We need to get you out of here. Can you stand?"

The clone, his helmet visor cracked, looks up at her, his expression hidden behind the battered armour. He tries to move, but a pained grunt escapes him, and he shakes his head, his voice strained. "I... I don't think so, Commander."

Dia bites her lip, glancing over her shoulder at Zela, who is already helping another injured clone to his feet, her eyes filled with determination. The Togruta meets Dia's gaze, nodding at her, and Dia feels a flicker of strength, a small ember of hope that she clings to.

Zela moves towards them, her steps quick and purposeful despite the chaos around them. She kneels beside Dia, her eyes scanning the clone's injuries before she looks up at Dia, her expression serious. "We need to move them—get them away from the wreckage," she says, her voice calm despite the fear that Dia knows she must be feeling. "The droids will be here any moment." Her voice is steady, a rock amidst the storm of fear and chaos, and Dia draws strength from it. She takes a deep breath, nodding.

Dia nods, her hands trembling slightly as she helps Zela lift the injured clone, her muscles protesting the strain. Together, they manage to get him to his feet, his arm draped over Dia's shoulders as they begin to move away from the burning transport. The air is thick with the acrid scent of smoke, the sky above them darkened by the approaching Separatist craft. The sound of blaster fire echoes in the distance, the first wave of droid forces making their way towards them. Each step feels heavy, her body aching from the crash and the exhaustion of battle, but she pushes on. There is no other choice.

"Lieutenant Lyeffie," Zela calls out, her voice carrying over the noise, her eyes scanning the wreckage for the clone officer. "We need to regroup!"

Lyeffie, his armour scorched and battered, emerges from behind a piece of debris, his expression grim as he takes in the scene. He limps towards them, his blaster held tightly in his hand, and nods. "We've got maybe half a dozen men left," he says, his voice rough. "We're all injured, but we can still fight." His voice is filled with determination, despite the pain that Dia can feel radiating from him in waves.

Zela nods, her eyes fierce as she looks at the remaining clones, her voice filled with determination. "We hold here. We make our stand. We might be outnumbered, but we are not beaten. Not yet." She glances at Dia, her eyes meeting hers, and Dia can see the fire burning within her. Zela's strength is contagious, and Dia feels it igniting something within her, a spark of defiance against the overwhelming odds.

Dia feels a surge of emotion at Zela's words, a mixture of fear and hope that makes her chest tighten. She looks at the clones, battered and bruised, their faces hidden behind their helmets, but their resolve evident in the way they stand, their blasters ready. They are not giving up. They will fight, even against impossible odds.

The first of the droid landing craft touches down, the ramp lowering to reveal ranks of battle droids, their blasters already raised. Dia swallows hard, her heart pounding in her chest as she reaches for her lightsaber, her fingers brushing against the cool metal of the hilt. She glances at Zela, who is already igniting her own saber, the green blade coming to life with a snap-hiss, the light reflecting off her determined features.

"Together," Zela says, her voice steady as she looks at Dia, her eyes filled with a fierce determination. There is something unspoken between them, a bond that goes beyond words, forged through the fire of battle and the trials they have faced. Zela's eyes are filled with trust, and Dia knows she cannot let her down.

Dia nods, igniting her own blade, the azure light casting a glow across her face. "Together," she echoes, her voice barely a whisper, but filled with resolve. And they will not fall—not today. There is no room for fear now, only the determination to protect those who stand with them, to fight for each other.

The droids begin to advance, their mechanical voices calling out orders, their blasters firing in unison. Dia feels the familiar hum of her lightsaber, the vibration of the weapon steadying her as she steps forward, her body moving instinctively, the Force guiding her actions. She can feel the weight of the battle pressing in around her, but she pushes it away, focusing only on the moment, on the battle before her. The clones move with them, their blasters firing, the red bolts streaking through the air, striking the advancing droids.

The air is filled with the sounds of battle—the hum of lightsabers, the crack of blaster fire, the shouts of the clones as they fight to hold their ground. Dia can feel the tension in the Force, the fear, the determination, the hope. She clings to it, letting it guide her, letting it strengthen her as she fights, her blade flashing, her movements fluid and precise. The blaster bolts fly past her, some striking the ground around her, others deflected by her lightsaber in arcs of blue light.

The barren landscape of the crash site is filled with the relentless noise of battle. The air is thick with the acrid scent of smoke and scorched metal as the crash survivors fight desperately against the waves of battle droids pouring out of the landing craft. Blaster bolts crisscross the air, the red and blue streaks illuminating the darkening sky as Dia and Zela stand back to back, their lightsabers ignited—one azure, one emerald—fighting to protect the few clones who remain.

Dia deflects an incoming blaster bolt, spinning to catch another shot aimed at Zela, the energy dissipating harmlessly against her saber. Her eyes dart around, taking in the droids advancing from multiple sides, and she feels her muscles burn from the effort of keeping up her defence. Zela's face is set in determined concentration, her saber a blur of green light as she counters each shot that comes their way, the Force flowing through her as she fights to hold their ground.

The ground rumbles, and Dia's senses tingle with an approaching presence—a dark and cold sensation that sends shivers down her spine. She barely has time to register the danger before a smooth, mocking voice cuts through the chaos, filled with a mix of disdain and amusement.

"Well, well, what do we have here? Two little Jedi all alone, stranded in the dirt like little lost younglings. How charming."

A shadow descends over them, and from the smoke and debris, Asajj Ventress emerges, her curved red lightsabers igniting with a menacing hiss. The dual crimson blades cast an eerie glow as she strides towards them, her pale face twisted into a smirk, her eyes flashing with malice. Dia feels her stomach twist at the sight, her heart pounding in her chest as Ventress moves closer, her presence in the Force like a cold, suffocating shroud.

Zela's eyes narrow, her grip on her lightsaber tightening. "Ventress," she says, her voice laced with a mix of caution and anger.

"Ah, you know my name. I'm flattered," Ventress purrs, her gaze shifting between Dia and Zela, her lips curving into a predatory smile. "Two Jedi Padawans, stranded and outnumbered. How fortunate for me. And how utterly unfortunate for you."

Ventress launches herself forward, her blades spinning, and Dia barely manages to deflect the first flurry of strikes, her body moving on instinct. The force of Ventress's blows sends shockwaves through her arms, and she grits her teeth, struggling to hold her ground. Zela moves in tandem with her, her own saber clashing against Ventress's with a burst of sparks, their movements a coordinated dance as they work together to fend off the Sith assassin.

"Oh, how adorable," Ventress taunts, her voice dripping with mockery as she bats aside Dia's saber, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Two Padawans fighting so bravely. Do you think your precious teamwork will save you?"

Zela growls, her lekku twitching in agitation as she pushes back against Ventress's attack, her green blade locking with one of the red sabers. "We won't let you win, Ventress. Not today."

Ventress's laughter echoes across the battlefield, her eyes flicking towards Dia, her expression amused. "Not today? How optimistic. I do enjoy it when my opponents have spirit—it makes it so much more satisfying to crush it." She suddenly disengages, twisting her body with an almost feline grace to avoid a strike from Dia, her eyes locking onto the young Twi'lek. "Tell me, little one, do you think you can keep up? Or are you too busy trying to impress your Togruta friend?"

Dia's cheeks burn at the insinuation, her lekku twitching as she steps forward, her saber raised defensively. "You talk too much," she snaps, her voice shaking slightly as she tries to focus, to push down the fear that rises within her. The Force hums around her, guiding her movements as she strikes at Ventress, her blade aiming for the gaps in her opponent's defences.

Ventress parries effortlessly, her smirk widening as she glances at Zela. "And you, Togruta? Are you here to protect your little Twi'lek friend? Or perhaps there's something more between you two? How sweet—but ultimately pointless. Attachment makes you weak, you know."

Zela snarls, her eyes flashing as she lunges at Ventress, her saber swinging in a wide arc. "Shut up!"

Their sabers clash, the sound of energy blades colliding reverberating across the clearing. Ventress's movements are fluid, almost serpentine, her twin blades spinning in complex patterns as she forces Zela back, her laughter taunting and cold. Dia moves to flank her, her azure blade slicing towards Ventress's side, but the Sith assassin is too quick, twisting away at the last moment and countering with a powerful kick that sends Dia sprawling to the ground.

Dia gasps as the air is knocked from her lungs, her body hitting the dirt hard. Pain radiates through her side, and she struggles to push herself back up, her eyes darting towards Zela, who is now fending off both of Ventress's blades, her teeth bared in determination. Dia can feel the fear rising within her—the fear that they might not make it out of this, that they are in over their heads.

"Look at you two," Ventress sneers, her sabers pressing down on Zela's blade, forcing her to her knees. "So weak. So afraid. It's almost... endearing."

With a sudden surge of power, Ventress twists her body, her movements swift and brutal as she disarms Zela, her green lightsaber flying from her hand and skittering across the ground. Ventress follows up with a forceful kick, sending Zela hurtling backwards, her body slamming into a piece of debris with a sickening thud. Zela cries out in pain, her montrals hitting the metal with a sharp crack, and she crumples to the ground, dazed.

"Zela!" Dia shouts, her heart lurching in her chest as she watches her friend fall. Anger surges within her, a fierce, burning rage that she struggles to contain. She can't lose Zela, not like this.

Without thinking, Dia reaches out with the Force, calling Zela's lightsaber to her hand. The green blade ignites alongside her own azure one, the twin sabers humming with energy as she steps forward, her eyes locked on Ventress. The Sith assassin's eyes widen in surprise for a brief moment before her lips curl into a twisted smile.

"Oh, how delightful," Ventress purrs, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and interest. "You think wielding two blades will make a difference? How charmingly naive."

Dia doesn't respond. She lets the Force flow through her, her anger giving way to a cold, focused determination. She moves, her body a blur of motion as she charges at Ventress, her dual blades striking in swift, precise arcs. The green and blue lightsabers dance through the air, their glow casting eerie reflections on the scorched ground as Dia presses the attack, her strikes fueled by her need to protect Zela.

Ventress meets her head-on, her twin red sabers spinning in a deadly dance as she parries Dia's strikes, her laughter echoing across the battlefield. "Impressive, little Jedi. But ultimately futile," she taunts, her movements smooth and confident as she counters each of Dia's attacks.

Dia feels her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she catches her breath, her eyes locked on Ventress. Zela is slumped against a piece of debris, her head tilted as she tries to regain her senses, but Dia knows she’s on her own for now. Her grip tightens around her own azure lightsaber, and she feels the weight of Zela’s green one in her other hand.

Ventress stands before her, her gaze sharp and predatory, her twin crimson sabers spinning slowly at her sides. The Sith assassin’s lips curl into a wicked smile, her eyes filled with dark amusement. “You’re brave, little Jedi,” she purrs, her voice dripping with condescension. “But bravery alone won’t save you.”

Dia doesn’t respond. She takes a deep breath, centring herself, feeling the Force flow through her, letting it wrap around her like a protective shield. She steps forward, her twin blades raised, her body shifting into an aggressive stance. The light of the azure and green sabers bathes her in a soft glow, casting long shadows across the scarred earth.

Ventress doesn’t wait. With a burst of speed, she lunges, her sabers spinning in a deadly arc. Dia meets her head-on, her twin blades flashing as she parries the incoming strikes, the clash of lightsabers creating bursts of energy that light up the darkness around them. Ventress’s attacks are relentless, each strike precise and calculated, her movements fluid like a serpent, and Dia finds herself forced to backpedal, her muscles straining as she matches the Sith’s brutal assault.

Dia moves instinctively, her body reacting to the flow of the Force, her azure and green blades working in tandem as she blocks and counters. She twists her body, ducking under a horizontal slash before lashing out with Zela’s lightsaber, the green blade narrowly missing Ventress’s side. Ventress lets out a low, taunting laugh, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous light.

“Two blades, and yet you’re still struggling,” Ventress mocks, her voice a hiss as she presses forward, her twin sabers hammering against Dia’s defences. “Maybe you’re just not cut out for this, little Padawan.”

Dia grits her teeth, the muscles in her arms burning as she blocks another powerful strike. She can feel the sweat trickling down her back, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she struggles to hold her ground. She knows Ventress is trying to break her focus, to push her into making a mistake, but she refuses to give in. She won’t let Ventress win, not with Zela lying there, vulnerable and injured.

Ventress shifts her stance, her movements becoming even more aggressive, her sabers a blur of crimson light as she batters against Dia’s defences. Dia feels herself being pushed back, her feet sliding against the rough ground, her body aching from the effort of keeping up. Ventress’s strikes are relentless, each blow coming faster than the last, and Dia knows she can’t keep this up much longer.

As the battle rages on, Dia feels something dark stirring within her. The Force flows around her, but it is tainted now—an insidious whisper brushing against her mind, promising power, promising the strength to defeat Ventress, to protect Zela. The Dark Side. She can feel its cold tendrils curling around the edges of her consciousness, urging her to draw on her anger, to let go of her restraint. For a split second, Dia considers it—the sheer power that could come if she let her emotions fuel her, the power that could end this fight.

She feels the darkness within her, a chilling voice whispering that she doesn’t need to hold back, that she should unleash her fury, her fear, her pain. The promise of power makes her hands tremble, and for a heartbeat, she imagines it—cutting Ventress down with a strength she’s never known before, feeling her rage empower her, making her unstoppable. She could end this, here and now. She could protect Zela, keep her safe, never let anyone hurt her again.

With a sudden, forceful strike, Ventress knocks Dia off balance, her azure blade slipping from her grasp and clattering to the ground. Dia stumbles, her heart lurching as Ventress moves in for the kill, her crimson sabers raised high. In that moment, time seems to slow, the world around her fading away as Dia focuses on the only thing that matters—surviving.

Drawing on the Force, Dia twists her body, her remaining green blade coming up to meet Ventress’s strike. The two blades clash, the impact sending a shockwave of energy rippling through the air. Dia uses the momentum to spin away, her free hand reaching out, calling her fallen saber back to her. The azure blade leaps into her hand, and Dia wastes no time, her twin blades flashing as she launches herself at Ventress, her strikes fueled by her determination, her desperation.

Ventress’s eyes widen in surprise, the Sith assassin is forced to backpedal as Dia presses the attack, her green and blue blades striking in swift, precise arcs. Her connection to the Force fuels Dia’s movements, her emotions channelled into her strikes, her need to protect Zela giving her strength. The twin sabers dance through the air, their hum a constant rhythm as Dia fights with everything she has, her heart pounding in her chest, her mind focused on the battle.

The Dark Side calls to her, offering her everything she needs to end this fight, to protect those she cares about. It whispers that her fear, her rage, could make her powerful enough to defeat Ventress. She could give in, just for a moment—just enough to win. The thought chills her, but it also tempts her, the cold, dark thrill of it sending shivers down her spine. Her heart races, the conflict within her almost as fierce as the battle itself.

Ventress lets out a growl of frustration, her twin sabers moving to block Dia’s relentless strikes. The two duelists move across the battlefield, their blades clashing in a dazzling display of light and energy, each strike a test of will, of strength. Dia can feel the strain on her body, her muscles aching, her breath coming in short gasps, but she refuses to back down. She can’t afford to. Not now.

With a sudden burst of speed, Dia brings both blades down in a powerful strike, her sabers crashing against Ventress’s, the impact forcing the Sith assassin to her knees. For a brief moment, Dia sees the surprise, the uncertainty in Ventress’s eyes, and she knows she has to keep going, to keep fighting. The whispers grow louder, the promise of power almost overwhelming as she stares down at her opponent, the temptation to end it here, to strike Ventress down and be done with it.

But Dia closes her eyes, taking a deep breath, and lets the flame of the Force within her burn away the darkness. She remembers Zela’s face, remembers her laughter, her kindness, and the bond they share. She remembers who she is—a Jedi. Not a killer, not someone who would give in to the Dark Side. She is better than that. She lets the whispers fade, the cold tendrils retreating as she finds her centre, her resolve.

Ventress lets out a snarl, her body twisting as she disengages, her twin sabers spinning to force Dia back. Dia stumbles, her body aching, her vision blurring from the exertion. She catches a glimpse of Zela, still struggling to her feet, her eyes filled with determination despite the pain etched across her face. Dia knows they can’t keep this up much longer—they need to end this. They need to find a way to turn the tide.

The battle rages on, the clash of sabers and the crackling hum of energy creating a deafening symphony around them. Dia's breathing grows ragged, each breath a struggle as she pours everything she has into the fight. Her twin blades flash in perfect harmony, green and azure, deflecting Ventress's strikes, but she can feel herself growing tired, her strength waning.

Ventress's eyes narrow, a wicked smile tugging at her lips as she senses Dia's fatigue. The Sith assassin's movements are fluid, almost graceful, as she pivots and attacks from new angles, her sabers spinning in a whirlwind of crimson light. Dia deflects a high strike, then a low one, her heart pounding as she fights to hold her ground. The weight of both lightsabers in her hands feels heavier with each passing moment, her muscles burning from the relentless assault.

"Is this it, little Jedi?" Ventress taunts, her voice dripping with malice as she strikes again, her saber crashing against Dia's defences. "Is this really the best you can do?"

Dia's jaw clenches, her eyes narrowing as she focuses on the Force, letting it flow through her body, fueling her movements. She has to protect Zela, she has to keep fighting. But even as she pushes herself, she can feel the cracks forming in her defences, the Dark Side's whispers growing louder, more insistent. They urge her to embrace her fear, to use her anger, to become stronger.

"Pathetic," Ventress hisses, her eyes flashing with amusement. "You think you can protect her? You think you have the strength to save anyone?" She laughs, a cold, mocking sound that echoes through the battlefield. "You're weak, Jedi. And that weakness will be your downfall."

Suddenly, Ventress feints to the left, and Dia moves to block, her blue blade flashing to intercept. But it's a trick—Ventress twists, her crimson saber slipping beneath Dia's guard, and in a single, brutal motion, she brings it up in a deadly arc. Dia feels the searing heat before she understands what has happened, a flash of pain ripping through her body as the crimson blade cuts through her right arm just below the shoulder.

Time seems to slow, the world around her fading into silence. Dia's eyes widen in shock, her mouth opening in a silent scream as she stumbles backwards. Her azure lightsaber falls from her hand, clattering to the ground, its blue light flickering before extinguishing. She feels herself falling, her body hitting the cold, hard ground, her vision blurring as the pain crashes over her like a wave.

"No!" Zela's voice breaks through the haze, filled with panic and desperation. Dia blinks, her vision swimming as she sees Zela struggling to her feet, her eyes wide with horror as she takes in the sight of Dia lying there, her right arm severed.

Ventress stands over Dia, her lips curling into a triumphant smile, her twin sabers humming with deadly intent. "Weak, just like all the rest," she sneers, her eyes flicking to Zela, who stumbles forward, calling Dia's lightsaber to her hand, blue saber igniting once more, her face a mask of fury and fear.

"Oh, look at you, rushing to save your little friend," Ventress taunts, her voice dripping with disdain. "How touching. Do you really think you stand a chance against me? Both of you are nothing but children playing at war."

Zela's eyes blaze with determination, and she lunges at Ventress, her blue saber flashing. Ventress parries effortlessly, her lips twisting into a cruel smile. "Do you think you can avenge her, Togruta? You can't even protect her, let alone defeat me."

Dia grits her teeth, her left hand trembling as she reaches for Zela's fallen lightsaber, the only weapon she has left. The pain is excruciating, her mind screaming at her to stop, to give up, but she can't. She can't let Ventress win. She can't let her hurt Zela.

The green blade ignites, its light casting a glow across Dia's pale face as she forces herself to her feet, her legs shaking beneath her. Her entire body is screaming in agony, her vision darkening at the edges, but she stands, her eyes locking onto Ventress's, filled with determination.

"You're not done yet?" Ventress raises an eyebrow, her smile widening. "How amusing." She steps forward, her sabers twirling in her hands. "Come on then, Jedi. Show me what you've got. Or maybe you want me to finish you off now and save you the embarrassment."

Dia takes a shaky step forward, her green saber raised, her left hand clenching the hilt so tightly her knuckles are white. The whispers of the Dark Side are louder now, almost deafening, urging her to use her pain, to use her anger, to unleash it all. For a moment, Dia is tempted—for a moment, she wants nothing more than to strike Ventress down, to make her pay for everything she's done.

"That's it," Ventress coos, her eyes narrowing with anticipation. "I can see it in you, Jedi. The rage, the hatred. Let it out. Let it consume you."

But then she feels Zela's presence beside her, a warmth in the Force that cuts through the darkness, a reminder of who she is, of what she fights for. Dia takes a deep breath, letting that warmth fill her, letting it wash away the whispers, the temptation.

Ventress stares at the two Padawans for a moment, her expression an unsettling mixture of curiosity and disdain. Her communicator begins to flash, drawing her gaze downwards. A knowing smirk spreads across her lips as she glances at Dia and Zela one last time, the wicked glint of triumph flashing in her eyes. “Well, this has been an exciting distraction,” she mocks, her voice dripping with condescension. With a sudden burst of agility, she uses the Force to leap backward, her lithe form soaring away from the two Jedi and retreating toward the droid transports. The remaining battle droids begin to pull back, their mechanical feet clanking in retreat, echoing across the desolate terrain.

The roar of the departing droid ships reverberates across the barren landscape, the echo of their engines blending with the crackling of the burning wreckage. As soon as Ventress disappears into the distance, Dia collapses, her body crumpling under the immense pain and exhaustion. Agony pulses through her body, radiating from the jagged stump where her right arm used to be. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, her vision darkening at the edges as the world begins to blur. She struggles to remain conscious, but the pain is all-consuming, unlike anything she has ever felt before.

Zela's heart lurches as she rushes over to Dia, panic flooding her senses. She skids to her knees beside her, her hands hovering over Dia's severed arm, her fingers trembling. Tears sting her eyes, blurring her vision. Her mind races, unable to ignore the gory wound, the way Dia’s face contorts in pain, or the fear that her dearest friend—her closest companion—might be slipping away.

“Please, hang on, Dia,” Zela whispers, her voice cracking with desperation. Her hands fumble through her limited medical supplies, trying to find something—anything—to help. She reaches out with the Force, hoping, praying to sense someone nearby who could help them. But all she feels in the Force is emptiness—the vast, empty void left behind by the fallen clones who had fought beside them. The silence of their absence echoes in the Force, pressing down on her chest like a heavyweight. The sense of isolation, of loss, feels like it's crushing her spirit.

“Zels...” Dia murmurs weakly, her voice barely audible, swallowed by the cold wind. She blinks up at Zela, her eyes glassy and filled with pain. “I’m sorry…” Her voice cracks, the guilt evident even in her weakened state. The thought of having failed Zela—of putting her in danger—seems to torment her more than the excruciating pain of her severed arm.

“No, no, no,” Zela repeats, her words tumbling from her lips in her native Togruti. Her grief spills into every syllable, her heart breaking at the sight of Dia’s dimming Force presence. She can feel it—Dia’s light flickering, fading, like a candle flame in a cold wind. The chill bites into Zela's skin, seeps into her bones, and she knows—if she does nothing, Dia will be lost to her, lost forever among the dead and the flames.

Pain burns through Zela’s own body from her injuries—cuts and bruises that ache with each movement—but they don’t matter. Not now. The odds are against them, and even as a healer, she knows she’s unlikely to keep them both alive long enough for Republic search and rescue to arrive. The cold, unforgiving truth settles into her thoughts, and she knows there is only one option left—a desperate, dangerous choice that could save them both, or mean the end for them. But if it doesn’t work… at least they will face the end together.

Zela takes a deep breath, her resolve hardening. She closes her eyes, reaching deep within herself, summoning the Force, feeling its energy begin to flow through her, a torrent of power swirling around her body. She leans forward, pressing her forehead gently against Dia’s, their lekku intertwining, wrapping around each other in a gesture of comfort, love, and the desperate need to not be separated.

“Please,” Zela breathes, her voice barely a whisper, “please, let this work.” She draws Dia’s presence close within the Force, letting it brush against her own, feeling every ounce of Dia’s pain and fear as if they were her own.

Slowly, Zela lets her presence wrap around Dia’s, a gentle embrace, intimate and powerful. It is a gesture that the Council frowns upon—an intimacy reserved for the closest of bonds, one that creates a connection beyond what most Jedi dare attempt. Zela knows this. She knows the risk, but she doesn’t hesitate. She pushes further, her Force signature wrapping around Dia’s presence like a protective cocoon. She feels Dia’s response—a flicker of light in the darkness, reaching back towards her, almost eagerly clinging to her.

Their energies begin to entwine, swirling together as they meld. Zela pours her strength into Dia, her own energy flowing into her friend, supplementing Dia’s fading life force with her own. She can feel the bond between them solidifying, a bridge formed out of desperation, love, and hope. The Force swells around them, binding them together, their essences merging in a way that to others, they would seem like a single bright presence in the Force—their lights merged into one.

Zela can feel Dia’s presence grow stronger, her light no longer dimming but instead bolstered by Zela’s. For a moment, they are no longer two—they are one. Their hearts beat as one, their breaths rise and fall in perfect harmony. The warmth of the bond fills Zela’s mind, pushing back the cold, the fear, the isolation. It is as though the world has faded into the background—the battlefield, the smouldering remains of the wreckage, the emptiness left by the fallen clones. None of it matters.

“I’ve got you, Dia,” Zela whispers, her voice filled with emotion, her tears flowing freely. She can feel Dia’s breathing start to even out, her pain still there but manageable now, their shared strength holding back the darkness threatening to consume her.

Dia sighs softly, the tension easing from her face as unconsciousness claims her, the pain finally abating as the warmth of the Force flows through both of them. The exhaustion, the fear, the agony—all of it begins to melt away, replaced by the comforting presence of Zela’s light.

Zela stays like that, curled around Dia protectively, her own strength slowly draining as she maintains the bond. She focuses all her energy on Dia, her thoughts only on keeping her alive, ignoring the gnawing exhaustion in her own bones, the sharp pain of her injuries. Time loses meaning, fading into the background, the minutes blurring together as she keeps her focus on Dia, her presence, her heartbeat.

Zela barely notices the sound of a ship landing nearby, the rumble of its engines muffled by her concentration. She hears the distant clanking of armoured feet approaching, echoing across the rocky ground. The edges of her vision darken, her energy finally giving out, the bond still holding but wavering as she forces herself to keep her eyes open. The last thing she sees before darkness takes her is a figure in blue Mandalorian armour approaching, their steps hurried, the world tilting sideways as she collapses beside Dia, finally succumbing to exhaustion.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XV

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Dia slowly wakes up, her eyes fluttering open as her vision blurs and refocuses on the white ceiling above her. The sterile, faint hum of the Halls of Healing surrounds her, the rhythmic beep of medical equipment echoing in the background. A strange sensation tugs at her awareness in the Force, a quiet yet insistent presence. She groans softly, wincing as she tries to move, her body heavy with exhaustion. Blinking, she looks around, taking in the all-too-familiar sight of the medical ward. She knows this place, the endless white walls, the scent of antiseptic. She wishes she didn’t.

“Good, you are awake,” a voice cuts through her disoriented thoughts, calm but stern. Dia turns her head slowly, her lekku brushing against the pillow, and she spots Vokara Che, the blue Twi’lek healer, standing beside her.

“Nice to see you too,” Dia rasps, her throat dry, her voice barely a whisper. It’s meant to be sarcastic, but it comes out weak, tinged with relief that someone familiar is there.

Vokara arches an eyebrow at her but doesn’t comment on her attempt at humour. Instead, she reaches for a glass of water, helping Dia take a sip before adjusting the bed to let her sit up. Dia flinches as she moves, a deep ache resonating through her bones. Vokara is already checking her over, her hands practised and methodical, her expression a mix of relief and concern.

“What Padawan Taal did was dangerously reckless but also is clearly what saved your life long enough to get you to a medical centre,” Vokara says, her tone carrying no hint of judgment, just a straightforward delivery of facts.

Dia blinks, her thoughts sluggish. “Oh, that bad?” she asks, her words shaky. She can feel a flash of fear rise up within her—a memory of cold, creeping darkness and the terrifying sensation of her own life slipping away. There is a reassuring warmth at the edge of her awareness, something soft and gentle brushing against her mind. It comforts her, eases her fear slightly, and she closes her eyes, focusing on that warmth.

“That bad,” Vokara confirms, her tone softening as she regards Dia. “The crash itself aggravated many of your injuries, even without the trauma inflicted by Ventress.” Her words are direct, though there’s a gentleness in her eyes, a glimpse of sympathy.

Dia feels her breath catch, her eyes trailing down to the empty space beside her. Her gaze fixes on the stump of her right arm, just a couple of inches left below her shoulder, and the sight hits her like a blaster bolt to the chest. Her vision blurs, her breathing quickening, panic clawing at her chest. The memories flash in her mind—the fight, the lightsaber cutting through flesh, the searing pain that followed, the fear of losing everything.

“Dia,” Vokara says firmly, her voice cutting through the spiral of fear. “Focus on my voice. Take deep breaths.” She reaches out, her hand resting gently on Dia’s shoulder, grounding her.

Dia’s heart pounds in her chest, her skin clammy with cold sweat. She struggles to breathe, her eyes squeezing shut. But there, amidst the fear and pain, she feels something else—a presence. It’s warm, familiar, like an embrace that envelops her mind. Zela. The bond between them flares to life, a soft, calming sensation that wraps around her, urging her to breathe, to let go of her fear. Dia feels the touch of Zela’s presence like a whisper against her mind, an anchor in the storm. Slowly, she draws a breath, her chest rising and falling as she lets the fear ease, the warmth of their bond soothing her.

“That’s it,” Vokara says, nodding slightly, her eyes watching Dia’s face as her breathing starts to steady. “Focus on the here and now. You are safe, Padawan. You’ve survived.”

Dia opens her eyes, tears prickling at the corners. She swallows, her throat tightening as she nods, her eyes lingering on her arm—or what’s left of it. The reality of her situation presses down on her, but there’s also a strength there—a strength she knows isn’t just her own. She feels Zela’s comforting presence, the bond they now share, and it gives her something to hold onto amidst the darkness.

“I’m still here,” Dia whispers, her voice cracking as she speaks. She looks up at Vokara, her eyes determined despite the tears. “I’m still here.”

Vokara offers her a small nod, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Yes, Padawan. You are still here. And that is what matters.” She pats Dia’s shoulder before turning her attention to the medical readouts, making adjustments as she speaks. “Rest now. Your body needs time to heal. And you’ll need to adapt, but you’re not alone in this, Dia. Your master can not return from the from the fronts but Master Vos is in the temple."

Dia closes her eyes, letting herself relax against the pillows. She feels the tears slip down her cheeks, her heart aching with the loss, the fear, but also the warmth of the bond, the knowledge that Zela is out there, connected to her. She lets out a shaky breath, nodding to herself. It’s going to be a long road, but she isn’t alone. And that, right now, is enough.

“Thank you, Master Che,” Dia says quietly, her voice filled with gratitude. The healer simply nods, her gaze softening as she continues her work, letting Dia drift back into a more restful state.

Dia clings to that comforting presence, the warmth of the bond with Zela, as she drifts back into a light sleep. The beeping of the medical equipment fades into the background, her breathing evening out as she allows herself a moment of peace, knowing that she has survived—and knowing that she still has a purpose, still has people worth fighting for.

Zela runs through the halls of the Temple, her feet pounding against the polished floors as she darts past the columns and Jedi passing by, barely noticing their concerned looks. The moment Dia woke up, she felt it—a sharp pull in the Force, like a breath she hadn't known she was holding suddenly released. Zela could feel Dia's presence, weary but alive, and nothing mattered more to her in that instant than reaching her side. She ignored the whispers of her fellow Padawans and even the disapproving looks of the Masters she passed; nothing was going to stop her from getting to Dia.

She skids to a stop outside the Halls of Healing, the stark white doors looming in front of her, and she takes a second to catch her breath, her heart racing in her chest. A healer gives her a disapproving look, and she mutters an apology under her breath, nodding slightly before pushing the door open. The door slides open with a soft hiss, and she steps inside, her eyes scanning the rows of beds until they land on Dia.

Dia is sitting up in her bed, her eyes closed, her expression calm, though there is a tension there that Zela can sense even from across the room. Her lekku are draped over her shoulders, her right arm conspicuously missing beneath the medical blanket. Zela swallows hard, her throat tightening at the sight. She’s seen Dia injured before—they’ve both been through their fair share of battles—but this is different. This is a wound that won't simply heal, a loss that won't just fade away with time. The sight of Dia's empty sleeve, the absence of her arm, sends a pang of anguish through Zela’s chest. She feels the weight of it—the weight of what Dia had to endure, the pain and the loss—and it takes everything in her not to let the tears spill over right there.

“Dia,” Zela whispers, her voice cracking slightly as she approaches the bed, her eyes locked onto her friend. Dia’s eyes flutter open at the sound, her gaze shifting to meet Zela’s, and a small, tired smile pulls at her lips.

“Hey, Zels,” Dia says softly, her voice still raspy from the injuries and the strain. Her eyes brighten at the sight of Zela, her Force presence reaching out, brushing against Zela’s in greeting, the warmth of their bond flaring to life.

Zela doesn’t say anything for a moment, her chest aching as she steps closer, her hand resting on the edge of Dia’s bed. She takes in the dark circles under Dia’s eyes, the exhaustion etched into her features, and the overwhelming urge to protect her friend—to never let her get hurt like this again—fills her. She wants to say something, anything, but the words are caught in her throat, tangled up in her emotions.

“You scared me,” Zela finally says, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She reaches out, her fingers brushing against Dia’s remaining hand, holding it gently. Dia’s hand squeezes hers weakly, her smile widening slightly.

“I’m sorry,” Dia murmurs, her eyes meeting Zela’s, her gaze soft. “I… I didn’t want you to get hurt either. But… I’m still here.”

Zela nods, her fingers tightening around Dia’s hand, her lekku twitching slightly as she tries to keep her emotions in check. “Yeah,” she says, her voice trembling, “Yeah, you’re still here. And I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”

Dia chuckles softly, her eyes closing for a moment as she leans back against the pillows. “I think… I think I’d like that,” she whispers, her voice fading slightly, the exhaustion evident in her tone.

Zela takes a deep breath, her gaze lingering on Dia’s face before she nods. She shifts, pulling up a chair and sitting down beside the bed, her hand never letting go of Dia’s. She watches as Dia’s breathing evens out, her eyes fluttering shut once more, her presence still bright in the Force, still there. The fear that had gripped Zela since the battle, since she had felt Dia’s presence fade, slowly begins to ease. She’s here. She’s alive. And Zela will do everything in her power to keep it that way.

Zela thinks back to the battle, to the desperate fight with Ventress, to the helplessness she felt as she watched Dia lose her arm. The memory makes her chest tighten, and she closes her eyes, trying to push it away. She has to be strong now—for Dia. She can’t afford to let herself fall apart. She needs to be here, needs to be steady. But as she sits there, holding Dia’s hand, she can’t help the tears that slip down her cheeks, her emotions catching up to her now that the immediate danger is over.

Zela reaches out with the Force, her presence intertwining with Dia’s, the warmth of their bond a comforting reminder that they aren’t alone. She lets the Force flow between them, her own strength and resolve pouring into Dia, giving her comfort even in sleep. She feels Dia’s presence stir slightly, a flicker of warmth and gratitude brushing against her mind, and Zela smiles faintly, her tears still slipping down her cheeks.

She leans forward, resting her forehead gently against Dia’s, her voice barely a whisper as she speaks. “We’ll get through this, Dia. I promise. You’re not alone. I’m here. Always.”

Zela pulls back slightly, watching as Dia’s breathing remains steady, her friend still resting peacefully. She sits back in the chair, her fingers still curled around Dia’s hand, and lets herself relax for the first time in what feels like an eternity. The tension slowly leaves her body, the weight of fear and worry lifting now that she knows Dia is safe, that she’s alive.

Zela feels a warmth spreading through her chest, a deep sense of love and connection that she knows will carry her through whatever comes next. She squeezes Dia’s hand gently, her eyes softening as she whispers, “Rest well, Dia. We have a lot more to do, but we’ll do it together. I won’t let anything happen to you. Not now, not ever.”

With that promise lingering in her heart, Zela stays by Dia’s side, her presence unwavering, her heart filled with hope for the future—because no matter what happens, they will face it together. And that is more than enough for her.

The next couple of days are rough for Dia, stuck in the Halls of Healing. Each day is filled with tests, calibrations, and a gnawing sense of exhaustion as the healers work to fit her new cybernetic arm. The process begins with the installation of the mount—a base affixed directly to the stump of her shoulder, fused with her remaining bone and nerves. The healers meticulously tie it into her neural network, the delicate adjustments requiring hours of precision work. The pain, though dulled by medication, is still present, a constant reminder of her loss. The sterile white walls, the scent of antiseptic, and the hum of medical equipment only add to her feeling of isolation, the Halls of Healing feeling like both a sanctuary and a prison, the temple guard outside doesn’t help it feel less like a prison.

Once the mount is in place, the arm itself is attached for calibration sessions, multiple times each day. Dia struggles to make the cybernetic limb move as her mind tells it to, each twitch and motion feeling foreign and stiff. The healers encourage her, their gentle voices telling her she is progressing well, but Dia can feel the frustration building within her—the sense of helplessness and vulnerability that she hates more than the physical pain. She wants to be strong, to be ready, but every failed movement of her new limb reminds her just how much she's lost, how she failed. She can feel the weight of her own expectations pressing down on her, the fear that she won't be able to protect those she cares about anymore. It gnaws at her, and she has to fight back tears more than once, her jaw clenched tight as she forces herself through the exercises.

Throughout it all, Zela stays by her side. Whenever Dia wakes up from a nap or a restless sleep, Zela is there, her comforting presence a steady anchor amidst the chaos and the discomfort. Sometimes, Zela reads to her, her voice soft and rhythmic, lulling Dia into a calm state where the pain and frustration seem to melt away, even if just for a little while. Other times, Zela simply holds her hand—her real one—offering a silent assurance that she isn’t alone. When Dia feels like giving up, Zela’s unwavering support keeps her going. The warmth of Zela’s presence is like a beacon in the darkness, a reminder that Dia still has something worth fighting for. Zela's gentle reassurances, her quiet strength, become the lifeline that Dia clings to, even in her lowest moments.

At last, after days of calibration and testing, the healers are satisfied. The arm is functioning well, moving in sync with Dia’s thoughts, and her body shows no sign of rejecting the cybernetic addition. With that milestone reached, Dia is finally released from the Halls of Healing, but under one condition—she is to remain under Zela’s care, and return immediately if anything feels off or painful.

The two of them leave the sterile white halls behind, walking side by side through the Temple's grand corridors. The evening sun streams in through the tall windows, casting long golden rays across the floors, bathing the Temple in a warm, tranquil glow. The air feels different outside the Halls of Healing—lighter, more alive. Dia takes a deep breath, letting the feeling of freedom wash over her, even if her steps are slow and her body still weak. Each step feels like a small victory, a reminder that she is still here, still fighting, and that she is not alone.

Zela walks beside her, her eyes flicking to Dia every few moments, a mix of concern and relief in her gaze. It’s as if she’s afraid Dia might disappear if she looks away for too long. The bond between them hums with emotion—relief, worry, hope—all intertwined in a way that gives Dia strength. When they reach their quarters, Zela steps forward and enters Dia’s access code, the door sliding open with a soft hiss. As they step inside, Zela’s cheeks flush slightly, her lekku twitching in embarrassment. It’s clear from the room’s appearance that she’s been spending her time here, waiting for Dia to wake up.

Candles are lit, their soft, flickering light casting gentle shadows around the room, the air thick with the scent of herbs and incense. The carved idol of Kika'lekki—the Great Mother—sits on a small shrine, its serene expression watching over the space. Next to it rests a small piece of carved Shilti bark—a token that Dia had made for Zela during her Kiras'anri, the Trial of Life, Zela's coming-of-age ceremony on Shili. The bark is worn smooth from years of Zela's touch, the carvings on its surface still prominent with how deeply they are carved, but still, it remains one of Zela’s most treasured possessions.

“You’ve been here a lot, haven’t you?” Dia murmurs, her eyes softening as she takes in the sight of the shrine, the candles, and the carefully arranged blankets on her bed.

Zela looks away, her blush deepening. “Well, I wanted to be close by, just in case. I know you… and I know you’d hate waking up alone after all that.” She gestures to the shrine, her voice a little shy. “And, well, I thought the Great Mother might help guide you back.”

Dia’s heart swells at Zela’s words, her throat tightening with emotion. She reaches out, her new hand a little awkward and stiff, but her touch gentle as she places it on Zela’s arm. “Thank you, Zels. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Zela gives her a crooked smile, her eyes shining. “Luckily, you don’t have to find out.” She steps further into the room, her lekku twitching with excitement as she motions to the table. “I, uh, also brought dinner. I figured you might be tired of the Halls of Healing food, so I snuck out to the Togruta market. Got all your favourites.”

Dia’s eyes widen at the sight of the takeaway boxes stacked on the table. The smell of spiced meats, savory rice, and roasted vegetables fills the air, making her stomach growl in response. She chuckles softly, shaking her head. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

Zela’s smile widens, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ve been told.” She moves to the table, opening the boxes and spreading the food out between them. They sink down onto the couch next to each other, the tension that had been lingering between them for days—the fear, the worry, the uncertainty—seems to melt away in that moment, replaced by the comfort of familiar food, the warmth of the candles, and the presence of someone they trust with their life.

As they eat, Zela keeps the conversation light, telling Dia about the market and the different people she saw while sneaking out. She talks about a vendor who tried to sell her a "lucky talisman" that she insisted was blessed by the Great Mother herself. Dia laughs, her smile reaching her eyes as she listens, her heart feeling lighter with every word. For the first time since the battle, she feels like she can breathe again.

The natural light outside has long faded, replaced with the soft glow of street lights illuminating Coruscant’s top level, casting subtle shadows across Dia's quarters. The warm amber glow from the candles mingles with the cool blue of the lights outside, creating an intimate atmosphere that makes the room feel like a sanctuary far away from the ongoing chaos of the galaxy.

Dia glances at Zela, her eyes lingering for a moment as she takes in the taller Togruta's comforting presence. She can feel the bond between them vibrating with emotion—affection, relief, thankfulness. A gentle pulse of warmth flows across their shared connection, like a reminder that she isn’t alone, that she’s safe here.

“Zels…” Dia’s voice is soft, her vulnerability bleeding through her words. “Could you help me with my robes? And… my arm. I need to remove it before sleeping, at least for a week or so still.” Her eyes drop down to her cybernetic arm, an expression of mixed emotions clouding her face. She knows that Zela probably memorised as much of the care instructions for her cybernetic arm as she did—a testament to Zela’s unwavering support.

Of course,” Zela responds immediately, her voice gentle. She moves to help Dia stand, guiding her slowly towards the bed. The room is filled with a tranquil silence, punctuated only by their breathing and the rustling of robes. Their bond hums with a symphony of shared emotions—concern, tenderness, a deep sense of love that defies the chaos they had been through. Zela’s movements are slow and deliberate, her fingers brushing against Dia’s skin as she helps her undress, carefully peeling away the layers of fabric that had seemed to weigh Dia down.

Zela pauses for a moment, her gaze meeting Dia’s. There is a rawness in Dia’s expression, a vulnerability that leaves her feeling almost exposed. Zela reaches for the cybernetic arm, her fingers gently caressing the metal before moving to activate the release mechanisms. With a quiet hiss, the arm detaches from the mount. Dia lets out a small gasp at the sensation, and Zela watches her, concern etched into her features. She sets the arm down gently on the bedside table, her eyes never leaving Dia.

Dia stands there for a moment, gripping her right shoulder just above the mount, staring at where her arm used to be. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears, the weight of everything she’s lost settling heavily in her chest. Zela can feel it too—the fear, the doubts that swirl around in Dia’s mind like a dark storm. She wants to say something, anything to make it better, but words seem to fall short in moments like this.

“Do you want me to stay the night?” Zela asks, her voice tender, a hint of her own hope slipping through. Her heart aches for Dia, and she lets her emotions flow across their bond, a warm reassurance, a promise that she will always be here. Dia nods slightly, her eyes still focused on her shoulder, unable to speak.

Zela wastes no time. She quickly removes her own robes, the air cool against her skin. She steps closer, taking Dia’s hand in hers, gently guiding her to the bed. Dia’s fingers tighten around hers, and Zela can feel the desperation in her touch, the need for closeness, for something to ground her amidst the overwhelming tide of emotions.

They settle into the bed together, and Dia immediately moves into Zela’s embrace, her face pressing into Zela’s shoulder as if she could hide away from the world there. Zela wraps her arms around Dia, her lekku coiling around Dia’s lekku, their red and blue skin pressed together, a beautiful contrast. The closeness brings a sense of peace to Zela as well, a sense of completeness that she can’t quite put into words.

Dia’s breathing starts to slow, her body relaxing as Zela holds her. She can feel Zela’s heartbeat against her own, steady and calm, a rhythm that slowly brings her own heart rate down. The warmth of Zela’s body seeps into her, easing the cold that had settled into her bones since the crash. The weight of her fears and insecurities seems to lift, just a little, replaced by the comforting presence of Zela, her anchor in the storm.

“Thank you, Zels…” Dia whispers, her voice barely audible. Her eyes close, and she lets herself sink into the safety of Zela’s arms. The fear and doubt that had plagued her moments ago slowly start to dissipate, replaced by a warmth, a love that she knows will never fade. Here, wrapped up in Zela’s embrace, Dia feels whole again—not broken, not lost, just Dia, with Zela at her side.

Zela presses her forehead gently against Dia’s, her voice a soft murmur, “I’ll always be here, Dia. Always.” She tightens her hold slightly, feeling Dia’s body relax even more, her breath evening out as sleep begins to take her. Zela can feel the way Dia’s presence in the Force softens, the turbulent edges smoothing out as she slips into slumber, and Zela sends another wave of warmth through their bond, a silent promise to keep her safe.

The candles flicker softly in the room, the shadows dancing across the walls, a silent witness to the bond between them—a bond forged through trials, through pain and love. The warmth of the moment wraps around them, a cocoon against the harsh reality outside. And as Dia drifts off to sleep, Zela stays awake for a while longer, her eyes fixed on Dia’s sleeping form, her heart swelling with a love so deep it feels like it could fill the entire galaxy.

For tonight, they are safe. For tonight, they have each other. And that’s all that matters.

Zela takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of her own exhaustion beginning to pull at her, but she doesn't let herself sleep just yet. Instead, she shifts slightly, careful not to disturb Dia, and lets her gaze drift towards the candles still flickering on the small table beside them. The warm glow casts a soft light over Dia's features, and Zela can't help but smile, her heart filled with both joy and sorrow—joy for having this moment, and sorrow for all that they had endured to get here.

She brushes her fingers lightly across Dia’s cheek, her touch featherlight, as if she’s afraid of waking her. The bond between them hums with a gentle warmth, Dia’s presence glowing softly within her mind. Zela allows herself to relax, feeling the pull of sleep growing stronger. She leans her head against Dia's, closing her eyes, the last thing she feels before drifting off being the warmth of Dia in her arms and the steady pulse of their shared bond.

The first rays of dawn stream through the window, their gentle warmth spreading across the room as Dia slowly wakes. Her eyelids flutter, heavy with sleep, and she finds herself cocooned in a comforting warmth. The weight of Zela is pressed against her, her taller frame draped protectively over Dia's body, a heat that seems to seep into her bones, making her feel safe and cherished.

Dia instinctively burrows further into Zela's embrace, her body tensing briefly as she tries to tighten her grip on the familiar warmth, only to be reminded that her right arm is gone. Her fingers curl against the empty space where her arm used to be, the cold metallic surface of the cybernetic mount pressing against Zela's soft blue skin. A surge of inadequacy floods her mind, sharp and unwelcome, like a shadow intruding upon the quiet peace of the morning.

The thought pierces her, and for a moment, she feels hollow. The phantom feeling of her missing arm aches, a reminder of all she has lost. She bites down on her lip, trying to ignore it, to push it away, but it claws at her mind—a nagging voice telling her she isn’t enough, that she’s broken. Despite the comforting warmth of Zela's body against her, the fear of not being whole wells up inside her, threatening to consume the moment. The inadequacy is a wound that never quite heals, just scabs over, only to reopen again when she least expects it.

Zela stirs against her, her montrals twitching slightly as she shifts, not quite awake yet. Dia feels the warmth of her breath against her neck, soft and rhythmic, a reassurance that she isn't alone. As if sensing the wave of turmoil, Zela's arms tighten instinctively around Dia, her legs tangling further with hers, her weight pressing more firmly against Dia's smaller frame. The gesture grounds her, and Dia can feel the emotions shifting between them through their bond—a deep, comforting pulse of concern from Zela, even in her sleep.

Dia lets out a shaky breath, trying to focus on that warmth, that love flowing through their bond. She forces herself to concentrate on the details of the present moment—the sensation of Zela’s smooth skin against her own, the way her lekku are wrapped around her head, their tips brushing against her cheeks like a gentle caress. The feeling of Zela’s weight on top of her, heavy but protective, grounding her in a way that nothing else ever could.

Zela mumbles something incoherent, her voice still heavy with sleep, her forehead resting against Dia's. The warmth of her breath tickles Dia’s skin, and she can’t help the faint smile that tugs at her lips, the dark thoughts slowly fading to the background. She shifts her left hand to rest against Zela’s back, her fingers tracing idle patterns against the smooth expanse of skin, feeling the rise and fall of each breath Zela takes.

The bond between them hums softly, a soothing lull that Dia lets herself sink into. Zela’s emotions flow into her—a mixture of love, reassurance, and protectiveness, wrapping around the fear and anxiety that lingers in Dia's mind. Zela’s presence is a balm, and Dia can almost hear her voice in her head, telling her she is enough, that she is loved, even if it’s unspoken.

The dawn light continues to pour in, painting the room in golden hues. The city outside begins to shift into full speed for this hour, sounds filtering in through the window—speeders passing by, larger ship engines rumbling—but here, in this small bubble of warmth and safety, it feels like the galaxy beyond them doesn’t exist. It’s just them, wrapped up in each other, the world outside a far-off worry they’ll face another time.

Dia lets her head fall back against the pillow, her eyes closing as she focuses on Zela’s steady breathing, the comforting pressure of her body. She knows the fear and the doubts will return, that the hollow feeling in her chest isn’t gone for good—but for now, in this moment, she allows herself to let go. She allows herself to just be here, with Zela, feeling loved and whole, even if only for this fleeting slice of morning peace.

And as Zela shifts again, nuzzling into Dia with a soft sigh, Dia lets her own breath out in a contented whisper, her voice barely audible, “I’m glad you’re here, Zels.” It’s an admission that feels raw, vulnerable, but right. Zela’s response is a gentle squeeze, her lips brushing against Dia’s temple in a half-awake gesture that speaks louder than words. A promise. A reassurance. And it’s all Dia needs, as the dawn continues to break around them.

Zela slowly wakes up as well, not moving from her place atop Dia as she nuzzles the side of Dia’s head, breathing in her scent. Her eyes are still half-closed, the comfortable warmth of the morning lulling her into a lazy, blissful state.

“Ugh, what do we have planned for today?” Zela asks, her voice heavy with sleep, each word coming out in a groggy mumble that is softened by the warmth of their shared closeness.

The emotions across their bond mingle even more than normal in their sleepy state, blurring the lines between them. The soft, hazy blend of love, protectiveness, and contentment flows seamlessly, the origin of each emotion impossible to trace. It’s comforting, like being wrapped in a warm blanket woven from their shared feelings.

“I have the first session with my personal healer,” Dia says, a hint of teasing in her voice. There’s a flicker of mischief in her eyes as she glances at Zela, her lips curving into a small, playful smile.

“Mhmm, I’m sure your personal healer can be reasonable and agree that rest is more important right now,” Zela murmurs in response, her lips brushing against Dia’s ear cone as she speaks, sending a gentle shiver down Dia’s spine. Zela’s voice is still thick with sleep, each word laced with affection and a touch of playfulness. She doesn’t even attempt to move, instead choosing to snuggle deeper against Dia, her lekku squeezing around Dia’s softly.

Dia can’t help the quiet laugh that escapes her, the tension that had gripped her moments ago fading further under Zela's warmth. “Is that what my healer thinks, huh?” she whispers, her left hand shifting to rest on Zela’s lower back, her fingers pressing lightly against the smooth skin.

“Absolutely,” Zela replies, her eyes drifting closed once more, her breath soft against Dia’s neck. “I think a day in bed sounds like the perfect prescription.” She can feel Dia’s amusement through the bond, the slight quickening of her heartbeat, and it makes her smile. Zela has always known how to pull Dia out of her head, how to ease the worries that weigh on her.

“Maybe we can negotiate that,” Dia says, her voice still laced with a teasing edge, but beneath it, there is a deeper note—a quiet gratitude that Zela is here, that she knows exactly what Dia needs, even when Dia herself might not.

Zela hums softly in response, her arms tightening around Dia, her fingers brushing gently against Dia’s back in slow, comforting motions. She doesn’t need to say anything more—the bond between them hums with shared affection, reassurance, and the promise of more mornings like this, where the rest of the galaxy can wait.

The two of them stay like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other as the first true rays of sunlight fill the room, painting everything in shades of gold. For now, the world outside can wait, and Dia allows herself to sink further into Zela’s embrace, her heart feeling just a little lighter.

The two of them fade into a half-awake doze, savoring the warmth of each other's presence, letting the softness of the morning cushion their worries. Zela’s breathing deepens, her arms draped protectively around Dia, their limbs tangled in a comfortable embrace. The world outside seems far away, and for a while, the bond they share pulses gently, the Force melding their feelings into one harmonious echo, creating a cocoon of shared comfort and understanding.

Suddenly, the peaceful haze is broken by the harsh, persistent beeping of Dia’s communicator. Dia groans, her brow furrowing as she instinctively tries to reach for the device with her right arm, only to be sharply reminded of her loss when nothing responds. The painful realization hits her like a splash of cold water, her heart clenching with that feeling of inadequacy—an aching reminder of what she's lost.

Before the darkness can fully set in, Zela is already moving. Without missing a beat, she rolls over, her body shifting until she’s almost entirely on top of Dia, pressing her down into the bed. It’s a deliberate gesture—one that forces Dia’s focus back onto something else, something warm and grounding. The weight of Zela's body, the press of her curves, the feeling of her heartbeat thrumming against Dia’s chest; all of it drags Dia back from the edge of that spiral. Zela’s presence is like an anchor, a reminder that Dia is not alone, that she is loved, and that she is more than her injury.

Zela reaches over to grab the communicator, her hand brushing lightly against Dia’s cheek in a comforting gesture. She glances down at Dia, her lekku tips brushing gently across Dia's arm, a silent assurance that everything would be alright. Dia, her cheeks already warming under Zela’s gaze, gives a small, almost embarrassed nod. Zela activates the communicator, her eyes never leaving Dia's as she does.

“Padawan Olan,” the voice on the other end announces once the connection is established. It’s curt, formal, and entirely impersonal. Dia immediately recognizes it as the council messenger, the one tasked with communicating and arranging meetings for the High Council. “You have been scheduled to attend a meeting with Padawan Taal in regards to a matter of the Force, an hour before the noon bell.”

Dia swallows slightly, her gaze flickering up to meet Zela's eyes. There’s a tightness in her chest, a sense of unease coiling around her heart. She forces herself to speak, her voice steady even if her emotions are anything but. “I will be there, and I will let Padawan Taal know as well.”

“Good. That will be all,” the voice responds before the line abruptly cuts off, leaving only silence in the dim room.

Zela wastes no time, quickly placing the communicator back on the bedside table before shifting her weight again, this time leaning down until her forehead is resting gently against Dia’s. Their chests are pressed together, and the proximity makes the bond between them hum with a quiet resonance—a comforting reminder that they aren’t alone in this. The warmth of Zela’s breath mingles with Dia’s, the closeness providing a sense of security amidst the uncertainty.

“Do you think it’s about the bond we formed?” Zela asks softly, her eyes half-lidded, the words a mere whisper as they mingle with Dia’s breath. Her concern and curiosity echo through their connection, blending seamlessly with Dia’s own unease. Zela’s voice is a gentle vibration that seems to resonate in Dia's very bones, carrying with it a mixture of apprehension and hope.

The bond vibrates with shared worry, the Force swirling about the two of them like a gentle storm. Dia takes a breath, letting herself sink into the sensation, the mixed emotions like a flickering campfire deep within a forest—a place brimming with life, warmth, and unpredictability.

“Likely it is, yeah,” Dia replies, her voice soft. The uncertainty of it all weighs on her—what the council might say, what it might mean for them. But there’s one thing she knows for sure, one truth she clings to despite everything. “But no matter what they say, I don’t care. I’m happy with the bond, even beyond you using it to save my life.”

As she speaks, her left arm curls around Zela’s waist, her fingers pressing into Zela’s skin possessively, a silent declaration that she doesn’t intend to let go. There’s a fierceness in her words, a conviction that burns brightly enough to eclipse the fear, at least for now. It’s a promise—to herself, to Zela, to the universe—that she will fight for what they have, no matter the cost.

Zela’s heart swells at Dia’s words, her own emotions rushing to the surface, filling the bond with warmth and affection. “I’m happy with it too,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. She pulls back just enough to look Dia in the eyes, her gaze unwavering, her eyes glowing softly in the early morning light. “Whatever comes, we face it together. You and me.”

Dia nods, her heart pounding as she stares up at Zela. There’s a vulnerability there, a fragility that’s always been hard for her to admit to, but it’s met with Zela’s strength—her steady, unwavering presence that grounds Dia in ways she never thought possible. And for a moment, she lets herself believe that they’ll be okay, that no matter what the council decides, they’ll find a way through it.

Eventually the two of the start getting up, the atmosphere is tinged with a nervous anticipation as Dia sits on the edge of her bed, her eyes downcast, staring at her right shoulder. She takes in a slow, deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering feeling in her stomach. Today, they have to face the council, and the weight of what it could mean rests heavily on her chest. She looks at the cybernetic arm resting on the table, its polished metal gleaming in the sunlight. It is a stark reminder of her recent loss—a piece of herself that is forever gone.

"Zels... can you help me with it?" Dia’s voice is softer than usual, almost hesitant. She glances up at Zela, her lekku drooping slightly. There is a vulnerability in her gaze that Zela has grown to recognize well—an unspoken need for reassurance, for someone to help shoulder the burden.

Zela nods, her eyes softening with affection as she moves to kneel in front of Dia. She gently picks up the cybernetic arm, her fingers brushing over the cool metal before her gaze shifts to Dia's shoulder mount. "Of course, I'll help you," she murmurs, her voice steady. There’s a tenderness in the way she handles the prosthetic, her movements slow and deliberate, as though she’s holding something fragile and precious.

Dia watches Zela’s careful movements, her chest tightening with a rush of emotions. The bond between them pulses, and she feels the warmth of Zela’s care seeping through their connection, soothing her anxiety. She closes her eyes briefly, letting herself relax into that feeling, letting it ground her.

Zela brings the prosthetic close, her fingertips brushing against Dia’s skin as she aligns the attachment points. Dia sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, a mix of discomfort and the lingering sensation of something lost. Zela pauses, her eyes flicking up to meet Dia’s, concern etched across her face. "You okay?"

Dia nods, her gaze meeting Zela's. There’s a determination in her eyes, despite the lingering pain. "Yeah. Keep going."

Zela gives a small nod, her lips pressing into a thin line as she continues her work. The soft click of metal meeting metal echoes in the quiet room as the prosthetic locks into place. Zela's hands are firm but gentle, her touch unwavering as she checks the alignment, making sure everything is secure. Her fingertips brush against Dia’s skin once more, and this time, Dia doesn’t flinch—instead, she leans into the touch, finding comfort in the familiarity of it.

"There we go," Zela says, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes focused on Dia’s face. She watches for any signs of discomfort, her own heart pounding in her chest. She knows how much this arm means to Dia—both as a symbol of her survival and as a reminder of her vulnerability. And she knows how much Dia hates feeling vulnerable.

Dia flexes her new fingers, the servos whirring softly as she tests the movement. She nods slightly, her gaze shifting back to Zela, a small, grateful smile playing on her lips. "Thanks, Zels," she says, her voice thick with emotion.

Zela smiles back, her hand moving up to cup Dia’s cheek, her thumb brushing gently over her skin. "Always," she replies, her voice carrying a promise. She lifts the cybernetic hand, pressing a soft kiss to the back of the knuckles, lingering there for a moment. The bond between them hums with shared warmth, a comforting pulse that pushes away the fears lurking in the back of their minds.

~~

A few hours later, the two Padawans find themselves standing before the High Council. Not all of the council members are present, with many currently on the front lines, but those who can, have joined via holo-projection. In addition, Healer Vokara Che stands to the side, present as the healer who has examined both of them, her eyes assessing but showing no judgment.

The chamber is silent, save for the hum of the holoprojectors and the rustle of robes. Dia stands next to Zela, her head held high but her heartbeat echoing in her ears. She keeps her hands folded behind her back, wishing she could reach out to touch Zela but knows the council would hold that against them.

"Hmm, dangerous is, such a bond," Master Yoda says, his voice calm but weighty, as he observes the two Padawans.

Master Ki-Adi-Mundi nods at Yoda’s words. "It is indeed. The Code is clear—such attachments are forbidden. They cloud judgment, invite fear, and can lead one down a dangerous path."

Dia winces at his words, the judgment stinging her, but she forces herself not to look away from the assembled council members. She can feel Zela’s presence beside her, steady and unwavering, the bond between them a comforting pulse in the midst of this tense setting.

"The bond is formed," Master Plo Koon interjects, his tone measured. "There is nothing we can do to change that now. Nor, I believe, should we seek to." His gaze moves across the assembled council, then returns to the two Padawans. "We do not interfere when a master and Padawan form a bond. Why should we interfere now? Just because the circumstances are different?"

"Correct, Master Plo Koon is," Yoda muses, nodding his head thoughtfully. "We do not interfere with learner bonds. Long, it has been, since seen such a bond as this one, I have. But," he adds, his gaze sharpening, "against the Code, it remains."

Dia’s stomach churns as the debate swirls around her and Zela. The intensity of the council's words and the weight of their scrutiny make her feel exposed. She can feel Zela’s emotions beside her, a mix of unease and fierce protectiveness, echoing her own sentiments.

Before another council member can speak, the heavy doors slide open, drawing everyone's attention. In strides a tall, dark-skinned man with dreadlocks, his presence immediately commanding attention. Quinlan Vos.

“I only just found out this meeting was happening,” Quinlan states, his gaze moving around the room before settling on the two Padawans. His eyes soften for just a moment when he sees them standing there, vulnerable beneath the council’s scrutiny. “I thought Padawans needed to have their masters present—or someone else to stand with them—before the High Council.”

Master Ki-Adi-Mundi lifts his chin slightly, his expression impassive. “Their masters could not be spared in time from the battles. Healer Che is here to provide the necessary insight.”

Quinlan shakes his head, stepping forward until he stands beside Dia and Zela. “No offense, Healer,” he says, nodding respectfully to Vokara Che, “but she is not here to represent them. She is here to provide medical facts. I am here to represent them. I have trained both of these Padawans.”

The room falls into silence. The tension is palpable, and Dia can feel her heart pounding harder. Zela glances at Quinlan, her eyes wide, relief washing over her face at the sight of a familiar ally.

“Very well,” Plo Koon says, his gaze assessing Quinlan, his voice breaking the silence. “Master Vos, you may speak on their behalf.”

Quinlan turns his head, meeting the eyes of both Padawans. There’s a fire in his gaze, a determination that strengthens the flickering hope in Dia’s chest. “The bond they share is powerful,” Quinlan says, addressing the council, “and yes, it’s unique. But I have trained them both, and I know their hearts. I know that this bond will not lead them down the dark path—because they won’t let it.”

Dia feels Zela’s reassurance flowing through their bond. They stand straighter, side by side, their presence unified in the face of the council’s scrutiny.

Master Yoda nods slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly as if peering into the future. “Much to consider, there is. Trust in you, Master Vos, the council does. Consider this matter, we will.”

The council chambers are filled with an expectant hush, and Dia feels like she can finally breathe again, if only a little. The tension isn’t gone, but the weight is lighter with Quinlan by their side, his presence a reminder that they aren’t facing this alone.

Master Windu, who has remained silent until now, speaks. His voice is as unyielding as ever, but there’s a hint of concession. “We will deliberate. The circumstances are unusual, but given the context, we will not make any decisions without full consideration.”

Dia swallows and bows her head, Zela following suit. “Thank you, Masters,” Dia says, her voice quiet but resolute.

“Yes,” Zela adds, her tone filled with gratitude. “Thank you.”

Quinlan stands behind them, guiding them out of the council chambers. As the doors close behind them, the tension in Dia’s body seems to deflate, a sigh escaping her lips. She looks up at Quinlan, her eyes filled with a mixture of relief and lingering worry.

“Thank you for standing up for us, Master Vos,” she says.

Quinlan smiles, that familiar playful glint in his eyes. “Always. Besides,” he adds, his tone lightening as they walk down the temple corridors, “you know I’m always up for shaking things up with the council.”

Zela gives a small chuckle, shaking her head. “You certainly know how to make an entrance.”

Quinlan grins. “You two have always been worth fighting for. And remember, no matter what they decide, you’ve got me in your corner. Now get out of here, the council is unlikely to make a decision today.”

Dia looks at Zela, their bond humming with warmth and mutual reassurance, the words from Quinlan filling her with strength.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XVI

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

After the council meeting, Zela and Dia make their way to one of the sparring rooms set aside for Padawans. These rooms, usually echoing with the sounds of sparring practice, often served as quiet retreats for reflection before the war. Even now, with the ongoing conflict casting a shadow over the Temple, they still hoped for a moment of quiet respite. However, as they step inside, they are surprised to find the space occupied by a few familiar faces—other Padawans that they know well.

As Zela and Dia enter, they are immediately greeted by Tallisibeth Enwandung-Esterhazy—or Scout, as everyone affectionately calls her. Her bright smile and excited wave catch their attention as she hurries across the room towards them. Her energy is infectious, and even though Dia is still processing the council's words, she feels a smile creeping across her face.

“I’m glad you two are okay!” Scout exclaims, her voice overflowing with relief. “We were worried about you both!” She practically bounces on her toes, her eyes darting between Dia and Zela, as if reassuring herself they are truly here.

Lyn Rakish, standing off to the side, folds her arms over her chest, her expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “I told you they’d be fine,” she says, her words light-hearted, though her Force presence is a blend of relief and concern. One Lyn's four short lekku twitch slightly—the only real giveaway to her genuine feelings.

Trilla Suduri is nearby, her dark eyes watching Zela and Dia carefully. She gives them a small nod. Though quieter than Scout, Trilla’s presence is steady and calming. “We heard what happened,” she says softly, her gaze flicking between the two of them. “Facing the council like that must’ve been intense.”

“It… it was,” Dia admits, her voice trailing off for a moment. She still feels the lingering tension of standing in the council chamber, of hearing the masters debate over her and Zela’s fate. But she feels the warmth of Zela beside her—a reassuring presence that calms her thoughts. “But we got through it,” she says, her lips turning up in a small smile as she looks at Zela.

“We had help,” Zela adds, her gaze meeting Dia’s briefly before turning to the others. The bond between them hums with warmth, their emotions mingling in a shared current of determination. “Master Vos showed up just in time to stand with us,” she explains, her voice betraying her relief.

“Vos? No way!” Scout grins, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “I bet he had some choice words for the council.” She looks at them with admiration, as though they’re heroes returning from a legendary adventure.

Lyn snorts, rolling her eyes. “Probably.” She tilts her head, regarding Dia and Zela for a moment. “Still, I’m glad you had someone in your corner.” Her voice, though teasing, carries a deeper emotion—a hint of the vulnerability that comes from knowing how easily things could have gone differently.

Trilla steps closer, her brow furrowed slightly as she looks at Dia. “What’s next?” she asks. “Did the council… did they make a decision?” There’s genuine concern in her voice, the kind that comes from being close friends—from knowing the consequences of being different in the rigid confines of the Jedi Order.

Dia glances at Zela before turning back to Trilla, her lips curving into a small but confident smile. “No decision yet. They’re still deliberating.” Her voice carries more strength than she feels, but she knows she has to hold onto hope—for herself, for Zela, for both of them. “But they’re giving us a chance. And for now, that’s enough.”

Scout lets out a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s something, at least,” she says, her voice lighter now. She moves to grab a training saber from the rack, tossing another towards Dia. “Come on, you’re here now. Let’s spar—show me what you’ve learned out there on the front lines,” she challenges, a grin spreading across her face.

Dia catches the training saber, feeling its weight in her cybernetic hand. She glances at Zela, raising an eyebrow in question. Zela gives her a faint smile, a nod of encouragement. “Alright,” Dia says, the tension of the council meeting slowly fading away in the face of the familiarity of the sparring room and her friends. “Let’s see if I remember how to hold my own.”

Scout takes a ready stance, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Oh, you better. I’ve been practicing.”

Zela steps back, leaning against the wall next to Lyn and Trilla as she watches Scout and Dia circle each other. “Don’t go easy on her, Scout. She’s a lot tougher than she looks,” Zela calls out, her voice teasing.

Dia shoots Zela a look over her shoulder, her expression amused. “I’ll remember that when it’s your turn, Zels,” she retorts, the bond between them humming with warmth and camaraderie.

Lyn smirks, her eyes following the two Padawans as they move. “This is just what we needed,” she says quietly to Zela, her tone carrying a hint of appreciation. “A reminder that we’re still just kids sometimes—not just soldiers.”

Zela nods, her gaze fixed on Dia. “Yeah,” she murmurs, her voice softening.

The five of them spend a couple of hours there, a mix of sparring and simply enjoying each other’s company. Dia finds herself smiling more than she has in days, allowing herself to forget about the war, the council, and everything else weighing on her shoulders. The familiar clink of training sabers, the laughter echoing in the sparring room—it all feels like a reminder of who they once were, before they became soldiers.

Dia spars with Scout, Lyn, and Trilla in turn, but it’s when Zela steps forward, training saber in hand, that the atmosphere shifts. Dia’s eyes lock onto Zela’s, and the bond between them hums in anticipation. They face each other, and Dia can feel the warmth of their connection wrapping around her, a gentle yet powerful current that bolsters her confidence.

Zela takes a ready stance, her eyes twinkling with a hint of a challenge. “Ready?” she asks, her voice a mix of teasing and affection.

Dia nods, her grip tightening on the saber. “Always.”

The two of them move, the Force flowing between them like an invisible thread, guiding each of their actions. Dia feels the difference immediately—sparring with Zela is unlike any other duel. Their bond adds another layer to the spar, allowing them to predict each other’s movements almost before they happen. It’s as if their thoughts have merged into a single, unified consciousness.

Zela strikes first, her movements fluid and confident. Dia parries, her cybernetic arm adjusting to the impact. She can feel the slight stiffness in her new limb, the unfamiliar sensation of metal and circuitry where once there had been flesh. It’s an adjustment, one that requires focus, but with Zela in front of her—moving, spinning, attacking—she doesn’t have time to dwell on it.

They fall into a rhythm, their sabers clashing, the energy between them almost palpable. Each strike and counter is a part of an intricate dance, their movements perfectly synchronized. Dia can sense Zela’s thoughts, her intentions, and Zela, in turn, seems to know exactly where Dia’s saber will be, dodging and countering with ease. It’s exhilarating, the connection between them pushing them both to move faster, react quicker.

The others watch in silence, the air in the room charged with the intensity of the spar. Scout’s eyes are wide, her expression a mix of awe and admiration. Lyn leans forward slightly, her arms still crossed, her gaze fixed on the two of them. Even Trilla, normally composed and calm, seems captivated by the fluidity and grace of their movements.

Dia moves to strike, her cybernetic arm swinging the training saber in a wide arc. Zela blocks, their sabers locking for a moment. Dia feels the strain in her arm, the unfamiliar weight of the metal pulling at her balance. But before the frustration can take hold, she feels a rush of warmth through the bond—Zela’s presence, steady and reassuring, flowing into her. It’s enough to push the doubt away, to remind her that she’s not alone.

Zela steps back, giving Dia a nod of encouragement. “You’re doing great,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, meant just for Dia.

Dia smiles, the bond between them vibrating with shared determination. She moves forward again, her strikes precise and controlled, her confidence growing with each movement. Zela meets her head-on, their sabers clashing in a flurry of strikes and parries, the energy between them like a living thing—dynamic, powerful, and utterly unbreakable.

For a moment, it feels as if the war, the council, all the challenges they’ve faced—none of it matters. In this room, in this moment, it’s just them, connected by the Force and by the bond they share. They are not soldiers, not Padawans fighting for their place in a galaxy at war. They are simply Zela and Dia—two friends, two souls intertwined, moving as one.

As the spar comes to an end, Dia and Zela exchange a glance, the shared understanding passing between them through their bond. They both realize that, with their connection as it is, neither can truly defeat the other—not until Dia has fully adjusted to her cybernetic arm at least. The bond between them makes it almost impossible to outmatch one another, as they can sense each other's intentions before they even manifest into actions. With a gentle nod, they step back, lowering their training sabers and taking a moment to breathe, their bodies covered in a light sheen of sweat.

They grab their water bottles, leaning against the wall to rest. Zela takes a long drink, the cool water soothing her parched throat, while Dia does the same. Scout, Lyn, and Trilla are buzzing with excitement, their chatter filling the sparring room.

"Did you see how they moved? It was like they knew what the other was going to do before it even happened!" Scout exclaims, her eyes wide with admiration.

"I told you they'd be fine," Lyn adds, her lips curving into a grin. "But I didn't expect them to be that in sync. It's almost eerie."

Trilla nods in agreement, her dark eyes watching Dia and Zela. "It's impressive. I've never seen anything like it before," she says, her voice filled with genuine respect.

Dia smiles at her friends, her gaze drifting to Zela, who gives her a knowing look in return. Their bond hums with warmth and contentment, a reflection of their shared emotions. It feels good to be here, surrounded by friends, to have a moment of normalcy amidst the chaos of the galaxy.

It is at that moment that Quinlan Vos steps into the sparring room, his presence instantly drawing everyone's attention. He gives a nod to the other Padawans, his expression relaxed but with a hint of urgency in his eyes. He strides over to Dia and Zela, his gaze softening as he looks at them.

"Good news," Quinlan announces, his tone carrying a mix of humor and relief. "The council, in their infinite wisdom, has decided to do nothing about your bond and act as if nothing has changed. However, they did agree with Healer Che's recommendation that Padawan Taal would be best suited to looking after Padawan Olan's recovery—either here in the temple or back in the field."

A wide smile spreads across Dia's face, her heart swelling with relief. Zela's face mirrors her joy, her usually calm demeanor breaking into a grin. Without a second thought, Dia leaps towards Zela, wrapping her arms around her neck in a tight hug. Zela catches her with ease, her arms holding Dia securely, lifting her slightly off the ground. Dia's feet dangle, her toes just barely touching the floor as she clings to Zela, their bond vibrating with happiness and a sense of triumph.

Quinlan watches them with a bemused smile, shaking his head slightly. "Alright, alright, don't get too carried away. You've still got plenty of work ahead of you," he says, though there's no mistaking the warmth in his voice.

After a moment, Dia reluctantly loosens her grip, her feet finding the ground once more as Zela sets her down gently. They exchange a look—an unspoken promise that no matter what challenges lie ahead, they will face them together.

Scout, Lyn, and Trilla cheer quietly, sharing in their friends' joy.

Zela smiles, her hand resting lightly on Dia's shoulder. "We should celebrate," she says, her gaze shifting to Dia. "What do you say? Sneak out of the temple, grab a meal in the city?"

Dia's eyes light up at the suggestion, her lekku twitching with excitement. "Definitely," she agrees, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

Scout groans dramatically, rolling her eyes. "Lucky you two. We have morning lessons," she complains, though there's a hint of a smile on her lips. "Go ahead, have fun while the rest of us are stuck here."

Trilla chuckles, shaking her head. "You'd better bring us something back," she teases, her gaze flicking between Dia and Zela.

"We'll see," Zela replies, her tone teasing as well, before turning to Dia. "Come on, let's get out of here before anyone changes their mind."

With a final wave to their friends, Dia and Zela make their way out of the sparring room, their hands brushing against each other as they walk.

The Temple halls are quiet in the evening, the soft glow of the lights casting long shadows across the polished floors. Zela and Dia move with practiced ease, their footsteps nearly silent as they make their way through the maze of corridors, hearts pounding with a mix of excitement and mischief. They are dressed in casual clothing, far removed from the usual flowing robes of Jedi Padawans. Dia’s outfit is a stark contrast to her Jedi attire—form-fitted trousers that hug her legs, and a cropped black top that leaves her toned midriff exposed. She wears a sleek leather jacket that falls just above her waist, her lightsaber discreetly clipped at the back of her belt, tucked under the jacket. Her lekku are loosely draped over her shoulders, their tips bouncing slightly as she moves.

Zela walks beside her, wearing a purple jacket, its sleeves pushed up to her elbows, revealing her strong forearms. Underneath, she has on a snug tank top that accentuates her athletic build. She’s wearing cut-off trousers that end just below her knees, exposing her blue skin and the white markings winding down her legs, her own lightsaber clipped onto the back of her belt and hidden by her jacket. She moves confidently, her senses alert, and her sharp teeth briefly flash in a grin every time she glances at Dia, the thrill of sneaking out making her adrenaline spike.

They pause near an archway leading to one of the lesser-used exits, a small door that opens to a walkway leading away from the Temple. Dia leans against the wall, peeking around the corner before looking back at Zela with a smirk. "All clear," she whispers, her violet eyes sparkling mischievously. The bond between them hums with shared excitement, their emotions mingling in an intoxicating rush of freedom.

Zela steps closer, her shoulder brushing against Dia’s as she moves past her. "I think we’ve gotten better at this," she says softly, her voice barely above a murmur as she glances back at Dia with a grin. "Either that, or the Temple guards are getting complacent."

Dia chuckles, the sound low and soft, and shakes her head. "It’s probably both. Though I’d like to think we’re just that good." She pushes off the wall and falls into step beside Zela, the two of them slipping out through the door and into the cool Coruscant evening. The temperature drop is immediate, a gentle breeze brushing against their skin, carrying the distant hum of the bustling city.

The walkway leads them away from the Temple, the towering spires behind them fading as they descend into the city streets below. The bright neon signs of Coruscant’s nightlife blink into view, painting their path in vibrant reds, blues, and purples. The deeper they move into the city, the more the soundscape changes—the distant whine of speeders overhead, the chatter of people, and the faint beat of music from nearby cantinas blending into a symphony of life that contrasts with the serene quiet of the Temple.

Dia takes a deep breath, her eyes closing for a brief moment, savouring the scent of street food and the distinct smell of duracrete. “Feels good to be out here,” she murmurs, glancing at Zela, her gaze lingering on the taller Togruta’s face, the glow of a nearby neon sign casting soft pink light across her features. She reaches out to take Zela's hand, squeezing it gently.

Zela nods in agreement, her own senses drinking in the chaotic energy of the city. “It’s almost like we’re just normal people for a while. Not Padawans, not soldiers, just… us,” she says, her voice wistful as she looks ahead, her eyes catching sight of their destination—a small, cozy-looking restaurant tucked between two larger buildings, its sign written in flowing Togruti script.

They make their way inside, the soft chime above the door signalling their arrival. The air is warm, filled with the scent of roasting meats, spices, and freshly baked bread. It’s a place they’ve come to on their previous escapades, a Togruta-run restaurant that serves dishes reminiscent of the traditional meals from Shili. The walls are adorned with woven tapestries, colourful representations of Togruta hunting scenes, and wooden carvings depicting the wildlife of Shili.

The host, an elderly Togruta woman, looks up as they enter, her eyes crinkling with warmth as she recognises them. "Back again, I see," she says, her voice carrying a hint of amusement as she gestures for them to sit wherever they like. "You two must be craving some real food, not that bland Jedi Temple fare."

Dia chuckles, giving the host a polite bow of her head. "You know us too well," she says, her voice holding a note of genuine affection. She follows Zela to a table near the back, sliding into the booth and leaning back, her eyes scanning the restaurant as she takes in the comfortable atmosphere.

Zela sits across from her, her eyes locking onto Dia’s for a moment before they both smile, an unspoken understanding passing between them through their bond. The sense of freedom, of being able to let their guard down and just enjoy a meal together, without the expectations of the Order or the weight of the war—it’s a small reprieve, but one they cherish deeply.

After ordering their food—an assortment of grilled meats, rice, and a variety of spiced vegetables—they settle into an easy conversation, their voices hushed as they talk about anything and everything that comes to mind. The bond between them thrums with warmth and contentment, the connection allowing them to share thoughts and emotions effortlessly. It’s moments like this that make all the hardships they’ve faced feel almost worth it, the simple joy of being together, away from everything else.

Dia reaches across the table, her fingers brushing against Zela’s, the bond between them flaring slightly with warmth. “I’m really glad we came out tonight,” she says softly, her violet eyes meeting Zela’s green ones. “I needed this.”

Zela’s lips curve into a gentle smile, her fingers wrapping around Dia’s hand. “Me too,” she replies, her voice a soft murmur, almost lost beneath the hum of the restaurant.

As their food arrives, they begin to eat, the flavours and spices bringing a sense of comfort that only a familiar meal could provide. They share stories from the frontlines—the good moments, the small victories that made the difference, the times when they felt truly connected to the Force, even amidst the chaos of battle. Dia laughs as Zela recounts a particularly daring manoeuvre she pulled off during a mission, her eyes sparkling with pride as she listens.

The conversation drifts to lighter topics, stories of their time in the Temple before the war, the pranks they pulled as younglings, and the times they’d sneak off to explore the less-travelled areas of the Temple grounds. It’s easy, effortless, the bond between them amplifying their joy and laughter. For a moment, it feels like they’re just two young women enjoying a night out, not Jedi caught in the midst of a galactic conflict.

After their meal, Dia and Zela wander through the bustling evening market, their hands clasped together as they stroll leisurely down the narrow lanes lined with vendors. The market is alive with colour and movement, a kaleidoscope of different species mingling among the stalls selling anything from fresh produce to exotic trinkets. The buzz of conversation fills the air, mingling with the aromas of spices and grilled meats drifting from nearby food vendors. The lights from neon signs and the stalls create a vibrant, almost magical atmosphere, the world around them glowing in hues of red, blue, and gold, as if they’ve stepped into another universe entirely.

Dia and Zela take their time, pausing now and then to admire the various items on display—jewelry, woven fabrics, and small carvings that catch their attention. The neon lights overhead cast an otherworldly glow over the scene, illuminating the smiles on their faces as they enjoy the moment of normalcy, their fingers tightly intertwined. Every so often, Zela would glance at Dia, and they would share a smile.

As they pass by a stall displaying handcrafted knives, Zela suddenly pauses, her gaze locking onto a figure a few feet away. Dia follows her line of sight, her curiosity piqued. A tall figure stands by one of the stalls, inspecting one of the knives. The woman is unmistakable: fur as white as fresh snow covers her sleek, wolf-like frame, with vibrant blue highlights dyed into the fur along her ears and tail. Her ears twitch at the faintest sound, and her long, expressive tail sways lazily behind her. Kia, dressed in Mandalorian armour painted in shades of blue and purple, cuts an imposing figure. Her helmet is clipped to her belt, allowing her expressive muzzle to curl into a grin as she haggles with the vendor. Her hands, encased in gauntlets, rest lightly on the counter, her sharp amber eyes glinting with intelligence and amusement.

Zela’s lekku twitch slightly in recognition, a grin spreading across her face. “That’s her,” Zela whispers to Dia, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “That’s Kia. The one I told you about—the one who rescued us.”

Dia’s eyes widen slightly, her gaze turning back to the Mandalorian. “That’s Kia?” she repeats, her voice laced with both curiosity and gratitude. She had heard about Kia many times from Zela, the Mandalorian who had appeared just in time to save them, and now, here she was in front of her, unaware of their presence.

Zela nods, already tugging Dia forward as she calls out, “Hey, Kia!”

The Mandalorian’s ears swivel towards the sound, her head snapping up, and a grin breaks across her muzzle. “Well, well, if it isn’t my favourite Jetii,” Kia says, her tone teasing as she steps forward to greet them. Her sharp eyes flick to Dia, her gaze appraising for a moment before she raises an eyebrow. “And who’s this?”

“This is Dia,” Zela says, her voice filled with affection as she glances at Dia. “My friend. The one you saved that day.”

Dia smiles, a warmth filling her chest. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she says, extending her cybernetic hand to Kia. “Thank you—for saving us. I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

Kia looks at Dia’s outstretched hand for a moment before clasping it firmly in her paw-like grip, her fingers curling gently around Dia’s. “No need to thank me,” she says, her tone softer than before, a hint of warmth beneath the teasing edge. “I was just in the right place at the right time.” She pauses, her gaze shifting between Dia and Zela. “Besides, I couldn’t let Zela here take all the credit for keeping you alive, could I?”

Zela snorts, rolling her eyes. “Always so modest, aren’t you?” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, though the grin on her face betrays her amusement.

Kia smirks, shrugging her shoulders, her tail giving an amused flick. “Someone has to keep you Jetii grounded.” She looks back at Dia, her eyes narrowing slightly in a playful manner. “So, how’s the arm?”

Dia blinks, momentarily caught off guard by the question, before her gaze drops to her cybernetic arm, partially visible beneath the sleeve of her jacket. She flexes her fingers, the metal joints whirring softly. “It’s… different,” she admits, her voice quieter. “Still getting used to it. But I’m managing.”

Kia nods, her expression shifting to something more serious. “You’re tougher than most people I’ve met,” she says, her voice carrying a sincerity that catches Dia off guard. “You’ll be just fine, I can tell.”

Dia smiles, the bond between her and Zela humming with warmth at Kia’s words. “Thank you,” she says softly.

Kia glances at Zela, then back at Dia, her lips quirking into a smirk. “So, what are you two doing out here? Sneaking out of that Temple of yours?”

Zela grins, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Maybe. We wanted some real food, with some actual spice. You know how it is.”

Kia chuckles, shaking her head, her tail swaying lazily. “Jetii breaking the rules. I like it.” She tilts her head slightly, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. “Well, if you’re not in a hurry, how about I show you around? There’s a vendor around the corner that sells some of the best roasted nuna I’ve ever had, and I’m sure I can convince the two of you to try some Mandalorian armour. It’s never too late to embrace a little culture, you know.”

Dia glances at Zela, her violet eyes questioning, and Zela nods with a smile. “Sure. We’ve got time,” Dia says, her voice warm. She can feel Zela’s excitement and curiosity through their bond, and it makes her heart swell with affection.

“Lead the way, Mandalorian,” Zela says, her tone teasing as she gestures for Kia to take the lead.

Kia smirks, turning and gesturing for them to follow her. “Alright then, stick close, Jetii. Let’s see if we can find something worth breaking curfew for.”

The three of them move through the market, the atmosphere vibrant with life and energy. They weave through the crowds, the bright lights above illuminating their path. As they walk, Kia points out different vendors, sharing stories of her travels across the galaxy, each tale more outrageous and adventurous than the last. Zela and Dia listen with rapt attention, their laughter occasionally mingling with the hum of the city. For a brief moment, it feels like they are just three friends, free from the responsibilities of the Order and the war, their spirits lightened by the company and the energy of the market.

At one of the stalls, Kia stops to buy them roasted nuna skewers, the aroma making Dia’s mouth water. She hands one to Dia and one to Zela, her grin widening as they take their first bite. “See? Told you it’s worth it,” she says, her tone smug.

Dia’s eyes widen slightly, and she nods in agreement, savouring the blend of spices. “Okay, you weren’t kidding. This is amazing,” she admits, her voice muffled by a mouthful of food.

Zela laughs, nodding her head as she takes another bite. “I guess even Mandalorians have good taste sometimes,” she teases, her eyes twinkling as she looks at Kia.

Kia rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her face. “Careful, Jetii. You keep talking like that, and I might just decide to keep you both around,” she says, her voice light, though there’s a hint of something genuine beneath the teasing.

Dia smiles, her heart swelling with warmth. The bond between her and Zela hums with a shared sense of belonging and happiness, the two of them basking in the moment, surrounded by the vibrant life of Coruscant.

After wandering through the lively markets, Kia suggests they take a break by catching a movie. With some gentle convincing for Zela and a bright smile from Dia, they decide to find a nearby theatre that’s showing something entertaining. The trio makes their way through the crowded streets, navigating the maze of bustling market stalls until they find a small, modest cinema tucked between two brightly lit restaurants.

The theatre buzzes with activity as Dia, Zela, and Kia step inside, the neon lights of the holoscreens casting colourful reflections on the sleek metal walls. The tantalising aroma of buttery popped grains fills the air, mixing with the quiet hum of conversation from the crowd. Dia glances around with wide, eager eyes, practically bouncing on her heels. Zela trails behind her, amusement dancing across her features, while Kia towers beside them, her presence unmistakable.

Kia’s wolf-like features draw several curious glances from the crowd, her white fur shimmering under the theatre’s artificial lighting. The blue highlights streaking through her fur add an almost ethereal glow, accentuating the sharpness of her amber eyes as they scan the area with practised ease. 

"I still can’t believe I let you talk me into this," Zela says, her voice tinged with mock exasperation as she glances at Dia, who’s practically dragging her toward the ticket counter.

Dia grins, her violet eyes sparkling with excitement. "Come on, Zels, it’s going to be fun! I’ve been wanting to see this one for weeks."

Kia chuckles, her muzzle curling into an amused smile as she watches the two Jedi banter. "I’m starting to think you’re more excited about this than anything else in the galaxy right now," she teases, her voice carrying a warm, rumbling tone.

Dia flashes a grin at Kia, unbothered by the teasing. "Maybe I am. It’s a Jedi-inspired drama, after all. How could I resist?"

Zela groans dramatically. "Jedi-inspired, my lekku. These things get the Force so wrong it’s almost painful to watch. It’s not even close to how the Force actually works. That whole ‘projecting your image across the galaxy’ nonsense from the last one? Absolutely ridiculous, that's not how the Force works."

Dia’s grin widens, her amusement clear. "Exactly! That’s what makes it so fun! Watching you squirm and complain about it is half the experience."

Zela shoots her a playful glare but doesn’t argue further as they approach the ticket counter. Kia steps forward, her imposing figure drawing the cashier’s attention. "Three tickets for… whatever ridiculous drama my friends have dragged me to," she says with a smirk, her tail giving an amused flick.

The cashier hesitates for a moment, captivated by Kia’s presence, before quickly processing the request. "Enjoy the show," they say, handing over the tickets.

As they make their way to the concessions stand, Kia glances at the holoscreen displaying the movie’s promotional poster. A Jedi and Sith stand locked in a dramatic duel, their exaggerated poses illuminated by clashing lightsabers. Kia raises an eyebrow. "Is this really what you Jedi do? Strike dramatic poses while throwing the galaxy into chaos?"

Dia laughs, grabbing a large bag of popped grains and a drink. "Pretty much," she says, clearly unbothered by Kia’s sarcasm.

Zela snorts. "No, what we actually do is a lot more subtle. And less flashy. And certainly less… whatever that is." She gestures toward the poster, her lekku twitching in irritation. "Why do they always make it seem like using the Force is some magical power that can solve everything? The mechanics of it aren’t even consistent."

"Yet, you always end up watching these with me," Dia points out, nudging Zela with her elbow.

Zela huffs but doesn’t deny it. "Only because you enjoy them so much," she grumbles, though a small smile betrays her affection.

Once they’ve loaded up on snacks, the trio finds their seats in the theatre. Dia insists on sitting in the middle, her petite frame sandwiched between Kia and Zela. The arrangement is amusingly mismatched: Dia’s head barely reaches Kia’s shoulder, while Zela’s slightly taller frame still falls short of Kia’s imposing height. The contrast is even more pronounced as Kia stretches out, her furred tail curling beneath the seat while her ears twitch at the faintest sound of the pre-show music.

As the lights dim and the movie begins, Dia leans forward eagerly, clutching her bag of snacks. Zela settles back into her seat, casting an affectionate glance at Dia before focusing on the screen. Kia crosses her arms, her expression sceptical as the overly dramatic opening crawl sets the tone for the film.

"This already feels inaccurate," Kia mutters, her ears swivelling slightly.

"You don’t even know what’s going to happen yet," Dia whispers, throwing a piece of popped grain into her mouth.

"Do I need to?" Kia replies, her voice low but amused.

The movie unfolds with exaggerated lightsaber duels, melodramatic dialogue, and questionable Force mechanics that make both Dia and Zela wince occasionally. Despite her earlier complaints, Zela can’t help but comment throughout the film, muttering, "That’s not how the Force works," every time the movie bends its depiction of Jedi abilities beyond recognition.

Dia, thoroughly entertained, giggles quietly at Zela’s critiques. "You’re making this even better," she whispers, nudging Zela.

"I’m glad you’re enjoying my suffering," Zela replies dryly, though the corners of her mouth twitch upward in a reluctant smile.

Kia, meanwhile, watches with a bemused expression, her tail flicking occasionally when something particularly ridiculous happens. "If this is what you Jetii are like, I’m surprised the galaxy hasn’t imploded," she whispers at one point, her muzzle near Dia’s ear.

Dia stifles a laugh, swatting lightly at Kia’s arm. "Just enjoy the movie," she says, her tone playful.

As the credits roll, the trio leaves the theatre in high spirits, their laughter echoing through the night. Kia stretches as they step outside, her tail flicking lazily behind her. "I’m not sure if I should be impressed or horrified," she says, glancing at Dia and Zela.

"A bit of both, maybe," Zela replies, her lekku twitching in amusement.

Dia grins, linking her arm with Zela’s as they begin walking. "See? I told you it’d be fun."

Kia shakes her head, her muzzle curling into a smile. "You Jetii are something else."

The three of them wander into the bustling Coruscant streets, the vibrant city lights reflecting off Kia’s armour. For a moment, the war and their responsibilities feel distant, replaced by laughter and the simple joy of being together.

“Alright, Jetii. What next?” Kia asks, her eyes glinting mischievously.

Dia looks up at her, then at Zela, and a smile spreads across her face. “I guess we’ll have to see what trouble we can get into,” she says, her tone teasing.

Zela laughs, shaking her head as she slings an arm around Dia’s shoulders. “Let’s just make sure it’s nothing that’ll get us caught this time, alright?” she says, her eyes meeting Kia’s.

Kia chuckles, before looking between them, realising they are serious. “Wait, this time?” she asks, leading the way out of the theatre, the three of them walking side by side.

"Luckily, it was just the temple guards instead of the police," Zela says with a smirk, hooking her arm around Dia's waist as they walk, "This one thought it would be a good idea if..."

"NOPE!" Dia says, pressing her hand to Zela's mouth to cut her off, "Enough of that story or I can tell her about some of the many I have about you, or I'll just hide your snacks."

Kia laughs as she slings her arm over Dia's shoulder, holding her between herself and Zela as they walk, "Oh I so want to hear so many of these stories."

The streets of Coruscant are alive with energy as Dia, Zela, and Kia move deeper into the bustling nightlife, their laughter echoing through the narrow alleys and brightly lit avenues. Neon lights illuminate their faces in vivid colours as they pass through a busy strip lined with small vendors selling everything from fried food to intricate trinkets. The hum of speeder bikes passing overhead is a constant backdrop to the thrumming beats of music that drift from the nearby bars and clubs.

"I think we should try one of these places," Zela suggests, nodding towards a small establishment that has music spilling out of its wide-open doors, the rhythmic bass reverberating against the walls. "Or are you two too scared to dance?"

Dia grins, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Oh, I can handle it," she says, nudging Zela. Her lekku twitch with excitement, and she looks over at Kia. "What about you? Up for a little dancing, Mandalorian?"

Kia tilts her head slightly, her wolf-like features catching the neon glow of the bustling street. Her white fur shimmers, the dyed blue highlights streaking through it seeming almost to glow under the vibrant lights. Her expressive ears flick slightly, and her amber eyes glint with amusement. Her muzzle curves into a sly smile as she responds, "You think you can out-dance a Mandalorian? Challenge accepted. Let's see what you've got, Jetii."

With that, they head into the crowded club, the sound of the music swallowing them whole as they enter. The flashing lights create a dazzling effect, and they weave their way through the crowd until they find an open spot on the dance floor. Zela takes the lead, swaying her hips in time with the music, her eyes meeting Dia's as she beckons her forward. Dia giggles, letting herself relax as she begins to move to the beat, her body falling naturally into the rhythm.

Kia watches for a moment, her gaze flicking between the two of them, an amused expression on her face before she steps forward and starts dancing too. Her movements are fluid yet powerful, commanding attention in the way only a Mandalorian could. Dia finds herself glancing at Kia every now and then, impressed by how easily she moves, her confidence radiating outwards. Zela, on the other hand, is all grace and flow, her movements precise yet relaxed, her eyes never straying far from Dia.

The three of them lose themselves in the music, the beat carrying them away from the war, away from the duties and responsibilities that always seem to weigh on their shoulders. Here, under the dim lights, surrounded by strangers, they are just three young people enjoying themselves, enjoying the moment—a rare gift that they hold onto tightly.

After a few songs, they find themselves breathless, laughter bubbling up from within as they stumble off the dance floor, Zela wrapping an arm around Dia's waist while Kia slings her arm over Dia's shoulders. They make their way to the bar, their faces flushed from dancing and their smiles wide.

"I think you won, Kia," Dia admits, her voice slightly breathless as she leans against the bar, her arm brushing against Zela's. "I can't keep up with that Mandalorian stamina."

Kia laughs, her muzzle curling into a grin, her sharp teeth glinting faintly in the light. "I'll take that as a compliment. But you did pretty well, Jetii." She nudges Dia with her elbow, her tail flicking with amusement. "Besides, it was fun."

Zela nods in agreement, her gaze moving between Dia and Kia. "Yeah, it was," she says softly, her voice almost lost beneath the noise of the club. She squeezes Dia's waist, her claws lightly digging into Dia's exposed red skin. "Let's try to enjoy tonight for as long as we can. Who knows when we'll get another chance like this?"

Dia's breath catches in her throat slightly as she feels Zela's claws, her cheeks darkening. Her heart swells with warmth as she looks between her two friends. "Agreed," she says, her smile bright and genuine. "No missions, no council meetings—just us."

The bartender approaches, and Kia orders drinks for the three of them, a bright, fizzy concoction that glows faintly under the club's lights. They clink their glasses together, a silent toast to the night, to each other, and to the fleeting freedom they have found here.

"To us," Zela says, her voice filled with affection as she looks at Dia and Kia.

"To us," Dia and Kia echo, their glasses meeting with a soft clink before they take a sip.

For a while longer, they sit at the bar, the conversation flowing easily between them, their laughter blending into the noise of the club. The bond between Dia and Zela hums quietly at the back of their minds, a comforting presence, while Kia's laughter and warmth fill the gaps between them, forming a connection that feels natural and right.

As they leave the club later that night, the streets still bustling with life, Zela pulls Dia closer, her arm wrapped around her waist while Kia walks on the other side, her arm still slung over Dia's shoulder. The three of them move together, their steps in sync, the night air cool against their skin as they make their way back towards the temple.

"Next time, we pick a place with less dancing and more food," Kia says, her voice light, a smile playing on her muzzle.

"Agreed," Dia replies, leaning her head against Zela's shoulder, her heart full. "But this was perfect too."

Zela nods, her eyes soft as she looks at both of them. "Yeah. It really was."

Eventually, they reach a familiar intersection—the point where they must go their separate ways. Dia feels a pang of sadness, and judging by the way Zela's arm tightens around her waist, she knows her friend feels the same.

"Alright, I guess this is where we part ways," Kia says, her voice tinged with reluctant acceptance. Her piercing eyes gleam under the streetlights, and her muzzle quirks into a smirk as she tries to lighten the mood. "You know, I still think you two could sneak me in. I'd like to see the inside of that famous temple of yours."

Zela chuckles, shaking her head. "You know we can't do that, Kia. The Council would lose their minds."

Dia steps closer to Kia, her expression softening as she looks up at her. "Yeah, as much as I'd love for you to join us... we might get more than just temple guard detention if we're caught sneaking in a Mandalorian," she says, her voice warm but with an edge of genuine worry.

Kia tilts her head, her furred ears twitching slightly, and raises an eyebrow. Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "And here I thought Jetii liked a challenge," she teases, leaning down slightly to meet Dia's gaze, her tone full of playful defiance.

Dia rolls her eyes, but she smiles, reaching up to touch Kia's arm. "Oh, we do. Trust me. This just... isn't one we can take on right now," she says, her voice growing more sincere. "But we'll see each other again soon. We promise."

Zela steps closer, her free hand resting on Kia's armoured shoulder, feeling the cool metal beneath her fingers. "Stay safe, alright?" she says, her voice warm, but with a genuine concern that can't be missed.

Kia nods, her gaze flicking between Dia and Zela. "You two take care of each other. Don't go getting into any more trouble without me," she says, a hint of something deeper in her voice, as if the words are more of a plea than a joke.

Dia smiles up at her, the bond between herself and Zela humming with shared affection and gratitude for this new friendship. "We won't. We'll wait for you. Promise," she says.

Kia hesitates for a moment, then pulls both Dia and Zela into a tight embrace, Dia pressed between Kia's armour and Zela, engulfed by her two taller friends. The soft texture of Kia’s fur brushes against Dia’s cheek, and the embrace is brief but filled with unspoken words—a promise that their paths will cross again soon. Kia steps back, her smirk returning as her tail flicks behind her. "Alright, get outta here before I change my mind and follow you back," she says, waving them off.

Dia and Zela watch as Kia walks away, her silhouette and tail swaying with purpose as she disappears into the night. Zela lets out a sigh, glancing down at Dia with a small, wistful smile. "Ready to sneak back in?"

Dia nods, her eyes lingering where Kia had just been before looking up at Zela, her expression softening. "Yeah, let's go."

With the same care they used to sneak out, Dia and Zela make their way back through the shadowed alleys and winding paths, eventually finding themselves back at the towering Jedi Temple. The grand, imposing structure seems almost to be scowling down at them, as if aware of their little excursion into Coruscant's nightlife.

They exchange a look—a mix of excitement and nervousness—before slipping through a side entrance. The temple is mostly quiet, the corridors illuminated by soft lights, with the occasional patrol of temple guards adding tension to their steps. They hold their breath when they hear a pair of boots approaching, pressing themselves flat against the wall behind a column. The two of them wrapping themselves in the Force to hide themselves from the temple guard, fading from notice and their senses. The guard passes without noticing them, and they exhale in relief, exchanging a glance filled with barely-contained laughter.

They continue through the halls, their footsteps quiet against the smooth marble floors, until they finally reach Dia's quarters. Zela enters the code, and the door whooshes open quietly. They slip inside, closing the door behind them.

The small space is dimly lit, the gentle warmth of the bedside lights illuminating the familiar sight of Dia’s prayer nook and their shared clutter from the last few days of recovery. Zela smiles softly as she takes in the comfortable mess, her eyes catching sight of the candles they had lit earlier in front of the small Kika'lekki idol. The room smells faintly of the incense they had burned, and it brings a comforting sense of warmth to the space.

Dia lets out a yawn, her shoulders sagging as the exhaustion from their long day and night finally settles into her bones, along with her body still recovering from her injuries. Zela chuckles, stepping behind Dia and gently resting her hands on Dia’s shoulders. "Alright, let's get you ready for bed," she murmurs, her voice soft and affectionate.

Dia tilts her head back slightly, her lekku brushing against Zela’s chest as she offers her a tired but grateful smile. "I’m lucky to have you," she whispers, her eyes half-closed.

Zela chuckles again, her fingers already unzipping Dia’s jacket, her hands deft as she slips it from Dia's shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. “You’re more than lucky,” she says, her voice full of warmth. “Now, arms up.”

Dia obeys, raising her left arm while her right only raises halfway, the weight of her cybernetic making it feel cumbersome. Zela slips Dia’s crop top over her head, the soft fabric rustling as it comes free and is tossed onto the chair. Zela’s eyes meet Dia’s, her gaze tender as she studies the cybernetic arm.

Zela’s hands move to Dia’s shoulder, her fingers brushing over the metallic edges of the cybernetic arm’s mount. Her touch lingers, almost caressing the red skin and the intricate tattoos that wind around Dia’s shoulder. Zela’s fingers trace the designs gently, her touch light but reverent. Dia closes her eyes, a shiver running through her at the sensation.

“Okay, now for this,” Zela says, her voice turning softer as she steadies herself. She hesitates for just a moment, her eyes meeting Dia’s, conveying both determination and care. Dia nods, her eyes conveying a trust that makes Zela’s heart swell. “Go ahead,” Dia says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Zela leans down slightly, her forehead pressing gently against Dia’s, their eyes closing as the two of them breathe in each other’s presence. The bond between them hums gently, the warmth of their shared emotions filling the room as Zela activates the release mechanism. There’s a soft click, and Dia lets out a small gasp as the connection disengages, the weight of the cybernetic arm lifting away from her.

“There we go,” Zela whispers, her voice soothing as she carefully places the arm on the nightstand, ensuring it rests safely before turning her attention back to Dia. “You’re doing great.”

Dia bites her lip, her eyes misting as she looks at the empty space where her arm once was. The vulnerability she feels in that moment is overwhelming, and she feels the familiar ache of inadequacy start to creep in. Zela, sensing her turmoil through the bond, immediately wraps her arms around Dia, pulling her into a tight embrace.

“I’ve got you,” Zela murmurs, her voice filled with a fierce protectiveness. Her hands move up and down Dia’s back in slow, comforting strokes, her fingers trailing over the black tattoos that mark Dia’s skin, her touch grounding her. “You’re not alone, Dia. Not now, not ever.”

Dia swallows hard, nodding as she buries her face in Zela’s shoulder, her left arm wrapping around Zela’s waist. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice cracking slightly.

Zela pulls back just enough to press a gentle kiss to Dia’s forehead before helping her out of her trousers, leaving Dia in just her undergarments. Zela’s touch is deliberate, her hands brushing against Dia’s hips, her fingertips lingering on the soft curves of her body, almost as if committing each touch to memory. She moves slowly, her hands gliding over Dia's skin with a tenderness that makes every moment feel sacred. Zela traces her fingers along Dia's sides, pausing at her waist, her touch both steady and reverent, her eyes drinking in every detail. She takes her time, her movements unhurried, allowing Dia to feel cared for, cherished. The intimacy of the moment is palpable, the bond between them thrumming with shared warmth and trust, as if their hearts are beating in sync, each one echoing the other's rhythm.

Zela quickly undresses herself, her clothes joining the pile on the floor before she guides Dia towards the bed. Dia sits down on the edge, her eyes following Zela as she moves around the room, blowing out the candles and turning off the lights until only the soft glow of Coruscant’s skyline filters through the window.

Zela slips into bed first, holding out her arm to Dia, who immediately crawls in beside her, curling up against Zela’s side, her body fitting against Zela’s as if they were always meant to be this way. Zela pulls the blanket over them, her arm wrapping around Dia’s shoulders, her fingers brushing soothing circles against Dia’s skin.

Dia rests her head on Zela’s shoulder, her lekku wrapping around Zela’s arm. Zela wraps one leg over Dia’s, pulling her closer until there is no space left between them. Their red and blue skin presses together, the warmth of their bodies mingling as their limbs intertwine, creating a tangle of intimacy.

Dia takes a deep breath, her left arm draping over Zela’s waist, her fingers gently brushing against the exposed skin of Zela’s lower back. Zela sighs softly, her own arms wrapped securely around Dia, her fingers tracing gentle patterns along Dia’s shoulder and upper arm.

“This feels right,” Dia murmurs, her eyes closing as she nestles closer, her head resting against Zela’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

“It does,” Zela agrees, her voice barely a whisper as she leans her head against Dia’s, her montrals brushing gently against Dia’s lekku. She lets out a content sigh, her eyes drifting closed as she feels Dia’s breathing start to slow, the bond between them thrumming with warmth and comfort.

“Sleep, Dia. I’ll be here when you wake up,” Zela whispers, her voice filled with love and promise.

Dia smiles, her heart swelling with a sense of peace she hasn’t felt in a long time. “Goodnight, Zela,” she murmurs, her voice already trailing off as sleep pulls her under.

“Goodnight, Dia,” Zela replies, her eyes closing as she lets herself relax, the bond between them a steady reminder that they are not alone—not tonight, and not ever.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XVII

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Dia stands in the shadowed training room, her breaths even and controlled as she studies her surroundings. The dim lights cast a soft glow over the padded floors, the only illumination coming from the flickering candles strategically placed around the edges. The air carries a sense of serenity, but there’s an underlying tension in the silence—the kind that always seems to follow her ever since she began her Jedi Shadow training.

Her teacher, Quinlan Vos, circles her slowly, his eyes sharp, observing her every move, his presence calm but intent. He walks barefoot, making no sound, but Dia can feel him in the Force, his presence brushing against her senses. She stands in the middle of the room, her new cybernetic arm glinting in the dim light. Though she has grown more accustomed to its weight, it’s still an alien addition to her body—something that needs to be conquered if she is to proceed with her training.

“Your goal today is simple,” Quinlan’s deep voice echoes softly in the chamber, breaking the silence. “You will navigate through these obstacles and make it to the other side.” He gestures towards the room, which has been transformed into a course filled with pitfalls and barriers. “However, you must use stealth and balance, while holding complete control over your connection to the Force.”

Dia nods, a determined fire in her eyes, her lekku twitching as she takes a deep breath. This training is about more than reaching the other side of the room—it’s about embracing her new reality, becoming a true Shadow, and overcoming the doubt she feels in her own body. She begins to move forward, her steps careful and silent, each one testing her connection to the ground beneath her feet.

The first barrier is a narrow beam, suspended above the ground, that she must cross without making a sound. She places her foot on it, and the metal is cold beneath her bare sole. She moves slowly, her body a graceful line, each step deliberate. But as she shifts her weight, her cybernetic arm twitches, throwing off her balance slightly. Dia grits her teeth, her lips pressing together in frustration.

“Focus, Dia,” Quinlan’s voice reaches her, calm but unwavering. “Do not fight against it. You must learn to flow with it—to find harmony with this new part of you. The cybernetic arm is not a hindrance, it’s a tool. Let the Force connect it to the rest of your being.”

Quinlan has always been able to instruct Dia in a way that resonates with her, far better than her actual master, who has a rather dogmatic view of the Jedi Code. Where her master focuses on rigid adherence, Quinlan’s teachings are flexible and intuitive, encouraging Dia to explore her unique relationship with the Force. It’s his understanding that helps Dia feel seen, accepted, and challenged in ways that foster real growth. It’s not about suppressing who she is, but embracing every part of herself.

Dia swallows hard, her eyes narrowing as she steadies herself, feeling her heart rate pick up. She can sense the small vibrations of the beam beneath her feet, the vibrations of the metal mingling with the thrum of the Force. She closes her eyes for a moment, and focuses on her breath, drawing it in slowly, letting her mind open and her presence extend into the Force. She feels the weight of her arm, and instead of fighting it, she embraces it, allowing herself to accept the heaviness, to move with it rather than struggle against it.

Slowly, she starts to walk forward, one step, then another—the balance returning, her connection becoming steadier. She reaches the end of the beam, leaping lightly down to the ground below, landing with her knees bent and one hand steadying herself. Quinlan watches with a faint smile on his face, his presence still calm, guiding her but letting her find her own way.

The next obstacle is a wall, with handholds and grooves meant for climbing. Dia takes a moment to analyze the wall, before she grips the first handhold with her left hand. She reaches up with her right arm, the cybernetic fingers wrapping around the metal bar. The sensation is still strange—the distorted feeling, the cold touch of the metal—but she pushes past it, relying instead on her instinct and her strength. She moves upwards, pulling herself up slowly, using both her organic and cybernetic arm to support her weight. Each movement is slow and careful, but she feels herself getting stronger, her confidence growing.

The wall is high, and halfway up, she pauses to catch her breath. Sweat drips down her face, her muscles tense. She looks down at the ground below, her eyes narrowing in determination. “I can do this,” she whispers to herself, her voice barely audible. She pulls herself upwards, hand over hand, reaching the top of the wall and swinging her legs over, before dropping lightly down the other side. She lands with grace, her knees bending to absorb the impact.

Quinlan nods approvingly, stepping closer. “Good. You are adapting, learning to work with the changes rather than against them. You’re almost there. Remember, let the Force flow through you, and let go of the doubt.”

Dia takes another deep breath, her eyes meeting Quinlan’s, determination etched on her features. She turns towards the last challenge, a darkened corridor with sensors lining the walls, meant to detect her movements. She can’t afford to make a mistake here. She taps into the Force, feeling the flow of energy around her, letting herself become one with the shadows, her footsteps soundless as she begins to move. The darkness envelops her, but she doesn’t hesitate, letting the Force guide her path.

As she moves through the corridor, Dia feels the bond with Zela resonate deep within her, a comforting presence that grounds her, reminding her that she’s not alone. It’s that connection, that warmth, that gives her the courage to keep pushing forward, despite her insecurities, despite the fears that linger in the back of her mind. She slips between the beams of light that sweep across the floor, her movements fluid and natural, her body responding without thought, her awareness extending beyond the confines of her own senses.

She makes it to the other side of the corridor, emerging from the shadows, her breath steady, her heart filled with determination. Quinlan watches her, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. He steps forward, his voice filled with approval, “Well done, Padawan. You’re learning to embrace what you’ve become. Remember, the Force is your ally—it’s always there, a part of you, guiding you. Trust in it, and trust in yourself.”

Dia nods, a smile tugging at her lips as she takes a moment to catch her breath. Her new arm still feels foreign, but it’s becoming more familiar each day. She knows she’s not done yet—that there will always be challenges—but she also knows that she’s strong enough to face them. She looks at Quinlan, her eyes filled with gratitude and determination. “Thank you, Master Vos. I won’t give up.”

Their training and assessments continue until reaching the final trial for today.

The darkened chamber is silent, the air thick with an eerie tension, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. Shadows dance across the ancient stone, their movements caused by the flickering light of a single torch set in the far corner. Dia stands at the center of the room, her senses heightened, her breathing measured. She wears the deep grey robes of a Jedi Shadow, her lightsaber hanging at her hip, deactivated but ready. Her lekku rest against her back and shoulders, her gaze set straight ahead. Her eyes are narrowed, her awareness heightened as she seeks out the smallest hints of movement, of presence.

Quinlan Vos stands across from her, his eyes obscured beneath the hood of his cloak, his presence calm but focused, like the stillness before a storm. He watches her with an intensity that seems to weigh on her shoulders. The chamber itself seems alive, thick with an almost tangible sense of the Force. Yet it is not just the light she feels—the darkness is here too, lurking in the corners, whispering just out of sight, calling to her in a voice that only she can hear.

“This is it, Dia,” Quinlan says, his voice breaking the silence. His words are deliberate, carrying weight. “Your training has brought you to this moment. Show me your focus. Show me you can feel the currents of the Force without drowning in them.”

Dia gives a slow nod, her eyes closing briefly as she inhales, then exhales, drawing in the Force as if it were a breath itself. She lowers herself into a stance, her feet planted firmly beneath her. This is about more than just combat. It is a test of her spirit, her instincts, and her ability to navigate the darkness without losing herself. She lets her senses expand beyond her body, reaching out into the room, feeling the flow of energy—the presence of Quinlan before her, the subtle vibrations in the ground beneath her feet, and the creeping tendrils of darkness, curling around the edges of her perception, like a shadow that refuses to leave.

Suddenly, Quinlan moves. His hands flash, releasing small canisters that erupt with dark, inky smoke, swallowing the light. The torchlight struggles against the darkening haze, dimming as the smoke coils and fills the chamber. Dia feels her heartbeat quicken, her pulse loud in her ears as she instinctively raises her guard. The whispers grow louder—dark and tempting, offering her power to strike down her enemy, to crush any threat before it can reach her. She can feel the pull, the almost irresistible urge to reach out and grasp that power, to take control of her fear and turn it into something she can wield.

She closes her eyes, shaking her head slightly, her lips pressing together as she fights against it. She knows what that power means, what it demands in return—it promises strength but at the cost of herself, her identity. She has faced that temptation before, and she knows that its promises are hollow. Instead, she focuses on her breath, on the warmth of the Force that fills her, that comforts her. She lets that warmth spread, pushing away the cold touch of the dark, quieting the voices that hiss in her ears.

Quinlan moves, his steps barely audible, his presence like a shadow in the haze, circling her. Dia’s eyes snap open, her left hand reaching out, the Force guiding her as she senses his intent. She leaps forward, her feet leaving the ground as she spins, her azure lightsaber igniting with a hiss that cuts through the silence. Quinlan leaps back, his green saber blazing to life just in time to parry her strike. The energy of their blades meeting fills the chamber with a crackling hum.

“Don’t rely on your eyes,” Quinlan says, his voice firm, almost a whisper amidst the chaos. His strikes come quick, his blade testing her defenses, probing for weakness. “Trust in the Force. Let it guide you, not your fear.”

Dia grits her teeth, her movements flowing from one block to the next, her mind reaching deeper into the Force, seeking the guidance that lies beyond her own thoughts. Quinlan presses her, his strikes coming faster, harder. The darkness around them grows heavier, the whispers pushing against her mind, feeding on her frustration, her fear. She feels the weight of her cybernetic arm, the unnatural way it responds, the lack of the intuitive connection she once had with her body. Her balance wavers for a moment, her foot slipping slightly on the slick floor.

“Focus, Dia,” Quinlan urges, his voice cutting through the noise in her mind. “The arm is a part of you now. Stop resisting it.”

Dia takes a deep breath, her eyes closing once again. She lets go of her frustration, releasing it into the Force, allowing it to flow away like a leaf carried by a stream. She feels the weight of the arm, acknowledges it, and then lets the Force move through it, connecting it to her as if it were flesh and bone. Her blade moves with newfound grace, each parry and strike flowing seamlessly from one to the next, the Force guiding her movements rather than her own hesitation.

Suddenly, Quinlan steps back, his presence fading into the darkness. Dia feels the shift, the way he seems to vanish, hiding his presence in the Force, blending with the shadows. She is alone now, the room silent except for the echo of her own breathing and the whispers of the dark, louder now that Quinlan has disappeared from her senses. They urge her to give in, to embrace her fear, to call upon the power she knows she could wield if only she allowed herself to do so.

Dia stands still, her lightsaber held low, the azure glow casting faint light against the smoke-filled room. She feels the fear rising within her—the fear of failure, of losing herself, of not being enough. The dark side offers an easy path, a way to end the uncertainty, to seize control. But she knows that control is an illusion, that the dark side would take more than it gave.

She reaches deeper, finding that warmth within herself, the light that has always been there, even in her darkest moments. She lets it expand, filling her, pushing back against the shadows. She feels Quinlan, faintly, a presence in the darkness, waiting, testing. She takes a slow, steady step forward, then another, her senses stretching out, feeling the currents of the Force as they swirl around her. She moves with them, becoming one with the flow of energy, her body a vessel for the Force to move through.

She steps into the shadows, her eyes closed, her breath steady. The whispers grow fainter, replaced by the soft hum of the Force, guiding her steps. She moves forward, her lightsaber held at her side, each step confident, deliberate. The darkness cannot touch her, not while she holds on to the light within herself.

Suddenly, she feels Quinlan’s presence, just ahead of her. She opens her eyes, her gaze locking on him, her blade rising to meet his as he strikes. Their sabers clash once more, the energy crackling between them, but this time, Dia is ready. She moves with him, her body and mind in harmony, the Force flowing through her like a river, carrying her forward, guiding her hand.

Quinlan smiles, a flicker of pride in his eyes as he steps back, deactivating his saber. “Well done, Padawan,” he says, his voice filled with approval. “You faced the darkness, and you chose not to give in. That is one of the hardest lessons of the Shadows, to dance along the edge and stay true.”

Dia exhales, her shoulders relaxing as she deactivates her saber, a small smile playing at her lips. The darkness still lingers, the whispers still call, but they are quieter now, their power diminished. She knows they will always be there, that the struggle will never truly end. But she also knows that she is stronger than her fears, that she can face the darkness and not lose herself. She looks at Quinlan, her eyes filled with gratitude and determination.

“Thank you, Master Vos,” she says, her voice steady. “I won’t give up. I’ll keep training, until I’m ready.”

Quinlan nods, his smile widening. “I know you will, Dia. And when the time comes, you will make an excellent Jedi Shadow.”

Dia nods, her breath coming out in a relieved sigh. She feels exhausted, her body aching from the tension of the duel, but a sense of accomplishment fills her.

“Thank you, Master Vos,” she says, her voice steady, her eyes meeting his.

Quinlan nods, his gaze softening for a moment. “You have grown, Dia. The path of a Shadow is not an easy one. It demands not just skill, but strength of will. And you have that. Always remember that your greatest strength lies within you, in your ability to choose the path you walk.” He steps back, gesturing for her to follow him as he begins to walk towards the exit of the chamber.

Dia falls into step beside him, the weight of the assessment beginning to lift from her shoulders. She can feel the comforting warmth of her bond with Zela, the reassurance that she is not alone, even as she walks deeper into the shadows of the galaxy. The journey is long, and there will be many more trials, but for now, she knows she is ready to face them. And that is enough.

As they step out of the chamber, the bright light of the corridor temporarily blinds her. Dia blinks, her eyes adjusting as she takes a deep breath, the cool air filling her lungs. She looks at Quinlan, his expression unreadable, but she senses the pride in his Force presence. 

“What’s next, Master?” Dia asks, her voice filled with determination.

Quinlan smiles faintly, his eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and understanding. “Rest for now, Padawan. There will be more missions, more shadows to face. But today, you’ve proven yourself. Take pride in that.”

Dia nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. She can feel the fatigue in her body, but there is also a sense of fulfillment.

The garden is quiet, bathed in the late afternoon sun, the golden light filtering through the leaves, casting gentle shadows across the grass. Zela sits cross-legged by a small pond, watching the gentle ripples across the water's surface. Her eyes are half-closed, her breathing steady, enjoying the calm of the garden. For a brief moment, the war feels far away—a distant nightmare that can't touch her here, surrounded by nature.

Suddenly, she feels a familiar presence approaching through the Force. Zela doesn’t need to turn around; she already knows who it is. The bond between her and Dia hums with warmth, a sense of joy and relief washing over her like a wave. Before Zela can even turn her head, she feels a weight settle onto her back. Dia drapes herself over Zela, her arms wrapping loosely around her shoulders, her lekku hanging down alongside Zela’s.

“You passed,” Zela says softly, a smile forming on her lips, her eyes still focused on the ripples in the pond.

“Of course I did,” Dia replies, her voice muffled slightly by the fabric of Zela’s robe. She nuzzles against Zela’s shoulder, her eyes closing as she takes in the warmth of her friend's presence. “But it was exhausting. I think Quinlan was enjoying himself a bit too much.”

Zela chuckles, her hands moving to rest on Dia’s arms, holding them in place against her. “He does tend to get a bit carried away, doesn’t he? But I knew you’d pass. You’re too stubborn not to.”

Dia snorts, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Stubborn, huh? Well, I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.” She sighs softly, letting her weight rest fully on Zela, her head nestled against Zela’s neck. “I’m glad I found you here. I needed this.”

Zela turns her head slightly, her cheek brushing against Dia’s. “I’m always here for you. You know that, right?” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, the sincerity of her words flowing through the bond they share.

“I know,” Dia murmurs, her grip tightening slightly around Zela. The bond hums with their shared feelings—comfort, relief, and a deep connection that words alone could never express. The warmth of the sun, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the soft rippling of the pond—everything else fades into the background, leaving just the two of them, wrapped up in each other's presence.

They stay like that for a long moment, Dia draped over Zela’s back, Zela’s hands resting on Dia’s arms, the bond between them glowing with warmth. It’s a rare moment of peace, and they both know how precious that is. The war, the battles, the uncertainty of the future—all of it fades away in this small, perfect moment.

“You know, we’re supposed to be making the most of our time here,” Zela says after a while, her voice teasing, her eyes glancing to the side to try and catch a glimpse of Dia’s face. “Not just lounging around.”

“Are you saying I’m heavy?” Dia asks, her tone mock-offended as she shifts her weight slightly, causing Zela to laugh softly.

“No, I’m saying we should go get some tea or something. Celebrate your success,” Zela replies, her hands giving Dia’s arms a gentle squeeze.

Dia hums thoughtfully, a smile playing at her lips. “Tea sounds nice. But I’m comfortable right here,” she admits, her voice growing softer, her emotions pouring through the bond—the exhaustion, the relief, the love she feels for Zela.

Zela rolls her eyes, "You know we can't stay here like this unless you want another lecture. I still remember how shocked Ahsoka and Barriss were that time some stuffy scholar caught you napping in my lap, with the younglings next to us, and how we were supposedly a horrible influence."

Dia laughs softly, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You *are* a bad influence. Ahsoka never used to snark at me so much before she started hanging around us," she says, a teasing lilt in her voice as she slowly stands, still clinging to Zela's back, before pulling her up with her.

"Oh, don't even start with that. That's all on you. I'm pretty sure Aayla still blames Quinlan for your snark, despite the fact that most of it came from her," Zela replies, her grin infectious.

"I have absolutely no idea what you mean," Dia responds, doing her best to maintain a fake pout, her lip just slightly quivering with mock sincerity.

Zela can't contain her laughter, a bright, unguarded sound that seems to make the sunlight around them even warmer. The bond between them hums gently with shared warmth and amusement, their feelings intermingling until it's difficult to tell whose joy belongs to who.

The two of them make their way back to Dia's quarters, their steps lingering as they share quiet smiles and small nudges, fingers brushing together with a touch that promises closeness. Once inside, they shed their outer robes, letting the fabric fall away with the ease that only familiarity and comfort can bring. Zela's gaze lingers on Dia, her eyes trailing along the black tattoos and the sleek lines of her newly fitted cybernetic arm. Dia knows she’s healed well enough by now, and she’s become used to the mechanics of her new limb—but she can't deny the thrill of pleasure she gets every time Zela offers to help her.

Zela moves in close, her fingers finding the release mechanisms for the cybernetic mount with reverence, her touch almost tender as she disconnects the limb. The sudden absence of the arm is always disorienting for Dia, but with Zela's gentle presence, the unease fades into something comforting—something familiar. The trust and care Zela shows in this simple act send warmth through Dia, their bond vibrating with unspoken words and emotions that intertwine between them.

Zela's hands move slowly, almost caressing Dia's red skin and tracing the intricate black tattoos that swirl across her body. Her fingers linger over the lines, a sense of reverence in her touch that makes Dia's heart beat a little faster. She can feel Zela's presence through the bond, a wave of warmth and tenderness that fills her chest, pushing away the lingering fears and insecurities that have haunted her since the injury.

"There we go," Zela murmurs softly, setting the cybernetic arm down with care on the bedside table. Her eyes flicker back to Dia, their gazes meeting, the intensity of their emotions unguarded for a moment—Dia's uncertainty mingling with Zela's unwavering support. Dia can see the gentle affection in Zela's eyes, the quiet promise that she would always be there, no matter how hard things got.

As Zela strips out of her own robes, Dia watches, unable to keep the soft smile off her face. There is something so inherently natural in the way Zela moves, so full of confidence and grace, her blue skin catching the dim glow of the room's light. Zela catches Dia's eyes on her and gives a small smile, her fangs just barely visible as she tilts her head toward the door of the refresher.

"Are you just going to stand there staring all day? Come on," Zela says, her voice teasing, though Dia can feel the affectionate undertone beneath the words.

Dia lets out a small laugh, her cheeks warming slightly, before stepping forward, following Zela to the refresher. They step into the shower, the steam filling the small space as the warmth of the water cascades down over their skin. It feels almost luxurious—the soft, soothing feeling of a water shower, something so rare aboard the Venator with its limited supply, replaced by the efficiency of sonic showers. Here, in the quiet space, with just the sound of the water and their shared breaths, there’s a sense of peace neither of them wants to take for granted.

Zela’s hands move over Dia’s shoulders, rubbing in small circles, her touch soothing and caring. Dia closes her eyes, letting herself relax, the tension that always lingers somewhere inside her finally beginning to unravel. Zela's fingers glide down from Dia's shoulders, tracing over the stump of Dia’s right arm, her touch gentle as she massages the muscles around the mount, trying to ease the discomfort that always seems to linger there. Dia can feel the care in every movement, Zela's fingers pressing into her skin, her touch a balm to the ache that never fully leaves.

Zela's hands move down along Dia's back, her fingers brushing along the intricate black tattoos that adorn her skin, tracing each line with almost reverent attention. She moves slowly, almost caressing Dia's red skin, lingering over the tattoos that mark Dia's journey—the battles fought and survived, the victories, the losses. Her fingers pause over the mount for Dia's cybernetic, her touch feather-light as she works the tension from the surrounding muscles, her care evident in every movement.

Dia leans back against Zela, feeling Zela's chest against her skin, letting her head rest on Zela’s shoulder as Zela’s fingers move along her lekku, massaging gently. The sensation sends a shiver down Dia’s spine—a combination of trust and vulnerability in being cared for by someone else, and the bond between them hums in response, vibrating with the love and devotion that flows so easily between them. Dia lets out a soft sigh, her body melting into Zela's touch, her heart swelling with gratitude for the Togruta who always knows how to make everything just a little bit easier.

“This is nice,” Dia murmurs, her voice barely audible over the sound of the water, her eyes still closed.

Zela’s lips brush lightly against the top of Dia’s head. “Yeah,” she agrees softly. “We need to make sure we get moments like this, as often as we can.”

Dia nods, her fingers brushing against Zela’s arm, tracing the skin gently, feeling the warmth beneath her fingertips. “Always,” she whispers, her voice carrying a promise that extends far beyond this quiet moment—a promise for every battle, every fear, and every time the galaxy feels like it’s crashing down on them. A promise that neither of them will ever have to face it alone.

The warmth of the water and the comforting presence of Zela feel like a shield against everything else—the war, the responsibilities, the fears of what lies ahead. In this moment, it's just the two of them, and Dia finds herself feeling lighter, the heavy weight she often carries seeming a little less daunting.

Zela shifts her hands down Dia's back, kneading the muscles gently, her fingers working out the tension with a mix of care and familiarity that only comes from knowing someone as well as they knew each other. Dia sighs contentedly, her lips curving into a small smile as she lets herself enjoy the sensation, the warmth of the water cascading over them both.

The warm water flows over Dia and Zela as they stand under the showerhead, the gentle spray soaking them from head to toe. The steam fills the small room, creating a cocoon of warmth that isolates them from the rest of the galaxy, leaving nothing but the comforting presence of each other. Their bare skin glistens under the flow of water, red and blue tones merging into a beautiful tapestry. The bond between them hums with an unspoken understanding, a peaceful connection that vibrates with the comfort of being in each other's arms.

Dia reaches for the soap, her eyes meeting Zela's as a small smile spreads across her lips. Zela watches her, a sense of serenity settling between them as Dia uses the force to squirt and lather the soap in her hand before gently running her palm across Zela's shoulders, her movements slow and reverent. The water creates rivulets over Zela's skin, and Dia follows them with her hand, moving the soap along the strong curves of Zela's muscles.

Zela closes her eyes, the feeling of Dia's hand washing away the tension in her body, every touch like a balm to her soul. Dia's hand moves down along Zela's arms, her fingers brushing lightly over the Togruta's skin, paying special attention to her fingers, washing them one by one with a delicate touch. It is as if Dia is imprinting this moment into her memory—each line, each curve, each tiny imperfection that makes Zela who she is.

Zela opens her eyes to find Dia gazing up at her, her eyes reflecting nothing but love and tenderness. She leans down, her forehead gently pressing against Dia's.

“You’re beautiful,” Dia whispers softly, her voice barely audible above the sound of the running water. Her eyes glisten with sincerity as she speaks, the bond vibrating gently between them with the shared emotion of the moment.

Zela lets out a small sigh, her hands finding Dia’s waist, her thumbs brushing gently against Dia's skin. “You always say that,” she replies, her voice warm with affection.

“Because it’s true,” Dia says, her lips curving into a smile as she leans into Zela, her body pressing against the comforting warmth of her friend, their breasts pressing together and their lekku twirling around the other.

Zela shakes her head slightly, the corners of her lips lifting into a smile as she pulls away, gently taking the soap. She lathers it in her hands before beginning to wash Dia, her hands moving with a tenderness that speaks of love and care—a devotion that she has always had for Dia. 

As Zela's hands glided over Dia's skin, the soap created a slick trail in their wake, her touch gentle and attentive. She took special care to explore every part of Dia's body, moving with a slowness that spoke of love and devotion.

Dia closed her eyes, her breath hitching as Zela continued her ministrations, her touch sending warmth coursing through her. The water cascaded around them, the steam creating a thick fog that enveloped them in a cocoon of intimacy. The shower was their sanctuary, a place where they could forget everything beyond the small space they occupied, letting the sensations wash over them. Dia could feel the gentle caress of the water mixing with Zela’s touch, heightening the feeling of closeness between them.

Zela’s hands moved lower, her fingers brushing along Dia’s hips, caressing her waist and tracing every line of her muscles. She took her time, her thumbs pressing gently into the skin, massaging away the tension. Dia couldn’t help but lean into the touch, her body responding instinctively, her muscles relaxing beneath Zela’s tender ministrations. The gentle pressure of Zela’s hands, combined with the warmth of the water, created a sense of relaxation that Dia hadn’t felt in what seemed like ages. It was as if all the worries, all the stress from their battles, were being washed away in that moment.

Zela leaned in closer, pressing her lips softly to Dia’s shoulder, her mouth trailing feather-light kisses along her neck. Dia let out a soft sigh, her eyes fluttering open as she tilted her head to give Zela more access. The kisses were gentle, each one placed with care, as if Zela was worshiping the very essence of Dia—the person she had fought for, almost lost, but still had in her arms. The feeling of Zela’s lips against her skin brought Dia an overwhelming sense of security, a reminder of the unbreakable bond they shared.

The warmth of Zela's breath against her neck, combined with the sensation of her hands gliding along her skin, sent shivers down Dia's spine. There was something deeply comforting about Zela’s presence, about the way she touched her, that made Dia feel whole again. As Zela’s lips travelled along her shoulder, leaving a trail of kisses over old scars and marks, Dia felt the bond between them hum with an unspoken promise—that they were in this together, now and forever. The gentle pressure of Zela’s lips, the warmth of her body against Dia’s, made her feel cherished, like every part of her mattered.

Dia opened her eyes, her gaze meeting Zela’s. There was a softness there, a vulnerability that she rarely showed, but one that Dia had grown to love. Zela smiled, her eyes filled with love and tenderness. She cupped Dia’s face in her hands, her thumbs brushing against her cheeks, wiping away droplets of water that clung to her skin. Dia felt her heart swell, her breath catching in her throat at the sheer intensity of the moment. She could feel Zela’s love through every touch, every look, and it made her feel as if nothing else in the galaxy mattered.

“You’re beautiful,” Zela whispered, her voice barely audible above the sound of the running water. Her eyes searched Dia’s, looking for any sign of discomfort or hesitation, but all she found was love—pure and unguarded.

Dia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her lips curving into a soft smile. “So are you,” she whispered back, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. She reached up, her hand resting on Zela’s cheek, her thumb caressing the soft skin there. They stayed like that, eyes locked, the bond between them vibrating with shared emotion—a connection that transcended words, a promise that they would always be there for each other.

Zela pulled Dia closer, their bodies pressing together as the water continued to run over them, the warmth flowing around them like a protective shield. Dia rested her head against Zela’s shoulder, her arm wrapping around her partner, holding on tightly as if to never let go. The sensation of Zela’s arms around her, her body pressed against her, brought a sense of peace that Dia hadn’t realized she needed. The feeling of Zela’s skin against her own, the warmth of their embrace, grounded her, making her feel as if all her fears and uncertainties had melted away.

The two of them stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, their skin glistening under the flow of water, their hearts beating in sync. Zela ran her fingers through Dia's lekku, the touch gentle and soothing, as if she was reassuring Dia without words that everything was going to be okay. Dia tightened her hold on Zela, her own hand moving along Zela’s back, tracing the lines of her muscles, feeling the strength beneath her touch. The bond between them pulsed with warmth, a shared understanding that they were each other's anchor.

The world outside ceased to exist; it was just them, here, together. In this small moment, there was nothing but love and trust, a sense of belonging that made everything else fade into insignificance. The future, the war, the hardships—none of it mattered as long as they had each other. The steam swirled around them, the water cascading over their bodies, and for that moment, they were untouchable—wrapped in each other’s love, safe from the rest of the galaxy. The promise they made to each other echoed in the silence, an unspoken vow that whatever came next, they would face it side by side.

Zela held Dia tight, her fingers brushing gently along her back, her lips pressing softly against Dia's forehead. The warmth between them matched the warmth of the water, an unbroken bond that neither time, distance, nor war could ever shatter. Dia closed her eyes, letting herself be enveloped by the love and comfort of Zela's embrace, her heart swelling with gratitude that no matter what happened, they would always have each other.

With their bodies pressed together, the water washing away everything but the feeling of each other, Dia knew that she had found her home—not in a place, but in the person who held her now. And in that knowledge, there was a sense of peace that nothing else could ever match.

“You know,” Dia murmurs, her voice filled with emotion. “I don’t think I could ever do this without you. Any of it… I don’t know how I’d keep going if I didn’t have you.”

Zela’s gaze softens, her hands coming up to cup Dia’s face, her thumbs brushing over her cheeks. “You’re stronger than you think, Dia,” she says softly, her forehead pressing against Dia’s, her voice heavy with emotion. “But you won’t ever have to find out, because I’m not going anywhere.”

Zela's fingers tangle gently with Dia's, and with a soft smile, she pulls her partner closer, wrapping her arms around her and holding her tight. Dia rests her head on Zela's chest, listening to the sound of her heart, her eyes closing as she lets herself be held, a small smile tugging at her lips. The water continues to run over their bodies, the warmth of it matching the warmth between them—an unbroken bond that neither time, distance, nor war could ever shatter.

After their shower, Dia and Zela step out into the cool air of their quarters, their damp skin quickly covered by the warmth of soft dressing gowns. Dia slips into a deep red one, and Zela ties her dark blue robe loosely around her waist, her lekku resting comfortably down her back. The steam from the shower still lingers slightly, but it dissipates as they move to the refresher, Dia gently drying her lekku with a towel while Zela starts toweling off her own.

Dia reaches for a smaller towel, turning to Zela. “Come here. Let me do that,” she says softly, her eyes holding a warmth that makes Zela smile. Zela takes a step closer, tilting her head to allow Dia to pat her lekku dry. Zela’s eyes close as she feels Dia’s delicate touch, the two of them sharing a smile as Dia gently wipes away the excess moisture.

“There,” Dia says as she finishes, giving Zela’s lekku a soft pat before taking Zela’s hand. “Tea?” she asks, her voice a gentle whisper in the quiet space they’ve built for themselves. Zela nods in response, her smile widening as she follows Dia to the kitchenette.

Together, they move to the small kitchen area of their quarters. The space is dimly lit by the muted lights of Coruscant's night outside, casting a soft glow that makes everything feel even cozier. Dia grabs the kettle, filling it with water, while Zela pulls out their favorite box of herbal tea, one that fills the room with warmth as soon as the herbs are steeped.

As Dia sets the kettle to boil, she lets out a soft sigh, her cybernetic arm still absent, the stump resting against her robe’s loose sleeve. She takes a moment to lean against Zela, their bodies touching in a quiet moment of tenderness. Zela smiles, wrapping an arm around Dia’s shoulders.

“You don’t have to reattach it tonight,” Zela murmurs against Dia’s ear cone, her breath warm and soothing. “We’re safe here.”

Dia nods, her eyes closing as she leans into Zela’s embrace. “I know. I just want to be here, like this, with you.”

Once the tea is ready, they pour it into two simple ceramic cups, their fingers brushing as they pass the cups between them. Zela raises an eyebrow as Dia grabs the remote and switches on the TV, flipping to her favourite channel—the one that plays reruns of “The Guardians of the Force”, a cheesy Jedi-inspired drama that has always made Dia laugh at its ridiculous depiction of the Force.

“Oh, come on,” Zela groans in mock protest, rolling her eyes. “This show is so bad, Dia.”

Dia grins, settling onto the couch, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “Exactly. It’s bad in the best way,” she says, holding out her hand for Zela to join her. “And besides, you know you love it.”

Zela sighs in exaggerated defeat but can’t stop the smile that tugs at her lips. She slips onto the couch next to Dia, wrapping her arm around her partner’s shoulders as Dia nestles against her side. They settle in, Dia’s head resting against Zela’s chest, her one arm curling around Zela’s waist, their bare legs tangled together beneath their robes. The warmth from the tea, combined with the gentle hum of the television, creates a cocoon of comfort that wraps around them like a protective blanket.

The show plays on, full of overly dramatic Force users, spinning lightsabers, and questionable philosophical musings that make even the most basic Jedi principles sound absurd. Zela lets out a small chuckle as one of the actors—in an exaggerated ‘ancient Jedi voice’—explains how “true Force mastery is all about understanding space frogs and their mystical prophecies.” Dia snickers, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

“You see? This is why I watch it,” Dia says, her eyes shining with humour. “Where else would we get to learn about the mystical space frogs, Zela?”

Zela shakes her head, resting her chin on top of Dia’s head. “I swear, one day, someone’s going to mistake this show for actual Jedi teachings, and then we’re all in trouble.”

Dia giggles, the sound a gentle melody that fills the room. She shifts slightly, turning her head to look up at Zela, her gaze softening. “Well, at least we’ll have something to laugh about when we’re old and sitting in the archives, telling younglings how we once fought in a war.”

Zela’s smile turns tender, her fingers brushing against Dia’s cheek as she leans down to kiss her forehead. “I’d rather tell them about all the nights like this. The quiet moments we spent together, just us.”

Dia’s heart swells at the words, the bond between them humming with shared emotion. She reaches up with her one arm, pulling Zela closer, pressing their foreheads together.

They sit like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, watching the silly drama unfold on the screen, the warmth of their love filling the small space around them.

And as the night continues, they let the world fade away—just the two of them, sharing a cup of tea, laughter, and a love that makes everything else seem insignificant.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XVIII

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

The Venator-class Star Destroyer Leviathan loomed large as the shuttle carrying Dia and Zela approached. The grey expanse of the ship stretched endlessly, with turbolaser cannons, hangar bays, and communications arrays lining its dorsal surface. From the cockpit, Dia could see the busy atmosphere around the ship—fighter craft moving in formation, gunships docking, and supply shuttles buzzing to and fro, all part of the vast machinery of the Grand Army of the Republic. The sight of the massive war machine preparing for battle filled Dia with both awe and trepidation, a reminder of the scale of the conflict they were about to re-enter.

Zela and Dia exchanged a glance, the bond between them vibrating with shared anticipation and a hint of nerves. They were heading south—to the frontlines—where the full might of the 42nd Legion would be tested once more, soon to link up with the 72nd Legion to assault the Separatist-held world of Kabal. The prospect of rejoining the fight filled Dia with a mix of emotions, and she knew that Zela shared the same sentiment. The anxiety, the excitement, the fear—it all blended together, but the bond between them kept her grounded.

The ship jolted slightly as they were granted clearance to enter the hangar bay, the atmospheric shield shimmering for a moment as the shuttle passed through. Zela stood up, her lekku draped over her shoulders, dressed in her dark purple Jedi robes with her lightsaber attached to her belt. Her expression was calm, but Dia could sense the tension beneath it—Zela was ready for what lay ahead, but the unknown always brought its own anxieties. Dia, dressed in her grey Jedi Shadow robes, rose beside her, her crimson cybernetic arm glinting slightly under the cabin lights. She took a moment to adjust her robes, her fingers brushing over the cool metal of her arm.

"Ready for this?" Zela asked, her voice calm but carrying the weight of all that lay ahead.

Dia took a deep breath, her gaze meeting Zela’s, a small, confident smile tugging at her lips. "Always, especially with you by my side," she said, her words filled with warmth. The assurance in her voice wasn’t just for Zela—it was for herself too. Zela offered a grin in return, the corners of her eyes crinkling with affection, and they both knew they would face whatever came next together.

The shuttle touched down on the hangar floor, its landing struts giving a slight creak as the ramp began to lower. Dia and Zela walked down, the sights and sounds of the busy hangar washing over them—mechanics yelling orders, astromech droids whirring about, and clones in their white and red armor directing cargo and supplies. The familiar sound of clone pilots running through checks on the LAAT/i gunships echoed through the space, a symphony of preparation. The smell of fuel and the faint ozone tang of charged weapons filled the air, mingling with the sounds of clanking metal and the hum of repulsorlifts.

Captain Zell, the clone officer in command of Hunter Company, stood waiting for them near the shuttle. His armor was freshly painted, the white polished with the crimson accents. He gave a sharp nod as they approached, a grin hidden behind his helmet, but evident in the warmth of his voice. "Welcome back, Commander Olan, Commander Taal," he said, his tone light but professional.

"Good to be back, Zell," Dia said, her eyes taking in the sight of the hangar. "How are things here on Leviathan?"

Zell gestured towards the bustling hangar, his voice laced with a sense of pride and a hint of humor. "Prepping for another big one. I hope you two got some rest while you could. The south's heating up, and the 72nd's been eager to join forces and put pressure on the Seppies." He paused, glancing between them. "The crew’s glad to have both of you back on board. We’re going to need every bit of that Jedi intuition."

Dia gave him a nod. "We’re ready. Let’s head to the bridge and meet Master Vinives," she said, her determination palpable. The prospect of rejoining the frontlines weighed heavily on her mind, but there was also a sense of purpose.

Zela followed alongside her as they walked towards the turbolift, Captain Zell trailing slightly behind. The lift doors opened with a soft hiss, and they all stepped inside. The hum of the ship’s systems enveloped them as the lift began its ascent towards the command deck. Dia could feel Zela’s Force presence beside her, steady and comforting—like a flame in the cold reaches of space. She reached out subtly, letting their bond link them even closer, drawing strength from Zela’s resolve. In moments like this, the anxiety of what lay ahead was softened by the knowledge that they weren’t facing it alone.

The lift doors opened, revealing the spacious bridge of the Leviathan. The command crew was focused, their attention on consoles and readouts. The massive viewport showed the bustling activity of the Republic fleet gathering in orbit of the planet, preparing for the push to the galactic south. The stars stretched out beyond, a reminder of just how vast the galaxy was—and how small their part in it seemed. Standing near the central command table, Master Emmari Vinives turned as Dia and Zela approached. The General’s posture was poised, her presence in the Force strong and reassuring.

"Padawan Taal, Padawan Olan," Vinives greeted them, her voice as serene as ever, though there was an underlying urgency. "It is good to see you both. We’re currently coordinating our move with the 72nd. They’ve had several run-ins with Separatist fleets in the sector—nothing they couldn't handle—but we will be facing a fully fortified planetary defense. The coordination of both Legions is going to be critical."

Dia nodded, glancing at the command display that depicted the target—Kabal—with numerous Separatist strongholds marked out in red. It was clear this would not be an easy battle. The Separatists had fortified the planet, their anti-air defenses and droid battalions ready to meet the Republic head-on. The holographic representation of the planet showed defensive grids and concentration points, and Dia felt the gravity of the task before them settle heavily in her chest.

"Understood, Master," Zela replied, her eyes flickering to the holographic map, taking in the layout and forming a strategy in her mind. Dia could feel her thoughts through their bond—the gears turning as Zela considered every aspect of the upcoming mission. There was a determination there, but also a tinge of worry. Dia gave Zela a reassuring nod, silently conveying that they would find a way—together.

"The 72nd should be linking up with us within the next couple of hours," Vinives continued. "Take this time to settle in, and prepare yourselves. This will be a tough campaign."

The two Padawans bowed to the General before turning to leave the bridge, heading towards their assigned quarters. As they walked through the halls of the Leviathan, Dia reached out through their bond, her thoughts flowing effortlessly into Zela’s mind.

‘Together, we can handle this.’

Zela smiled softly, her response filled with confidence and warmth. ‘Always.’

~~

The atmosphere in the barracks was casual and relaxed, clones from Hunter Company gathered in small groups around the central tables, some cleaning weapons while others shared stories of the battlefield. Staff Sergeant Rose, stood near her squad. Her keen eyes spotted Dia and Zela making their way over, and a knowing smile tugged at her lips.

"Well, if it isn't our favourite Jedi," Rose called out as she saw Dia. She waved her over with a grin, her eyes glancing at Zela beside her. "Come over here, Commander Olan, bring your shadow with you."

Dia rolled her eyes, shaking her head slightly as she approached Rose, Zela right beside her. "Not much of a shadow if you can see her, right?" Dia retorted, a smirk forming.

Rose let out a chuckle. "Good point," she conceded before turning her attention to Zela. "Commander Taal, nice to see you properly. I think we only had about five seconds to say hello last time before the droids decided to crash the party."

Zela gave a polite nod. "That's right, Sergeant Rose," she replied, a friendly smile forming on her lips. "It was quite a hectic day. Glad we all made it through."

Dia gestured at the clone scouts who were gathered behind Rose. "Zela, meet the rest of Rose's squad—Sergeant Solar, Scouts Squire, Trim, Curve, and Zeke," she said, pointing them out. Each one gave a polite nod of greeting, their eyes assessing the new Jedi.

"Nice to meet you all," Zela said, her voice warm as she looked at them. "Dia’s told me a lot about Hunter Company. You guys are impressive."

"She has, has she?" Rose's grin widened, her gaze shifting between Zela and Dia, clearly enjoying this. She crossed her arms and tilted her head, the teasing tone unmistakable. "Well, I'm sure she’s told us plenty about you too, Commander. After all, you two seem rather... inseparable, don't you?"

Dia tried to keep her expression neutral, but she couldn't help the slight blush creeping onto her cheeks. She crossed her arms defensively, letting out an awkward laugh. "Rose, we’re just close friends. We grew up together in the Temple—that's all."

Zela looked equally uncomfortable, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her lekku twitching in a way that betrayed her unease. "Exactly, nothing more than that. We're just… uh, we've always been each other's support, especially during the war," she added, glancing briefly at Dia before quickly looking away, unable to keep the eye contact.

Rose raised her eyebrows, the teasing smile never leaving her face. "Oh, I see. 'Just friends,' huh? You know, you two have this... bond," she said, her voice dripping with faux innocence. "The kind that’s kind of rare even for Jedi—like you can read each other’s thoughts and finish each other’s sentences. Nothing more than friends, though. Got it."

Dia huffed, shaking her head. "You're incorrigible, Rose. It's not like that," she said, her voice softening as she looked over at Zela. Her heart tightened slightly, knowing the truth of her own feelings. She cared deeply for Zela—perhaps more than she should. But she was terrified of what that might mean, or what it might cost.

Zela chuckled awkwardly, nudging Dia's shoulder lightly to mask her own unease. "She's just trying to get under our skin, Dia," she said, though the warmth in her own chest made her want to reach out and take Dia's hand, a gesture she wouldn't dare make, especially not here.

Rose let out a hearty laugh, shaking her head at the two Jedi. "Oh, I’m not trying—I’ve already gotten under your skin. I mean, the way you two look at each other, it’s almost romantic. If you ask me, 'just friends' doesn't quite cover it. But, whatever helps you sleep at night, Commanders."

Dia looked away, trying to stifle the flutter in her chest. She tried to ignore the warmth she could feel across their bond—Zela's affection and care—but it was impossible. Dia could only wonder if Zela knew how much it all meant to her, or if she could even feel the depths of Dia's emotions. But she didn't say anything, biting her lip and giving Rose a glare that was more playful than serious.

"Rose, you really don’t give up, do you?" Dia asked, shaking her head. "How about we skip the teasing and get down to business? Where are we with the preparations for the next deployment?"

Rose gave a knowing smile and a mock salute. "As you command, Commander Olan," she said, her eyes still twinkling with amusement. "We're getting our final supply shipment loaded. Once it's done, we should be good to go."

"Good," Dia said, her expression serious again. "Zela and I will be in the hangar if you need us."

With that, the two Jedi turned and began to walk away, Dia feeling Zela’s presence in the Force, steady and reassuring beside her. Even with Rose’s teasing words hanging between them, there was a sense of peace there too—a reminder that they had each other’s back, always. Whatever came next, they'd face it together.

As they exited the barracks, Zela finally spoke up, her voice low, almost a murmur. "You know… they’re just joking, right?"

Dia nodded, her gaze softening as she glanced at Zela. "Yeah, I know," she said, her voice equally quiet. She hesitated for a moment, then added, "I just... I don't want them to get the wrong idea. I mean, it's not like that, and I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."

Zela stopped walking, her lekku twitching slightly, and she looked at Dia, her eyes searching her face. "You don't make me uncomfortable, Dia. Not ever," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She reached out, her fingers brushing against Dia's, a fleeting touch that sent warmth radiating through the bond between them.

Dia swallowed, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the sincerity in Zela's words, the emotion that she tried so hard to keep hidden. It made her want to say something—anything—to bridge the gap between them. But instead, she just smiled, a soft, almost shy smile. "Thank you, Zels. I mean it."

Zela nodded, her own smile mirroring Dia's. "Always," she replied, her voice filled with a warmth that wrapped around Dia like a comforting embrace.

The two of them continued walking, their hands brushing occasionally as they moved side by side. There was a sense of understanding between them, a silent acknowledgement of what they meant to each other—even if neither of them could put it into words just yet.

As they made their way to the hangar, Dia couldn't help but feel a sense of hope. Maybe one day, when the war was over, they could figure out what this was—what they were to each other. But for now, it was enough to have Zela by her side, her presence a steady light in the darkness of the galaxy.

The next day, Master Runi Nima comes aboard the Leviathan to check on her Padawan, Zela.

The soft hum of starship engines reverberates in the hangar, a rhythmic cadence that provides an almost calming backdrop as Dia and Zela square off against each other. The open space bustles with activity—clone troopers prepping for departure, engineers fine-tuning their vessels—but in one corner of the hangar, a cleared section serves as the training ground for the two Padawans.

Master Emmari Vinives and Master Runi Nima stand to the side, their arms folded, observing with keen but relaxed eyes. This far into their apprenticeship, Dia and Zela have learned much—enough that their masters no longer micromanage their training. Emmari and Runi, both of whom had been hands-on instructors in the past, now step back to let their Padawans explore their strengths and weaknesses, intervening only when necessary.

Dia adjusts her stance, her azure lightsaber humming softly in her left hand. Her eyes narrow at Zela, who holds her own emerald blade steady, her gaze focused and her breath calm. The bond between them hums like a living thing, their shared connection flowing effortlessly. Zela feels Dia's excitement, the thrill that always comes with these sparring matches, and it brings a smile to her lips.

"You ready for this?" Dia calls out, a teasing lilt in her voice.

Zela chuckles, her montrals twitching slightly in response. "Are you?"

Without another word, Dia darts forward, her blade arcing in a swift strike toward Zela’s side. Zela moves fluidly, her own saber meeting Dia’s with a brilliant flash of green and blue. They move with practised ease, each strike and counter flowing like water—a dance that feels almost second nature by now.

Runi watches them with an appraising gaze, a small smile on her lips. "Look at that," she mutters, just loud enough for Emmari to hear. "They’ve got the flow down. No hesitation."

"They’ve always been in sync," Emmari replies, her gaze unwavering from the two Padawans. There is a softness in her voice, a hint of pride for Dia. "But they still need to focus on discipline. I can sense the playful edge."

"Playful edges are good," Runi says solemnly. "Keeps them creative, and I don’t see a need to break them out of that, especially with the war. Though let’s see how they handle what comes next." She takes a few steps forward, then calls out, "Zela, switch it up! No telegraphing—Dia can read you like a book!"

Zela hears her master’s voice and nods, her movements shifting abruptly. Instead of meeting Dia’s strikes head-on, she twirls out of reach, using her agility to keep Dia guessing. The two of them have been practising with their bond and are able to keep themselves slightly separate when sparring, so they actually learn, but emotions and intentions still bleed through if not specifics. Dia, sensing the change in Zela’s approach through their bond, adjusts her attack pattern as well, her movements becoming more unpredictable. She feints left before quickly spinning to Zela’s right, her saber flashing in a blur of blue light.

They clash again, their sabers locking in a crackling hum. Zela pushes forward, her greater height and strength forcing Dia back a step, but Dia holds her ground, her left arm trembling under the strain as she meets Zela’s eyes. In that moment, their thoughts merge—Zela’s focus, her determination, and Dia’s exhilaration, her will to overcome—it all flows between them, a powerful bond that makes them stronger than either could be alone.

"Good," Emmari murmurs, her eyes narrowing slightly. "But Dia is still hesitating with her right side. She’s favouring the cybernetic."

Runi nods. "It’s a mental block, not a physical one. The arm’s calibrated perfectly—she just needs more time to trust it." She glances at Emmari, her eyes knowing. "Time and Zela. She’s the key."

Emmari gives a small smile, her gaze softening as she watches Dia’s expression shift, her focus intensifying. Zela steps back, disengaging before spinning low and sweeping her leg out in an attempt to trip Dia. But Dia jumps, her agility unmatched as she flips over Zela’s head, landing lightly behind her.

"Nice try," Dia says, grinning as she brings her saber down toward Zela’s exposed back.

But Zela is ready. She spins, her saber coming up to block Dia’s strike, their blades crackling together once again. The two of them are breathing heavily now, sweat dripping down their brows, but neither shows any sign of stopping.

"Alright, that’s enough for now," Runi calls out, stepping forward. "You two are going to wear each other out before the real fight even starts."

Dia and Zela break apart, their sabers deactivating as they turn to face their masters. Dia flashes Zela a grin, her eyes shining with excitement. "You almost had me there," she says, her voice breathless.

Zela laughs, shaking her head. "Almost doesn’t count. But I’ll get you next time."

"I’m counting on it," Dia replies, her smile softening as she meets Zela’s eyes. There is a warmth there, an unspoken understanding that goes beyond words—a bond forged through years of training, of battles fought side by side, of shared dreams and fears.

"Good work, both of you," Emmari says, her voice warm with pride. "You’ve come a long way. But remember, the bond you share is a strength, not a crutch. Trust in it, but also trust in yourselves."

Runi nods in agreement. "The Force is serious business, sure, but it’s also about joy. Don’t lose sight of that."

Dia and Zela exchange a glance, both of them smiling. They know their masters are right. They have a long road ahead of them, filled with challenges and battles yet to be fought. But as long as they have each other, they know they can face whatever comes their way.

~

The soft hum of the Leviathan’s engines creates a soothing backdrop in the quiet cabin shared by Dia and Zela. The dim light from the single lamp casts a gentle glow over the room, illuminating the small altar Dia has set up against the wall. A carved idol of the Kika'lekki, the Great Mother of the Twi'leki faith, stands at its center, surrounded by small candles and a few personal items that hold significance to Dia. The flickering flames create a dance of shadows on the walls, lending an almost sacred air to the room.

Dia kneels before the altar, her cybernetic arm resting lightly on her lap while her organic hand cups the flame of a candle as she whispers her prayer. Her voice is soft, reverent, carrying the lyrical cadence of Twi’leki prayer. Her lekku drape over her shoulders, the subtle movements of their tips betraying her emotions as she pours her thoughts and worries into the words.

Behind her, Zela stands silently, watching with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. She’s seen Dia pray countless times, but it never ceases to draw her in. The devotion, the intimacy of the act, reminds her of the deep connection her own Togruta people have with the natural world—not as a faith, but as a way of life. The parallels are undeniable, and though Zela doesn’t share Dia’s religious beliefs, she feels a profound respect for the ritual.

As Dia’s prayer comes to a close, Zela steps forward, her bare feet making no sound against the metal floor. She kneels beside Dia, her taller frame folding gracefully as she reaches for one of the candles. She’s not sure if she’s doing it “right,” but Dia has always assured her that intent matters more than precision. Lighting the candle, Zela places it gently beside the idol and then clasps her hands together in an approximation of the gesture she’s seen Dia make.

Dia looks over at her, her bright eyes softening with warmth. “You don’t have to do this, Zels,” she murmurs, her voice filled with affection.

“I know,” Zela replies, her tone quiet but firm. “But it feels... grounding. Familiar, even. The way you connect to the Force through your faith—it’s beautiful. It’s not so different from how my people feel about the land and the hunt. We’re all connected, right?”

Dia nods, her smile widening. “We are. The Force binds us all, and I’ve always thought there was something sacred in the way your people honour the balance of nature. It’s not so far from the Great Mother’s teachings.”

Zela hums in agreement, closing her eyes as she takes a deep breath. “Then maybe I’ll add my thanks to hers. To the Great Mother, and to the wilds that raised me.”

Together, they fall into a shared silence, the bond between them humming with a comforting warmth. Zela doesn’t speak aloud, but Dia can feel her intent through their connection—gratitude, respect, and an unspoken promise to protect each other, no matter what. Dia’s own emotions flow back to Zela through the bond, wrapping around her like a gentle embrace.

After a while, Dia shifts, extinguishing the candles one by one. She turns to Zela, her hand brushing against hers as she speaks. “Thank you, for joining me. It means a lot.”

Zela smiles, her fanged grin softened by the glow of the fading candles. “Anytime, Dia. You know that.”

With the ritual complete, Zela turns to Dia, her hands moving with gentle precision as she helps detach the cybernetic arm. Her fingers glide over the mount, carefully releasing the clasps and setting the arm on the bedside table. The intimate action is one born of trust and familiarity, Zela’s touch reverent as she tends to Dia’s needs.

Once the task is complete, the two of them move to the narrow bed they share, ignoring the bunk above them, their movements unhurried and familiar. They strip down to their underclothes, the night’s calm settling over them as they climb under the blankets. Dia’s smaller frame fits perfectly against Zela’s, and Zela instinctively wraps her arms around her, pulling her close. Her fingers briefly brush against the spot where Dia’s cybernetic arm had been, massaging the area with care, ensuring Dia feels nothing but comfort.

Zela’s touch lingers there, her thumbs gently pressing into Dia’s shoulder, soothing the tension that builds from wearing the arm all day. “Does that feel okay?” she whispers, her voice low and filled with concern.

Dia sighs, her head tilting into Zela’s chest. “It feels more than okay. It feels perfect. You always know exactly what I need.”

Zela’s lekku twitch slightly, a soft smile spreading across her face as she continues the gentle massage. The warmth of their bond flows freely, a shared current of affection and gratitude. When Zela feels Dia’s muscles finally relax beneath her hands, she lets out a contented sigh and wraps her arms securely around Dia, their red and blue skin pressed together.

Dia lets out a contented sigh, her head resting against Zela’s chest. “You’re warm,” she murmurs, her voice heavy with sleep.

Zela chuckles softly, her chin resting lightly against Dia’s head. “And you’re tiny,” she teases, though her tone is filled with affection.

Dia’s laughter is soft, almost a hum, as she snuggles closer. “Goodnight, Zela.”

“Goodnight, Dia,” Zela whispers, her arms tightening around her. The hum of the Leviathan continues in the background, a steady rhythm that lulls them into a peaceful sleep, as Zela remembers the first time they shared a bed as Padawans.

~~~~

The quiet halls of the Jedi Temple were dimly lit, the soft glow of Coruscant's endless skyline filtering through the high windows. For most, the stillness of the night offered a moment of peace amidst the rigorous demands of Jedi training. But for two newly selected Padawans, the change from the familiar camaraderie of the younglings’ dormitory to the solitude of individual quarters felt anything but peaceful.

Dia sat cross-legged on her bed, the blanket draped loosely around her shoulders as she tried to meditate. The soft hum of the city outside was a poor replacement for the hushed whispers and soft breathing of her fellow younglings that had always been a source of comfort. She opened her eyes, her lekku twitching as she glanced toward the door. Her new quarters felt too large, too quiet, and far too lonely.

She sighed, letting the blanket fall as she swung her legs off the bed, staring at the small collection of her belongings neatly arranged on the shelves. The emptiness gnawed at her, a feeling she couldn’t quite suppress, no matter how much she tried to focus on the Force. The excitement of becoming a Padawan, something she had dreamed of, was now overshadowed by an unease she hadn’t anticipated—uncertainty about what the future held, and whether it would change the bond she shared with Zela.

A soft knock at the door broke the silence, startling her. She blinked, momentarily confused before sliding off the bed and padding to the door. When it slid open, she found Zela standing there, her emerald eyes wide and filled with uncertainty. She was dressed in the simple sleepwear provided by the Temple, her lekku drooping slightly, betraying her unease.

“Zels?” Dia asked softly, tilting her head in concern. “What’s wrong?”

Zela hesitated, glancing down the hall before meeting Dia’s gaze. “I can’t sleep,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s too quiet. Too… empty.”

Dia’s heart ached at the vulnerability in Zela’s voice. She stepped aside, motioning for her to come in. “You can stay here,” she said without hesitation.

Zela stepped inside, her movements hesitant at first, but she visibly relaxed as the door slid shut behind her. The soft glow of the room’s lights illuminated the small space, casting gentle shadows across the walls.

“Thanks,” Zela said, her voice still quiet as she looked around. Her eyes landed on Dia’s bed, and a small smile tugged at her lips. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Being on our own now?”

Dia nodded, sitting back on the edge of the bed and patting the space beside her. “It’s weird. I thought I’d like having my own room, but…” She trailed off, her lekku twitching. “I miss the others. I miss… you.”

Zela’s cheeks flushed a faint shade darker, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she sat down beside Dia, the mattress dipping slightly under their combined weight. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the quiet between them a stark contrast to the noisy dormitories they’d shared.

“Do you think it’ll get easier?” Zela asked after a while, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “I mean… everything’s different now. And I’m glad I was chosen, but… what if things aren’t the same anymore?”

Dia shrugged, leaning back on her hands. “Maybe. But… maybe it’s okay to need help sometimes. Like now.” She smiled, her gaze warm as she looked at Zela. “I’m glad you came. It feels less lonely already.”

Zela’s lips curved into a small smile, and she nodded. “Me too.”

Dia stood, pulling the blanket off her bed and spreading it out. “Come on,” she said, grinning as she flopped onto the bed and patted the space beside her. “It’ll be like the dorms again. Well, sort of.”

Zela hesitated for only a moment before climbing in beside her. The bed was small, but they made it work, their shoulders brushing as they settled under the blanket. Zela curled slightly onto her side, her lekku draping across the pillow, while Dia lay on her back, staring at the ceiling.

The moments stretched, but neither could fully settle. The weight of their unspoken fears and insecurities lingered in the air. Sensing the tension, Dia reached out, gently taking Zela’s hand in her own. “You’re safe here,” she murmured softly.

Zela didn’t respond with words. Instead, she shifted closer, her taller frame naturally curling protectively around Dia’s smaller one. Her arms encircled Dia gently but firmly, her presence wrapping around Dia like a warm shield. Dia let out a soft sigh, her head nestling against Zela’s chest as her lekku draped across Zela’s side. The rhythm of Zela’s heartbeat was a soothing cadence, its steady beat lulling Dia into relaxation.

“I didn’t think I’d miss this so much,” Zela whispered after a while, her voice barely audible.

Dia tilted her head slightly to look up at her, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Miss what?”

“You,” Zela said simply, her cheeks darkening. “It’s not the same without you there, talking in your sleep or poking me awake when I snore.”

Dia giggled softly, the sound muffled against Zela’s shoulder. “I don’t talk in my sleep.”

Zela smirked, her hand brushing lightly against Dia’s back. “Sure you don’t.”

The soft banter eased the tension, and for the first time in days, they both fell asleep easily, their bond of friendship and trust strong enough to chase away the solitude of their new reality. Yet, even as sleep claimed them, the uncertainties of their future lingered faintly in the background, a reminder of the challenges ahead. But for now, in each other’s presence, the overwhelming weight of change felt a little easier to bear.

~~~~

Dia leans against the wall of the Venator Leviathan’s barracks, watching Rose and her squad as they meticulously clean their weapons. The clones, despite the long hours of drills and preparation for the upcoming battle, seem to find a strange comfort in the routine. Each movement is precise, almost meditative, and Dia can’t help but admire their discipline.

“Commander, you’re staring,” Rose quips, her voice carrying the playful lilt Dia has come to associate with the ARF trooper. She glances up from her DC-15S carbine, a smirk playing on her lips. “Thinking of trading in that fancy lightsaber for one of these?”

Dia rolls her eyes but smiles. “Oh, definitely. I’m sure I’d be a natural with a blaster. Just point and shoot, right?” She steps closer, taking a seat on one of the empty crates scattered around the room. “Though I’d probably be worse than a cadet on their first day.”

“We’d whip you into shape in no time,” says Curve, as he carefully checks the alignment of his rifle’s scope. “Besides, you’ve already got that Jedi reflex advantage. Bet you’d be pulling off trick shots in a week.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Zeke chimes in, grinning as he oils the parts of his sniper rifle. “Next thing we know, she’ll be trying to outshoot Rose, and none of us want to clean up that mess.”

“As if she could,” Rose retorts with mock indignation, her hands never pausing in their work. “But hey, Commander, if you’re up for a little competition, I’m game. Loser has to buy the next round of stimcaf when we’re back on Coruscant.”

“You’re on,” Dia replies, laughing. “But don’t expect much of a fight. I’ve got my hands full just trying to keep up with Zela in sparring sessions. She’d kill me if she knew I was slacking off to hang out with you lot.”

The mention of Zela draws a few knowing looks from the clones. Rose arches an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “Speaking of, you two seem pretty close. I mean, I’ve seen bonds between Jedi, but you two? It’s something else entirely.”

Dia feels her cheeks heat up but keeps her composure. “She’s my best friend,” she says simply. “We’ve been through a lot together. I’d trust her with my life.”

“Best friend, huh?” Rose teases, a sly grin spreading across her face. “Sure that’s all it is?”

Dia’s lekku twitch, betraying her discomfort. “It’s… complicated,” she mutters, avoiding Rose’s gaze. The bond she shares with Zela vibrates faintly in the back of her mind, a comforting presence even when they’re apart.

“Relax, Commander,” Rose says, her tone softening. “We’re just messing with you. Whatever’s between you two is your business. But for what it’s worth, she’s lucky to have you. Not everyone gets someone who’ll stick by them through thick and thin.”

The sincerity in Rose’s voice catches Dia off guard, and she nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Thanks, Rose.”

Before the moment can grow too serious, Squire pipes up from his spot near the doorway, where he’s been tinkering with a piece of gear. “So, Commander, when are you gonna let us teach you how to ride one of our AT-RTs? Bet you’d look good zipping around the battlefield on one of those.”

Dia laughs, grateful for the change in subject. “I think I’ll stick to starfighters and letting you guys handle the ground vehicles. Besides, I’m pretty sure I’d crash one within five minutes.”

“We’d have you up and running in no time,” Squire insists, earning a round of chuckles from the squad.

As the conversation continues, Dia finds herself relaxing more than she has in days. Despite the war, despite the weight of her responsibilities, moments like this remind her why she fights. These clones—these friends—have become her family. And she would do anything to protect them.

After some more banter, Rose claps her hands together and grins. “Alright, Commander, let’s see if you’re as good as you think you are. Come on, we’ve got a firing range set up in the next compartment.”

Dia blinks in surprise but stands up, stretching her arms. “You’re serious? Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when I accidentally shoot something I’m not supposed to.”

The squad laughs as they lead her to the makeshift range. The compartment is a long, narrow room with targets set up at varying distances. Blaster marks scar the walls, evidence of the squad’s frequent practice sessions.

Rose hands Dia a DC-17 pistol. “Start with this. Lightweight, decent range. Just aim and squeeze the trigger—gently.”

Dia holds the weapon awkwardly, her grip a little too tight. She takes a moment to adjust, the weight of the blaster foreign compared to her lightsaber. “Alright,” she mutters, taking a deep breath and raising the weapon.

Her first shot goes wide, missing the target entirely and hitting the back wall. The squad bursts into laughter, and even Dia can’t help but chuckle. “Told you I was terrible at this.”

“Relax your grip,” Zeke advises, stepping up beside her. “You’re holding it like it’s going to jump out of your hand. Let the weapon do the work.”

Dia nods, adjusting her stance. She takes another shot, this time hitting the outer ring of the target. A spark of pride flickers in her chest, and she tries again, each shot coming closer to the center.

“Not bad, Commander,” Rose says, watching her progress. “Still wouldn’t want you covering me in a firefight, though.”

“Give me a few more sessions, and I’ll be your backup sniper,” Dia shoots back, her confidence growing with each hit.

Rose stands at the edge of the firing range, her posture relaxed but her sharp eyes fixed on Dia.

Dia holds the DC-17 blaster pistol in both hands, her stance slightly awkward as she lines up her shot. The weapon feels foreign in her grip—a far cry from the familiar weight and balance of her lightsaber. She takes a breath and fires. The bolt goes wide, hitting the wall just to the left of the target.

Rose smirks, stepping forward. “Alright, Commander, let’s start from the beginning. First off, you’re gripping it like it’s a snake about to bite you. Relax.” She places her hands over Dia’s, adjusting her grip on the blaster. “Firm, but not too tight. Let the weapon work for you.”

Dia glances at Rose, her lekku twitching in embarrassment. “Easier said than done. Lightsabers don’t exactly come with a user manual, but this thing feels like it has a hundred rules.”

“Good thing I’m here to teach you,” Rose replies, her tone teasing but warm. She steps back, watching as Dia adjusts her stance. “Now, bend your knees slightly. You’re standing too stiff. And don’t lean so much. You’re not trying to intimidate the target.”

Dia sighs but complies, shifting her weight and lowering her shoulders. She raises the blaster again, aiming carefully before pulling the trigger. This time, the bolt strikes the target—not dead center, but close enough to the middle ring to draw an approving nod from Rose.

“Better,” Rose says, folding her arms. “Now, let’s talk about trigger control. Don’t jerk it. Squeeze gently, like you’re handling something fragile.”

Dia snorts softly. “Like a lightsaber crystal?”

“Sure, let’s go with that,” Rose replies with a grin. “Now, keep practicing. And don’t think I didn’t notice that slight tremble in your hands. You’re overthinking it. Trust your instincts. Doesn’t the Force help with this kind of thing?”

Dia lowers the blaster, glancing at Rose. “The Force is great for deflecting blaster bolts, not so much for firing them. At least no one has told me how to make it good for that.”

Rose rolls her eyes. “Then maybe we’ll focus on getting you to the point where you don’t need the Force. Here.” She picks up her own blaster, a well-worn DC-15S carbine, and steps up beside Dia. “Watch me.”

Rose demonstrates, her movements fluid and precise as she fires a series of shots in quick succession. Each bolt hits near the center of the target. She lowers the blaster and looks at Dia. “See? It’s all about rhythm. Breathe in, aim, squeeze, and fire. Don’t rush it.”

Dia nods, lifting her pistol again. She takes a deep breath, centering herself as she’d been taught in meditation. This time, her grip is steadier, her movements smoother. She fires three shots in a row, each one inching closer to the bullseye.

“There you go,” Rose says, her voice filled with encouragement. “See? You’re getting the hang of it.”

Dia smiles faintly, a small flicker of pride lighting her features. “Not bad for a Jedi, huh?”

“Not bad at all,” Rose agrees. “Now let’s see if you can keep it up under pressure. Curve! Get over here.”

Curve approaches, his rifle slung over his shoulder. “What’s up, boss?”

“Time for some moving targets. Set up the droid simulators,” Rose orders.

Curve nods, moving to activate a panel on the wall. Moments later, a series of training droids whir to life, gliding into position. They begin to move erratically, their small frames weaving between the stationary targets.

Dia’s confidence falters for a moment, but she squares her shoulders and takes aim. The first shot misses, but she quickly adjusts, tracking the droid’s movements and firing again. The bolt strikes its target, and the droid sparks as it powers down.

“Nice shot,” Rose says, clapping her on the shoulder. “Now keep going. And don’t forget to watch your surroundings. These little guys have a habit of sneaking up on you.”

As Dia continues, the training intensifies. The droids move faster, and some even fire harmless stun bolts, forcing her to dodge and weave as she aims. Sweat beads on her brow, but she presses on, her focus unwavering. The clones cheer her on, their camaraderie infectious.

By the end of the session, Dia is panting, her arms aching from the unfamiliar effort. But she’s grinning, a sense of accomplishment settling in her chest.

“You’ve got potential, Commander,” Rose says, handing her a water flask. “Might even make a decent trooper out of you someday.”

Dia laughs, taking a sip of water. “Don’t let Zela hear you say that. She’d never let me live it down.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure she knows,” Rose replies with a mischievous wink. “Now, let’s pack up. Same time tomorrow?”

Dia nods, already looking forward to the next session. For the first time in a long while, she feels a little less like a Jedi weighed down by the war and a little more like one of the team.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XIX

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

The command room aboard the *Leviathan* thrums with tension, the steady hum of holoprojectors casting an eerie blue glow over the gathered personnel. At the centre of the room stands a massive holographic display of Kabal, its jagged mountain ranges and sprawling urban centres rendered in intricate detail. Suspended above the planet, the Separatist fleet looms like a spectre of destruction: a Lucrehulk battleship, flanked by three Providence-class dreadnoughts, six Recusant-class light destroyers, approximately twenty Munificent frigates, and multiple squadrons of Hardcell transports and Gozanti-class cruisers, alongside swarms of Vulture droids.

Master Emmari Vinives’s voice breaks the low murmur of conversation. “Let’s begin.” Her calm yet commanding tone instantly draws focus. She gestures toward the display, her movements deliberate and precise. Beside her, Master Runi Nima watches silently, her green skin catching the glow of the projection, her sharp eyes scanning every detail. Both Jedi carry the weight of the mission in their composed stances.

Dia and Zela stand to one side, the two Padawans whispering softly to each other, their quiet exchanges marked by subtle hand gestures. A pointed glance from Emmari silences them, but the bond between the two remains palpable. Marshall Commander Neva of the 42nd Legion stands stiffly at attention, his helmet tucked under his arm, while Marshall Commander Rov of the 72nd leans slightly on the table, his arms folded, his posture casual but attentive. Their contrasting demeanours reflect years of camaraderie and shared battlefields.

“The Separatist fleet is our first obstacle,” Emmari begins, her voice cutting through the low hum of the room. “They’ve fortified their orbital positions, and our intelligence suggests a considerable number of reinforcements are stationed on the planet. We can’t land the ground forces until we’ve neutralised the fleet.”

Rov nods, his sharp gaze fixed on the Lucrehulk. “We’re looking at a meat grinder. That Lucrehulk alone can house tens of thousands of battle droids. Add the Providence-class Dreadnoughts for heavy command fire and Recusants for flanking manoeuvres, and we’re in for a slog.”

“That’s where coordination becomes critical,” Neva interjects firmly. His tone is clipped, his words deliberate. “The 42nd and 72nd will work in tandem, focusing fire to break their defensive lines. Once we’ve created an opening, we’ll deploy our Y-wings to target the Lucrehulk’s hangars and shield generators. Without their command ship, the droid fleet will lose cohesion.”

Master Nima steps forward, her calm voice adding weight to the plan. “Padawan Taal and I will lead the vanguard assault, clearing the way for the bombers. Master Vinives and Padawan Olan will support the secondary wave, focusing on targeting the frigates.”

Dia straightens at the mention of her name, her violet eyes meeting Emmari’s for reassurance. Zela, standing beside her, briefly brushes Dia’s hand in silent encouragement, a fleeting moment of comfort unnoticed by most but deeply grounding for Dia. Zela’s confidence seems to transfer to her, calming her nerves.

Rov’s gaze sharpens. “What about the ground assault? The longer we delay after neutralising their fleet, the more entrenched their defences will become.”

Emmari nods, her expression resolute. “Once orbital supremacy is established, we will commence targeted planetary bombardments to weaken their positions. The 42nd Legion will assault the northern industrial sector, dismantling their manufacturing capabilities. Simultaneously, the 72nd will secure the southern region, focusing on the planetary shield generator.”

Neva’s brow furrows. “And air support? If they deploy Hyena bombers, our LAATs and landing craft will be at risk.”

“Padawan Taal will lead the starfighter squadrons,” Emmari replies. “Their priority will be neutralising bombers and maintaining air superiority.”

Master Nima turns her attention to Dia, her gaze steady but expectant. “Padawan Olan, once the landing zone is secure, you will lead a recon unit beyond the frontlines. Your mission will be to disrupt enemy operations: destroy communications hubs, disable supply lines, and identify weak points for follow-up assaults.”

The weight of the assignment settles on Dia’s shoulders, but she nods resolutely. Despite the flicker of anxiety in her chest, Zela’s presence bolsters her confidence. She can do this—she has to. Memories of their past battles flicker through her mind, each one a testament to their shared resilience.

Nima’s gaze shifts to Zela. “You, Padawan Taal, will remain with the fighter squadrons. The skies will be chaotic, but they will be crucial in protecting our forces and maintaining operational control. Trust your instincts and keep the bombers safe.”

Zela’s chin lifts slightly. “Yes, Master.” Her voice carries the confidence she feels standing next to Dia and reverberating across their bond. She tightens her gloves, mentally preparing for the chaos to come.

Rov’s smirk returns as he leans back. “Straightforward enough. Now we just need the clankers to cooperate.”

Neva snorts, his tone dry. “They won’t. But that’s why we have contingencies. The droids might be predictable, but their numbers mean they can overwhelm unless we’re precise.”

Emmari’s sharp gaze sweeps over the group, a silent call to readiness. “You’ve all been briefed. Final preparations are underway. We launch in six hours. Trust in the Force and in each other. Dismissed.”

The planning session concludes, and the *Leviathan* gradually settles into the focused stillness that precedes a battle. Dia and Zela find themselves in one of the ship’s smaller meditation chambers. The room is dimly lit, with soft amber light emanating from recessed panels in the walls, casting warm, flickering shadows across their faces. A faint hum of the ship’s systems fills the air, the only sound as the two Padawans sit cross-legged across from each other on simple meditation mats.

Dia exhales slowly, letting her shoulders relax, her violet eyes closing. She can feel the tension from the briefing still lingering in her body, and she knows she needs to let it go before the mission. Across from her, Zela shifts slightly, her presence in the Force a steady and vibrant current. Dia has always found comfort in that presence, like the warm glow of a distant star guiding her in the dark.

“Ready?” Zela’s voice is soft, carrying none of her usual teasing, only calm sincerity.

Dia nods, her own voice equally quiet. “Ready.”

They close their eyes and reach for the Force, letting it flow through them, around them. It’s a familiar practice, one they’ve shared countless times before, but tonight feels different. The stakes are higher, the bond between them more vivid, more alive. Dia feels the Force like fire, its flames licking at her senses, fierce and consuming, pulling her into its depths. And then she feels Zela—bright, so full of life, and unmistakably Zela—reaching out.

The bond between them hums, stronger than ever, as if the Force itself is weaving their essences together. Dia doesn’t resist it; she’s long stopped trying to deny the pull she feels toward Zela. Their presences in the Force meet, intertwining, merging into a shared space that feels intimate in a way that words could never capture.

Dia senses Zela’s emotions flickering through the connection: determination, resolve, and… something deeper, softer, guarded yet unmistakable. It mirrors the feelings Dia tries to keep buried, feelings she has never dared to voice aloud. Her heart tightens as she wonders if Zela feels the same pull, the same impossible ache that Dia feels every time they’re together.

For her part, Zela feels Dia’s presence in the Force like a melody she never wants to forget. There’s a quiet strength in Dia, a resilience that Zela admires and, if she’s honest, loves. She’s told herself time and again that it’s nothing more than the bond of friends, of Jedi working together in harmony. But here, in the shared currents of the Force, she can’t deny the truth. It’s more than that. It has always been more.

Their breathing syncs as they drift deeper into the meditation, their shared presence in the Force pulling them closer, binding them in a way that feels as natural as it is profound. Time becomes meaningless. Minutes stretch into hours, and yet it feels like no time has passed at all. They sink into the rhythm of the Force together, their thoughts and emotions brushing against each other like waves lapping at the shore. The connection deepens, the intimacy of it both exhilarating and terrifying.

Dia’s thoughts brush against Zela’s like a whisper. *I hope I’m not imagining this…*

Zela’s presence flutters in response, a gentle reassurance. *You’re not alone in this.*

The intimacy of the moment leaves both of them breathless, though neither opens their eyes. They remain like this, suspended in the Force, each trying to decipher the other’s feelings while grappling with their own. Neither dares to break the silence, afraid that speaking aloud might shatter the fragile, beautiful connection they’ve created.

The spell is only broken when a soft, insistent chime echoes through the chamber—the ship’s alarm signalling the imminent drop from hyperspace. The sound pulls them from the meditation like a sudden gust of wind, and they both open their eyes, blinking as the real world reasserts itself.

Zela is the first to speak, her voice still soft, her gaze lingering on Dia. “Looks like it’s time.”

Dia nods, her heart still racing from the closeness they’ve just shared. She forces a small smile, her voice quiet. “Yeah. Let’s get ready.”

Dia uses the force to pull over two small cases sitting against the wall, popping them open to reveal their new vambraces resting on a cloth-lined tray, gleaming in the dim light. Crafted from Beskar by Kia, their new friend and master artisan, the vambraces are as stunning as they are functional.

Each piece is a masterpiece. Dia’s vambraces are adorned with intricate, flame-like engravings that seem to dance across the surface, echoing her fiery determination. Zela’s are etched with jagged, lightning-inspired streaks, a reflection of her boundless energy and sharp wit. 

Dia reaches out and lifts one vambrace, her cybernetic hand curling around the cool Beskar. She runs her fingers over the smooth, intricate surface, her violet eyes tracing the delicate lines. “Kia really outdid herself,” she says softly, her voice tinged with awe. “These are more than just beautiful. They’re art.”

She begins attaching the vambrace to her cybernetic arm, where specialised attachment points have been integrated to secure it seamlessly. The vambrace clicks into place with a satisfying finality, wrapping her arm in an unyielding but comfortable embrace. Flexing her fingers, Dia feels the subtle hum of energy coursing through the device. She activates the hidden interface, a small holo-display projecting diagnostics, comm functionality, and power reserves. Embedded within the vambrace are wrist and gauntlet knives, concealed but ready for swift deployment if needed.

“I wonder if Kia knows how much these mean to us,” Dia murmurs, still flexing her fingers to test the fit. The Beskar feels like an extension of herself, its weight grounding but not burdensome. “She’s given us more than just gear. These feel… personal.”

Zela grins as she secures her own vambraces, her movements quick and precise. She tests the wrist knives, letting them slide out and lock into position with a smooth, metallic sound before retracting them just as easily. “That’s Kia for you,” she says, leaning back slightly to admire her handiwork. “She doesn’t just make things; she makes them *for* you. It’s like she sees who you are and puts it into her work.”

Dia nods, her gaze lingering on the etched flames of her vambrace. The artistry and care Kia put into the pieces stir a deep sense of gratitude in her. It’s not just the vambraces themselves—it’s the thought behind them. She wonders if Kia knows how much these gifts mean, how they speak to something more than utility.

“Let’s see how they handle,” Zela says, breaking the contemplative silence. She rises smoothly to her feet and takes a mock defensive stance. With a flick of her wrist, she activates the deflector emitter embedded in the vambrace, and the gauntlet blade emerges from the other. A shimmering energy shield flares to life, its translucent surface glowing faintly in the dim chamber; the blade is a similar dark metal in appearance, with its edge gleaming. Zela tests its responsiveness with a few quick movements, her satisfaction evident in the slight smirk that graces her lips. “Not bad. Think it can handle a full-blast shot?”

Dia chuckles, standing to join her. “Let’s not find out in here. I’m not sure the chamber walls would survive.” She activates her own shield, mirroring Zela’s stance. The energy hums softly, and Dia can feel the shield’s subtle vibration through her arm. “But they feel solid. Responsive.”

Zela deactivates her shield and steps closer, her tone more serious. “You know,” she says, tapping the edge of her vambrace lightly, “with these, it feels like Kia’s here with us. Watching our backs.”

Dia glances at her, a small, thoughtful smile playing on her lips. “Yeah. It does.” She looks down at her vambrace again, the flames etched into the Beskar seeming to glow faintly in the low light. “We’ll make sure her work isn’t wasted.”

Zela nods, her usual teasing demeanour replaced with something softer, more sincere. “Yeah. We will.”

For a moment, they stand in silence, the weight of the battle ahead pressing lightly against the quiet resolve in their expressions. Finally, they gather their gear and leave the meditation chamber, their steps steady and in sync. They are ready for whatever comes next.

Dia and Zela make their way through the Leviathan’s corridors toward the hangar bay. The steady hum of the ship’s systems is punctuated by the sharp clatter of boots and the muted voices of personnel preparing for the battle ahead. Soldiers and technicians move with purpose, their expressions a mix of focus and determination. The air carries a palpable tension—anticipation mingling with the disciplined calm of seasoned veterans who have faced countless battles before.

Dia adjusts the strap of her robes, her violet eyes focused ahead but distant. Her thoughts linger on the connection she shares with Zela, the memory warm but also slightly distracting. She shakes her head to clear it, forcing herself to focus on the task ahead. The hangar bay is their destination, a bustling hub of preparation where their Delta-7B starfighters await.

Beside her, Zela walks with her usual confidence, her stride light but purposeful. There’s a steadiness to her that Dia often finds grounding, even if she’d never admit it aloud. Zela glances over, catching Dia’s faintly distracted expression, and offers her a grin. “Ready to light up the stars?” she asks, her tone teasing but warm, her voice carrying the playful lilt that Dia has come to expect.

Dia smirks despite herself, her focus snapping back to the present. “As long as you don’t get too flashy out there.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave the dramatic manoeuvres to you,” Zela retorts with a grin.

Their banter eases the tension between them, their words flowing easily in a rhythm they’ve honed over years of fighting side by side. By the time they step into the hangar bay, Dia feels a bit more centred. The massive space is alive with activity. Mechanics and droids dart between rows of starfighters, performing last-minute checks and repairs. The hum of repulsorlifts and the sharp whir of hydrospanners create a chaotic symphony, underscoring the urgency of their mission.

The Delta-7B starfighters stand out, sleek and deadly, their hulls polished to a mirror-like sheen under the hangar lights. Dia’s fighter features a subtle flame motif along its wings, a nod to her fiery determination and drive. Zela’s, by contrast, bears bold blue streaks reminiscent of the markings across her skin but in inverse colours.

As they approach their ships, an R4 astromech droid chirps a greeting, its dome swivelling to follow Dia. She pats its chassis affectionately, a smile tugging at her lips. “Good to see you, R4. Ready for another round?”

The droid responds with an enthusiastic series of beeps, its lights flashing in acknowledgement. It’s been with Dia through many missions, and its presence is as comforting as it is reliable.

Zela laughs as she climbs into her cockpit, settling in with practised ease. “Your droid’s got more enthusiasm than some of the pilots I know,” she quips, glancing toward Dia with a smirk.

Dia shakes her head with a soft chuckle as she ascends the ladder to her own fighter. She slides into the snug seat, the canopy lowering and sealing her in. The familiar hum of the ship’s systems coming online fills her ears, and she takes a moment to breathe, letting the Force flow through her. It’s a calming ritual, one that steadies her as the bond she shares with Zela flickers at the edges of her awareness, a reassuring presence that reminds her she’s not alone.

“Delta-7B units, report status,” comes the calm voice of the hangar control officer over the comms, cutting through the ambient noise.

Zela’s voice answers first, clear and confident. “Taal, Vanguard Two. Systems nominal.”

Dia follows, her tone equally steady. “Olan, Leviathan Two. Systems nominal.”

The control officer’s voice returns, measured and professional. “Stand by for hyperspace exit. Fighters will deploy on my mark.”

Dia’s hands tighten briefly on the controls, the weight of the coming battle pressing on her chest. She glances to her left, where Zela’s Delta-7B sits ready. The faint glint of the cockpit’s canopy catches the hangar lights, and through their bond, Dia feels a pulse of reassurance. It’s Zela’s way of saying, *We’ve got this.*

Dia exhales slowly, letting the tension flow out of her with the breath. She nods to herself, her resolve firm. *Yeah, we do.*

As the ship’s klaxons blare, signalling the final countdown to hyperspace exit, the hangar fills with a renewed sense of urgency. Mechanics scramble to clear the deck, and pilots run final checks. Dia and Zela exchange one last glance through their canopies, a silent promise passing between them. The stars await, and they’re ready.

The *Leviathan* exits hyperspace with a sudden, brilliant flash, its massive Venator-class frame cutting through the void of space like a blade. Around it, the rest of the 42nd Fleet materialises in perfect formation: the *Pilgrim* and *Comet* flank their flagship, their gleaming hulls bristling with weaponry. Behind them, the six Assault Acclamators and eighteen Arquitens-class light cruisers slide smoothly into position, their engines glowing against the blackness of space, a synchronised dance of warships emerging from the void.

Moments later, the 72nd Fleet bursts into view with equal precision on the Leviathan’s starboard side. The *Vanguard*, *Sentinel*, and *Nova* spearhead their contingent, their Venator-class profiles shimmering in the light of Kabal’s nearby star. Flanking them are their own Assault Acclamators and Arquitens cruisers, their sharp angles bristling with readiness. Together, the two fleets form a daunting wall of Republic might, a testament to the discipline and power of the Republic Navy.

Ahead of them, the Separatist fleet looms like a dark tide, its warships stationed in orbit over Kabal with grim intent. At the heart of the enemy line is a massive Lucrehulk battleship, its crescent shape bathed in the glow of countless lights, a fortress of mechanical death. Surrounding it are three Providence-class dreadnoughts, their spindly forms carrying deadly firepower, and six Recusant-class light destroyers, their sleek profiles prepared for flanking manoeuvres. Adding to the menace are twenty-four Munificent-class frigates, their angular designs gleaming coldly, their turbolasers primed for engagement. Smaller Hardcell transports and Gozanti-class cruisers hover like satellites around the larger ships, their purpose clear in the battle to come. Above it all, swarms of Vulture droids orbit like mechanical hornets, their restless formations a promise of chaos and destruction.

The two forces face each other in stark contrast: the ordered strength of the Republic against the calculated menace of the Separatists, each side prepared for the conflagration that is moments away from igniting.

On the Leviathan’s bridge, Admiral Harpea stands tall, his hands clasped behind his back as he surveys the scene. The tension in the air is palpable, but his voice is steady as he issues orders. “All ships, hold formation. Prepare for engagement. Launch starfighter squadrons on my command.”

Below the bridge, the massive dorsal hangar doors of the *Leviathan* slide open with a mechanical rumble. Inside the cavernous space, rows of V-19 Torrents and Y-Wings sit ready, their pilots already aboard and awaiting the signal. Ground crews scramble to make final checks, their voices drowned out by the roar of engines coming to life.

In one corner of the hangar, four Delta-7B starfighters sit poised on their launch racks. Inside the cockpits, the Jedi pilots prepare for battle. Dia tightens her grip on the controls, her violet eyes focused and determined. To her left, Zela’s cockpit glows faintly as her systems power up, her presence a steadying beacon in the Force.

Through the comms, Zela’s voice comes through, tinged with her usual confidence. “Ready to dance, Dia?”

Dia smirks, her own voice calm but sharp. “Always, Zels. Just try to keep up this time.”

The other two Jedi, Master Emmari Vinives and Master Runi Nima, exchange a glance from their respective cockpits. Emmari’s voice cuts through the banter with a measured tone. “Focus, Padawans. This is a battle, not a sparring session.”

Runi’s tone, though softer, carries the same weight. “Remember your training. Stay with your wingmates and trust the Force.”

The hangar is alive with motion as the launch sequence begins. The V-19 Torrents are the first to deploy, their sleek frames shooting out into the void like arrows. Behind them, the heavier Y-Wings rumble forward, their engines leaving trails of blue light as they take formation.

“Delta-7Bs, you’re clear to launch,” comes the command from the bridge.

One by one, the Jedi starfighters streak out of the hangar, their engines igniting with brilliant blue flares as they accelerate into the vast expanse of space. Each launch is fluid, precise, a testament to the discipline and unity of the Republic forces. Zela’s Delta-7B cuts through the formation like a lightning bolt, its sleek design accentuated by the bold blue streaks along its hull. Flying beside her, Master Runi Nima’s fighter mirrors her movements, the two Jedi weaving effortlessly to the forefront of the vanguard. The energy of the nearby star reflects off their ships, turning them into radiant symbols of hope and strength. Zela’s presence in the Force burns brightly, her confidence and determination a rallying point for those following her lead. Around her, V-19 Torrents take their positions, creating an escort screen to ward off the inevitable assault of Separatist droid fighters.

Meanwhile, Dia’s Delta-7B slides smoothly into position with the second wave, her fighter’s flame-like detailing catching faint glints of light as her ship stabilises. Her R4 unit chirps enthusiastically, its dome swivelling as it processes sensor data and feeds tactical updates to Dia’s display. She spares a brief glance at the readouts, her violet eyes narrowing in focus. Master Emmari Vinives’s ship drifts into formation alongside her, its movements calm and deliberate, reflecting the measured demeanour of its pilot. Together, they hold steady, waiting for the vanguard’s initial strike to open the way for their decisive follow-up. The bombers of the second wave, primarily Y-Wings, form a staggered line behind them, their slower engines rumbling as their payloads arm and lock.

From the Leviathan’s bridge, Admiral Harpea observes the unfolding deployment with a practised eye. The fleets move as one, the 42nd and 72nd forming an unbroken line of warships advancing with relentless purpose. Starfighter squadrons dart between the capital ships, their disciplined formations a sharp contrast to the erratic swarms of Separatist Vulture droids emerging from the enemy fleet. Behind Harpea, the holographic tactical display updates in real time, showing the ebb and flow of the battle as the fleets draw closer. Harpea’s voice carries across the fleet-wide comms, steady and authoritative. “All units, maintain formation. Prepare to engage. May the Force be with us.”

As the Republic fleets surge forward, the Separatists respond in kind. The vast expanse between the two forces begins to collapse as laser fire erupts from the capital ships. Bright bolts of energy streak across the void, illuminating the battlefield in vivid flashes of red and green. The Lucrehulk and its escorting Providence-class dreadnoughts unleash devastating volleys, while the Munificent-class frigates form defensive barriers, their turbolasers firing with precision to counter the advancing Republic ships. The Recusant-class destroyers peel off into flanking manoeuvres, attempting to encircle the Republic forces.

In the midst of this chaos, the Jedi lead the charge. Zela’s Delta-7B darts ahead, her movements guided by the Force, each manoeuvre precise and instinctive. Her master’s fighter remains close, the two working in flawless unison to draw fire away from the Republic bombers making their approach. Zela’s voice crackles through the comms, full of determination. “Vanguard, stay tight. Keep their fighters off our Y-Wings.” Her words are met with a chorus of acknowledgements from her squadron as they tighten their formation, moving as a single, cohesive unit.

Behind them, Dia’s Delta-7B holds its position, her focus sharpening as the second wave closes the distance. The sensation of the Force washes over her, a steady current that guides her every action. Her master’s calm presence reinforces her resolve as she scans the battlefield, identifying weak points in the Separatist formation. “Scarlet Group, on me,” Dia says over the comms, her voice clear and composed. “We move in once the vanguard creates the opening.” The bombers behind her rumble forward, their pilots tense but steady, ready to unleash their payloads on the Separatist capital ships.

The void of space becomes a symphony of chaos as the two fleets collide. Starfighters twist and dive in intricate dogfights, the Jedi at the forefront, their presence in the Force a beacon for their allies. Zela’s fighter rolls tightly to evade incoming fire, her quick manoeuvres forcing a trio of Vulture droids to overshoot their attack run. With a flick of her wrist, she aligns her cannons and fires, destroying two of the droids in a precise burst of blue laser fire.

Meanwhile, Dia watches as the lead squadrons begin to open a path through the chaotic melee. Her focus shifts to the Munificent frigates forming the Separatist defensive line. “Target those frigates,” she commands her bomber group. “Take out their turbolasers and open a lane towards the capital ships.” Her voice carries none of the doubt she feels, and her squadron moves into action, strafing the enemy frigates with coordinated precision.

On the bridge of the *Leviathan*, Admiral Harpea stands amidst a controlled chaos, his officers and crew working tirelessly at their stations. The holographic tactical display in the centre of the bridge flickers with constant updates, showing the Republic fleet’s advance and the Separatists’ counter-manoeuvres. Harpea’s eyes dart between the display and the viewport, where the battle unfolds in stark, violent beauty.

“Redirect fire from the Acclamators to counter their destroyers’ flanking attempt,” he commands, his tone sharp but calm. Officers relay his orders down the line, and within moments, the Acclamators adjust their trajectories. Turbolaser batteries roar to life, firing volleys that force the Recusant destroyers to break formation.

“Status on the vanguard”, Harpea demands.

“Vanguard units are holding steady,” a tactical officer replies. “Jedi fighters are drawing fire, but the droid squadrons are intensifying their attacks.”

Harpea leans over the display, his mind racing. “Have the Arquitens cruisers reinforce the starboard flank. They’re fast enough to intercept. Direct Y-Wing groups to adjust their bombing runs toward the Munificents. Their defensive line is our priority.”

The bridge crew moves with precision, executing his directives. The Arquitens cruisers break formation, speeding to intercept the Recusants attempting to encircle the fleet. Their smaller profiles and high mobility make them ideal for cutting off the Separatist flanking effort. Meanwhile, the Y-Wings alter course, their heavier payloads now aimed at the Munificent frigates whose turbolasers have been hammering the Republic advance.

“Admiral,” another officer calls out, “Separatist reinforcements are deploying from the Lucrehulk. Additional squadrons of Vultures inbound.”

Harpea narrows his eyes. “Order the V-19 squadrons to intercept. Keep them away from the bombers at all costs.” He pauses, his voice hardening. “And signal the Pilgrim to concentrate fire on that Lucrehulk’s hangar bay. We’re not letting them overwhelm us.”

Outside, the coordinated response takes shape. V-19 Torrents peel off to meet the new wave of Vulture droids, engaging them in furious dogfights that light up the void with streaks of laser fire. The Pilgrim brings its heavy turbolasers to bear on the Lucrehulk, unleashing a devastating salvo that rips through the shields protecting the hangar bay. Explosions ripple across the massive ship’s hull, forcing the Separatists to redirect their own resources.

As the battle intensifies, Harpea’s focus remains unshaken. “Report on the second wave,” he asks.

“The second wave is moving into position,” a communications officer confirms. “Bombers are targeting the Munificent frigates, and the Jedi are leading their escorts through the opening created by the fighters.”

Harpea’s lips press into a thin line. “Good. Keep the pressure on. Tell the Comet to provide additional fire support for the second wave. We’re punching through this blockade, no matter what.”

On the bridge of the *Leviathan* the rhythmic hum of the ship’s systems contrasts sharply with the chaos outside, a thin veneer of control over an unfolding storm.

One of the Republic’s Arquitens-class light cruisers takes a direct hit from a Recusant destroyer’s heavy turbolaser barrage. The ship’s shields collapse, and a secondary explosion rocks the vessel as its reactor core overloads. Flames burst through its hull, and within moments, it shatters into a cloud of debris. Nearby, another Arquitens struggles to evade incoming fire from a Munificent frigate, its crew fighting desperately to stabilise the failing systems. Explosions ripple across its starboard side, and it limps backwards, barely able to maintain its place in formation.

“Admiral, we’ve lost the *Resolute* and the *Arrowhead*,” a tactical officer reports, her voice tense and clipped. Her hands hover over her console as updates flood in.

Harpea’s jaw tightens, but his tone remains measured. “Redirect fire from the *Comet* to cover their position. Pull the remaining Arquitens back to reinforce the flanks. Ensure the Acclamators have breathing room to advance. And prepare to reinforce the second wave with auxiliary support ships if necessary.”

The *Comet* shifts its focus, its heavy turbolasers tearing into the Munificent that had claimed the *Arrowhead*. The Separatist frigate crumples under the concentrated barrage, its aft section disintegrating in a bright explosion. Republic forces cheer over the comms, but the victory is short-lived. Another wave of Separatist Vultures swarms into the fray, moving with eerie precision as they target Republic bombers.

Meanwhile, the Acclamators advance, their reinforced hulls enduring brutal punishment from the Separatist fleet’s concentrated fire. One Acclamator, the *Vanguard’s Shield*, takes multiple hits to its starboard side. A direct hit from a Providence dreadnought’s turbolasers punches through its armour, igniting secondary explosions along its length. Fires erupt across the decks as emergency systems struggle to contain the damage. Smoke pours from the gaping wounds in the hull, and alarms blare as the ship begins to list, its engines sputtering and failing.

Inside the doomed ship, crew members race against time, some desperately trying to extinguish fires, others rushing to evacuate. The bridge is in chaos, consoles sparking as systems fail one by one. “We’re losing containment on the reactor core!” a panicked officer shouts, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of alarms.

“Abandon ship!” the captain orders, his face grim. “Get everyone to the escape pods, now!”

Despite their efforts, another volley from the Providence dreadnought slams into the ship, breaching the reactor core. A blinding flash of light engulfs the *Vanguard’s Shield* as its core detonates, tearing the ship apart from within. The explosion is catastrophic, a fiery shockwave radiating outward and scattering debris across the battlefield. Chunks of the ship’s hull spin off into the void, trailing fire and smoke. Escape pods launch in rapid succession, their blinking lights a faint glimmer of hope amid the destruction.

The shockwave from the explosion rocks nearby ships, forcing them to veer off course to avoid the expanding cloud of debris. For a brief moment, the space around the *Vanguard’s Shield* is illuminated in an eerie, flickering glow, a silent testament to the lives lost and the brutal cost of the battle.

“Get rescue teams on those pods immediately,” Harpea orders sharply, his voice cutting through the comms. “We’re not leaving anyone behind.”

At the forefront of the battle, Zela’s Delta-7B weaves through the chaos, her sharp manoeuvres keeping her one step ahead of the Vultures on her tail. “I could use a little help here,” she calls out, her tone tight but focused. Her ship darts and rolls, stray laser fire grazing its shields.

“On your six, Vanguard Two,” comes the calm voice of her master, Runi Nima. Her Delta-7B streaks in from above, blasting the Vulture droids apart with precise shots. “Keep your focus. We’re nearly through the blockade. Trust the Force.”

In the second wave, Dia leads her squadron of bombers, targeting the Munificent frigates still holding the Separatist line. “Scarlet Group, target their turbolasers,” she commands, her voice steady despite the intensity of the battle. “We need those defences down now.”

The Y-Wings respond with precision, diving toward the Munificent frigate while weaving through an onslaught of defensive fire. Turbolasers from the frigate’s point-defense systems light up the void, bolts of green energy streaking perilously close to the bombers. Scarlet group’s pilots push their craft to the limit, performing sharp banks and rolls to evade the deadly barrage. Droid fighters swoop in from above, their blaster fire peppering the Y-Wings’ shields, which shimmer under the strain.

“Scarlet Two, watch your flank!” Dia’s voice cuts through the comms as her Delta-7B streaks past, lasers blazing. She obliterates a pair of Vultures bearing down on one of the bombers, her ship twisting gracefully through the chaos. “Keep those bombers steady. We’re almost there!”

The lead Y-Wing, Scarlet Leader, lines up its targeting systems, the glowing reticle locking onto the Munificent’s turbolaser batteries. “Scarlet Leader, beginning attack run,” LT Prys announces, his voice calm despite the chaos around him. He releases his payload, and proton bombs streak downward, leaving bright trails in their wake. The bombs slam into the frigate’s weapon systems, a series of explosions cascading across its surface. The turbolasers falter, their fire slowing before ceasing altogether.

“Direct hit!” Prys calls out as the frigate’s defences fall silent. The Y-Wings break formation, their pilots steering through a storm of laser fire from droid reinforcements. One bomber’s shields fail, and its wing takes a glancing hit from a turbolaser. The damaged Y-Wing spirals briefly before regaining control, its pilot gritting their teeth as they struggle to stay in formation.

Scarlet Group circles back, their shields flickering under sporadic laser fire. But as they pull away, a trio of Vulture droids surges after them, firing relentlessly. Dia dives in once more, her Delta-7B a blur of motion. She targets the Vultures with precision, her cannons taking out two of them in rapid succession. The third droid twists erratically, attempting to evade, but a final burst from Dia’s lasers reduces it to flaming debris.

As Scarlet Group regroups, another Acclamator, the *Guardian Spear*, becomes the focal point of a coordinated assault by three Munificent frigates. Positioned strategically above and below the Acclamator, the Munificents unleash a relentless barrage, their turbolasers firing in synchronised patterns. Bolts of green energy streak through the void, slamming into the *Guardian Spear's* shields from multiple angles. The shields flare violently under the strain, glowing with intense light before collapsing altogether.

With its defences gone, the Acclamator’s armour begins to fail. Turbolaser impacts tear into the hull, ripping apart decks and igniting catastrophic fires within the ship. Explosions ripple along its length, and desperate crew members scramble to stabilise the vessel. From above, one Munificent targets the engine block, its precise volley striking the Acclamator’s aft section. The engines erupt in a chain reaction, sending fiery debris spiralling outward. Below, the second and third Munificents hammer the ship’s midsection, their concentrated fire splitting the Acclamator nearly in two.

Onboard, the scene is chaos. Consoles spark and explode, and the bridge tilts violently as the ship begins to list. "Structural integrity failing! Reactor core breach imminent!" a frantic officer reports over the din of alarms.

“All hands, abandon ship!” the captain orders, his voice steady despite the hopeless situation. “Get to the escape pods!”

But the crew’s efforts to escape are cut short as another volley from the Munificents breaches the reactor core. For a moment, the *Guardian Spear* seems to hang in the void, its shattered hull glowing ominously. Then, with a deafening roar that reverberates even through the vacuum, the core detonates. The explosion consumes the entire ship, a massive fireball erupting outward and illuminating the battlefield. Chunks of the Acclamator's wreckage scatter in every direction, trailing smoke and flame.

The shockwave from the explosion is immense, rocking nearby Republic and Separatist ships alike. Smaller vessels caught in its path are thrown off course, some spinning uncontrollably into the void. The battlefield is momentarily lit with an eerie glow, the fiery remnants of the *Guardian Spear* a stark reminder of the battle’s brutal cost.

Dia’s R4 unit whistles an urgent warning as the shockwave approaches her position. She pulls her Delta-7B into a sharp climb, narrowly avoiding the debris. Over the comms, her voice remains steady despite the chaos. “Scarlet Group, form up! We’re not done yet.”

The attack run’s success creates a crucial opening in the Separatist line, but the battle is far from over. The Munificent frigates remaining in the fight begin to reposition, their droid commanders adapting quickly to the Republic’s tactics. Dia’s eyes narrow as she assesses the situation, her hands firm on the controls. “We’ll punch through. Stay tight and trust your instincts,” she says, leading her squadron back into the fray.

Aboard the bridge of the *Levithan* the air is tense, “We’re taking heavy losses,” one of Harpea’s officers says, her voice grim. “The Separatists are digging in hard, sir.”

Harpea’s eyes remain locked on the tactical display, the holographic map flickering with updates. “We’ve come too far to stop now. Signal the *Pilgrim* and *Vanguard* to converge fire on the Providence at their center. Once their flagship goes down, their cohesion will crumble.”

The *Pilgrim* and *Vanguard* adjust course, their turbolasers focusing on the nearest Providence-class dreadnought. The combined firepower begins to overwhelm its shields, and cracks appear along its hull. Republic bombers, escorted by V-19s, dive toward the ship, releasing their payloads with deadly accuracy. A chain reaction ignites within the dreadnought’s core, and moments later, the ship erupts in a spectacular explosion, scattering debris across the battlefield.

Cheers erupt across the Republic fleet as the path to Kabal begins to clear. But the battle is far from over. Separatist corvettes and frigates surge forward, their firepower hammering the Republic’s centre. Another Arquitens explodes under a sustained assault, and the flanking Republic forces scramble to close the gap.

“Order all remaining Arquitens to reposition and cover our bombers,” Harpea commands. “Divert secondary fire to neutralise those Hardcell transports before they can regroup. The *Leviathan* and *Comet* will focus on suppressing the Lucrehulk’s fighters.”

Outside, the battlefield is a roiling storm of light and destruction. Starfighters weave through turbolaser fire, their pilots relying on reflexes and the Force to survive. Dia’s Delta-7B leads another bombing run. Her R4 unit whistles sharply, signalling a direct hit. The frigate’s destruction sends shockwaves through the Separatist line, but their forces remain unyielding.

As the *Pilgrim* and *Vanguard* surge forward on the flank, their coordinated turbolaser fire cuts swathes through the defensive lines of the Separatist fleet. The Republic ships press the advantage, focusing on dispersing the Munificent frigates attempting to fortify the line. For a moment, it seems as though the flank might collapse under the Republic’s relentless push. But the Separatists counter with ruthless precision. From the swirling chaos of the main engagement, three Recusant-class destroyers slip through a gap in the Republic formation, their engines blazing as they accelerate toward the flank.

The Recusants’ sleek, predatory profiles carve a path through the void, flanked by squadrons of Vulture droids that dart ahead in erratic formations. Above and below them, Munificent frigates and Hardcell transports provide covering fire, their turbolasers and missile salvos weaving a deadly web of suppression. The destroyers’ rapid advance is no random maneuver; it is a calculated strike aimed at crippling the Republic’s offensive momentum. They veer sharply toward the *Pilgrim*, their heavy turbolasers firing in synchronized bursts that light up the surrounding space in vivid green. The combined firepower hammers the Venator’s shields, each impact sending ripples of energy cascading across the protective barrier. The Pilgrim’s deflectors hold for a moment, shimmering as they absorb the incoming fire, but the combined assault is unrelenting.

“Admiral,” a tactical officer’s voice rings out on the Leviathan’s bridge, urgent but composed. “The Pilgrim is under heavy attack. Shields are failing rapidly.”

On the *Leviathan’s* bridge, Admiral Harpea’s attention snaps to the tactical display as alarms blare. The faint glow of the Recusants’ signatures pushes deeper into the Republic’s flank. “Redirect fire from the *Comet* to intercept those destroyers,” he commands, his voice clipped but calm. “Order our Arquitens to close the gap and prevent further breaches.”

The *Comet* adjusts its position, its turbolasers targeting the nearest Recusant destroyer. The Arquitens-class cruisers pivot, their smaller frames and quicker mobility allowing them to close the distance faster. But the Recusants’ concentrated fire proves devastating. The *Pilgrim’s* shields collapse under the sustained barrage, and the hull begins to take direct hits. Explosions ripple along its starboard side, tearing through the ship’s outer armor.

On the *Pilgrim’s* bridge, the atmosphere is tense but controlled. Captain Ryne stands firm, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Damage control teams to starboard decks! Reroute power to the main turbolasers and return fire! Begin rolling the ship along its axis to rotate the damaged sections away from their fire. We need to buy more time!"

The *Pilgrim’s* guns roar to life, answering the Recusants with heavy salvos. One destroyer’s shields flicker and fail, but the other two maintain their relentless attack. Munificent frigates add their firepower to the assault, focusing on the *Pilgrim’s* engines. Fires erupt across its stern as critical systems fail one by one.

In the void surrounding the *Pilgrim*, Vulture droids swarm, their blasters peppering the ship’s surface and harassing its escort fighters. Republic V-19 squadrons struggle to hold them off, their numbers thinning as the skirmish devolves into brutal dogfights. Over the comms, frantic voices call out for assistance, but reinforcements are tied up across the battlefield.

Master Runi Nima watches the *Pilgrim’s* plight unfold from her cockpit. “Squadron, form up. We’re moving to assist the *Pilgrim*.” Her Delta-7B streaks through the chaos, flanked by Zela and the rest of their squadrons. They dive toward the swarming Vultures, cutting a path through the droid fighters to alleviate some of the pressure.

Inside the *Pilgrim*, chaos reigns as crew members scramble to contain the infernos raging across multiple decks. Alarms blare incessantly, and the air is thick with smoke and the acrid smell of burning systems. "We’ve lost the main engines!" an engineer shouts over the comms, his voice barely audible above the cacophony of crackling flames and collapsing bulkheads. "Structural integrity is failing on starboard! Entire sections are venting into space!"

The starboard side of the Venator is a wreck. Gaping holes in the hull expose the ship's inner framework to the void, fires raging unchecked as oxygen escapes in furious bursts. Sections of the ship flicker with failing power, and entire decks are plunged into darkness. Automated systems struggle to compensate, but the damage is too extensive. Secondary explosions erupt as overloaded power conduits detonate, shaking the vessel violently.

Captain Ryne grips the railing near his command station, his knuckles white and his stance resolute. His face is grim, etched with the weight of impossible decisions, yet there is no hesitation in his voice. "Prepare the crew for evacuation," he orders, the calm authority in his tone cutting through the chaos. "All non-essential personnel to escape pods immediately. Damage control, focus on stabilizing life support and shielding evac routes. Get as many out as you can."

His gaze flicks to the tactical display, showing the Pilgrim's battered silhouette amidst the storm of incoming fire. He knows the odds. The ship won’t survive, but his crew still might. Around him, the bridge crew works feverishly, their movements a mix of fear and discipline. Ryne’s steady presence anchors them, a reminder that even in the face of certain doom, they have a duty to fulfill.

"Sir, the starboard decks are venting atmosphere," a young officer reports, panic edging his voice. "We’re losing containment on sections four through seven!"

"Seal them off," Ryne replies firmly. "Prioritize the evacuation corridors. Everyone still breathing gets a chance to escape."

The order ripples through the ship, met with a mixture of grim determination and panic. Crew members race to the escape pods, guiding injured comrades and carrying those unable to walk. The pods launch in rapid succession, their blinking lights a fragile testament to hope as they streak away from the dying ship. Each departure is a victory, but Ryne knows the clock is running out.

On the bridge, smoke fills the air as consoles spark and fail. Ryne’s gaze follows the last pods disappearing into the void. He stands tall, gripping the railing as the Pilgrim shakes violently under another barrage. For a fleeting moment, his expression softens. "May the Force be with you," he murmurs, his words meant for his crew.

Turning back to his station, Ryne straightens his uniform and squares his shoulders. The alarms scream around him, but his focus remains unbroken. He will not leave. This is his ship, and he will see it through to the end. "Divert all remaining power to the port turbolasers," he commands. "Let’s make them pay for every inch they take."

The bridge crew hesitates, glancing at their captain. They know his fate is sealed, but his resolve strengthens theirs. "Aye, sir," they answer in unison, returning to their tasks.

The * Pilgrim* shudders violently as the Recusant destroyers close in, their heavy turbolasers tearing through the Venator’s failing hull. Fires rage unchecked, and entire sections collapse under the relentless assault. Yet the Pilgrim fights back, its guns blazing defiantly until the very end. For Captain Ryne, every second bought is another life saved, another chance for his crew to reach safety.

The Recusant destroyers, sensing imminent victory, press their advantage. Their heavy turbolasers fire in synchronized volleys, each bolt striking with precision and ferocity.

The final volley strikes the *Pilgrim's* core, and the ship erupts in a cataclysmic explosion. Ryne closes his eyes as the blinding light envelops the bridge, his final thoughts with his crew and the Republic he served. The Pilgrim becomes a fiery beacon of sacrifice, its destruction echoing across the battlefield. The blast rocks nearby vessels and temporarily silences the battlefield.

From the *Leviathan*, Admiral Harpea watches the destruction in silence. His expression is hard, his jaw clenched. When he finally speaks, his voice is ironclad with resolve. "All ships, focus fire power of those destroyers and dreadnoughts. We are punching through this blockade."

The destruction of the Pilgrim reverberates through the Republic fleet, its fiery demise galvanizing the remaining forces. Orders are relayed with renewed urgency as Republic ships reposition and intensify their assault. The void of space becomes a blinding cacophony of red and green laser fire as the Republic fleet surges forward, punching through the weakened Separatist line to engage the larger dreadnoughts guarding Kabal’s orbit.

Admiral Harpea’s voice cuts through the comm channels, steady and commanding. “All units, focus fire on the Providence-class dreadnoughts. Break their line and neutralize their command structure. Fighters, clear a path for the Y-Wings to target their engines and shield generators.”

The Leviathan and Vanguard take the lead, their Venator-class frames bristling with turbolasers that rain devastation on the enemy. Each salvo is precise, tearing into the formations of Munificent frigates and Hardcell transports that still attempt to screen the dreadnoughts. The Comet flanks the advance, its guns trained on the nearest Providence-class ship, sending round after round into its thick hull plating. The sheer firepower of the Republic ships begins to cut wide swathes through the Separatist defense lines, but the resistance remains fierce.

Republic fighters swarm around the capital ships, V-19s darting through the chaos to intercept Vulture droids that threaten the bombers. The dogfights are vicious, with laser fire crisscrossing in chaotic patterns as ships explode in bursts of flame and debris. Zela’s Delta-7B cuts through the fray with fluid precision, her sharp maneuvers exploiting the clunky formations of the droid fighters. Banking hard to avoid a volley of incoming blaster fire, she executes a tight spiral that sends three Vultures crashing into each other in an explosive burst of debris.

“Stay tight, Vanguard,” she calls through the comms, her voice resolute yet tinged with the adrenaline of the moment. “We need to keep those Y-Wings safe.” Her eyes dart between her sensors and the swirling chaos around her, spotting a wing of droid fighters bearing down on a Republic bomber squadron. Without hesitation, she accelerates, the sleek Delta-7B cutting a clean path through the storm of laser fire.

Two Vultures lock onto her tail, their blaster cannons firing relentlessly. Zela twists her ship into a corkscrew maneuver, the Delta-7B’s agility outclassing the droids’ sluggish targeting systems. With a calculated flick of her wrist, she rolls out of their line of fire and pulls a sharp Immelmann turn, swinging her ship’s nose directly toward her pursuers. Her cannons fire in quick, controlled bursts, reducing both droids to fiery wreckage.

“Vanguard Two, you’ve got more incoming,” a wingmate warns over the comms as another cluster of Vultures angles toward her. Zela narrows her eyes, gripping the controls tightly. “I see them,” she replies, a steely edge to her voice. She dives into the swarm, her ship weaving through the dense field of droids. Each move is deliberate, her reflexes guided by the Force as she fires on precise trajectories. One Vulture explodes, then another, the battlefield briefly lit by the chain of detonations she leaves in her wake.

Breaking free from the swarm, Zela loops back to rejoin her squadron, her breathing steady despite the intensity of the engagement. The droid fighters scatter in disarray, their assault momentarily blunted by her relentless counterattack. Through it all, her focus remains unshaken, her presence in the Force a steady beacon to her allies.

Nearby, Dia’s squadron leads the bombers in a sweeping arc toward the second dreadnought, the Y-Wings flying in a tight formation behind her. Her Delta-7B holds steady at the forefront, cutting through the swirling chaos of laser fire and debris. Dia’s violet eyes stay locked on the glowing shield emitters at the ship’s aft, her voice firm and steady over the comms. “Scarlet Group, target their engines and shield generators. Make every shot count. Timing is critical.”

The Y-Wings dive toward the dreadnought, their engines roaring as they descend into a storm of defensive fire. The ship’s point-defense lasers activate, creating a deadly web of green bolts that crisscross the bombers’ path. Scarlet group pilots weave their heavy craft through the barrage, their shields flaring brightly with near-misses as turbolaser rounds streak past their cockpits, leaving glowing trails of destruction.

Vulture droids swarm toward the formation, their numbers overwhelming as they close in on the vulnerable bombers. Suddenly, with the precision of a scalpel, V-19 Torrents led by Zela swoop in from above and below, their formation splitting seamlessly to intercept the incoming droids.

"Vanguard, cover the bombers! Keep those tin cans off their backs!" Zela’s voice crackles over the comms, her tone sharp and commanding. The V-19s dive headlong into the chaotic fray, their cannons unleashing torrents of red fire that tear through the swarming droids. Explosions bloom across the battlefield as Vultures are obliterated, their fragmented remains scattering like shrapnel.

Zela’s Delta-7B flies just ahead of her squadron, her sharp reflexes and the Force guiding her every manoeuvre. Spotting a trio of Vultures breaking off to flank the bombers, she accelerates, her ship’s engines roaring as she intercepts them mid-flight. Her cannons fire in precise bursts, each shot landing true and reducing the droids to flaming wreckage.

The V-19s continue their relentless attack, forming protective screens around the Y-Wings. Torrents bank sharply, rolling through fields of laser fire as they pick off the droids with surgical precision. One bomber’s shields fail under sustained fire from a rogue Vulture, but before the droid can finish its assault, a V-19 sweeps in, obliterating it with a perfectly timed volley. "You’re clear, Scarlet Seven," the Torrent pilot calls, his voice filled with determination.

Dia’s Delta-7B darts ahead, her twin cannons blazing as she clears a path for the bombers. Her focus is razor-sharp, her every move guided by the warnings echoing through the Force. “Keep close,” she orders, her tone calm but urgent, masking the storm of emotions simmering beneath. Each flicker of danger in the Force pushes her hands to react faster than thought, banking her ship hard as a flurry of turbolaser fire zeroes in on her position. She spirals out of the kill zone with fluid precision, her manoeuvres a dance of survival and purpose.

Yet, even as she focuses on the immediate threats, the Force carries with it the anguished cries of lives being extinguished across the battlefield. The loss of life reverberates through her, an almost deafening cacophony she fights to ignore. The raw grief threatens to pull her from the moment, but she pushes it aside, clinging to her mission.

Her R4 droid whistles another alert, snapping her fully back to the fight. “I know,” Dia mutters under her breath, her violet eyes scanning the chaos ahead. “We’re almost there.” Each decision she makes, every evasive manoeuvre, is tinged with the knowledge that lives—hers, her squadron’s, the bombers’ crews—hang on the edge of her success.

Finally, Scarlet Group reaches its attack vector. “Bombs away!” Scarlet Leader calls out as the Y-Wings release their payloads in perfect synchrony. Proton bombs streak toward the dreadnought, leaving fiery trails in their wake. The impacts are devastating. Explosions ripple across the ship’s rear, the force of the blasts causing the shields to flicker and fail entirely. Flames burst from the dreadnought’s engine block as secondary detonations erupt, disabling its propulsion systems and leaving it vulnerable.

The dreadnought retaliates with everything it has left. Its heavy turbolasers fire indiscriminately into the advancing Republic ships, seeking to inflict maximum damage even in its crippled state. One of its bolts slams into an Arquitens cruiser escorting the bombers, punching through its hull and splitting the smaller ship in two. The shattered wreckage spins away, scattering debris across the battlefield and forcing nearby vessels to adjust course to avoid collisions.

As Scarlet Group pulls back, the dreadnought’s internal fires spread rapidly, consuming its aft sections. The Republic bombers regroup with Dia’s Delta-7B at their head. “Good work, Scarlet Group,” she says, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her. “Form up and prepare for the next run. We’re not done yet.”

Around them, the battle rages on. The targeted dreadnought lists heavily to one side, its weapons systems failing as Republic forces press the advantage. Dia takes a deep breath, centering herself in the Force. The attack run was a success, but the battle is far from over, and the fate of Kabal still hangs in the balance.

On the bridge of the Leviathan , Harpea analyzes the tactical display, his sharp gaze tracking the progress of the assault. “Have the Comet and Sentinel focus fire on the leftmost dreadnought,” he orders. “Pin it down and give our bombers an opening. Redirect auxiliary fire to suppress their flanking Hardcells.”

The Comet responds immediately, its turbolasers locking onto the targeted dreadnought. Bolts of red energy hammer into the ship’s shields, creating a cascade of energy bursts across its surface. Simultaneously, Y-Wing bombers from the second wave dive into the fray, their escorts fending off waves of droid fighters to deliver another devastating payload. The intensity of the attack sends ripples through the Separatist formation, momentarily halting their counteroffensive.

The targeted dreadnought shudders under the combined assault, its hull buckling as secondary explosions ripple through its midsection. Fires rage uncontrollably, and the vessel begins to list, its engines failing. The Republic fleet’s concentrated effort starts to pay off as the Separatist formation shows signs of breaking apart. Hardcell transports attempt to retreat, but they are swiftly intercepted by Arquitens cruisers and Republic fighter squadrons.

“Admiral,” a tactical officer calls out, “Dreadnought on the starboard flank is preparing a broadside volley. It’s targeting the Vanguard .”

Harpea doesn’t hesitate. “Bring us about to cover the Vanguard . Focus on disabling that broadside. Fighters, concentrate fire on their weapon systems. Coordinate with the Comet to suppress their flanking support.”

The Leviathan begins its turn, the maneuver deliberate but urgent. As the ship repositions, its heavy turbolasers unleash a withering barrage, red bolts of energy slamming into the dreadnought’s flank. The shields on the Separatist ship flare brightly under the onslaught, flickering erratically as their capacity begins to falter. The Leviathan’s guns continue their relentless assault, systematically targeting the dreadnought’s weapon emplacements. One by one, the turbolaser batteries lining the ship’s hull erupt in fiery explosions, their destruction sending debris spiraling into space.

Meanwhile, the Vanguard , taking advantage of the cover provided by the Leviathan , pivots to unleash its own counterattack. Its turbolasers focus fire on the dreadnought’s exposed underbelly, the concentrated strikes exploiting weak points in the Separatist ship’s armor. Bright explosions ripple across the enemy hull, each detonation illuminating the chaos of the battlefield. The dreadnought shudders violently, internal fires visible through breaches in its structure. A secondary explosion tears through its midsection as one of its reactor conduits overloads, further crippling its systems.

Above and below, Republic starfighters swarm the dreadnought, their cannons targeting its remaining weapon systems. Y-Wings deliver precision strikes to exposed points along its dorsal surface, while V-19 Torrents harass its support craft, forcing Vulture droids and Hardcell escorts into disarray. The combined firepower of the Republic fleet begins to overwhelm the dreadnought, leaving it listing heavily as more sections of its hull collapse inward under the sustained bombardment.

The Separatist fleet begins to falter as the Republic forces press their advantage. Each destroyed frigate and crippled dreadnought brings the Republic one step closer to victory. But even in retreat, the Separatists remain dangerous, their desperation fueling an uncoordinated but still deadly resistance. A Munificent frigate, desperate to hold its ground, executes a suicide charge, ramming into a damaged Acclamator. The resulting explosion lights up the battlefield, sending shockwaves that momentarily disrupt both sides.

Amid the chaos, Zela and Dia’s squadrons continue to lead their respective fighters and bombers with precision and bravery. Dia’s voice cuts through the comm chatter, steady and firm. “Stay on target, Scarlet Group. We’re breaking through.” Zela’s tone is sharp as she calls out to Vanguard Squadron. “Push forward! We can’t give them a chance to regroup.”

Onboard the Leviathan , Harpea’s expression remains focused. “All ships, maintain pressure. We’re forcing their retreat. Do not let up. Victory is within our grasp.” His voice carries across the comm channels, reigniting the determination of every Republic soldier and pilot in the battle for Kabal.

The Separatist formation continues to unravel, their once-formidable blockade now a scattered array of crippled ships and isolated fighters. The Republic’s vanguard presses on, the memory of the Pilgrim’s sacrifice propelling them forward as they close in on the final targets.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XX

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

The Republic invasion force finally breaks through the remnants of the Separatist blockade, the wreckage of shattered ships drifting lifelessly in Kabal’s orbit. Although scattered droid fighters and a few surviving Munificent frigates still harass the fleet, the path to the planet’s surface is clear for the main assault. A series of sharp orders echo across the comm channels as troop transports and gunships begin their descent, escorted by the remaining V-19 squadrons to ward off the stragglers.

Dia’s Delta-7B streaks back toward the Leviathan , its hull marred by faint scorch marks and streaks of carbon scoring from the relentless dogfights she’d just endured. Her R4 unit whistles a steady stream of status updates, its beeps frantic, but Dia barely registers them, her mind already shifting to the next phase of the mission. The docking bay looms large, the magnetic shield rippling faintly as she expertly guides her craft through it. The ship’s landing struts hiss as they extend, touching down with practised precision. Dia doesn’t even wait for the systems to power down; she’s already popping the cockpit and leaping out in one fluid motion, her movements precise and urgent.

“Clear the deck!” a crew chief’s shout rises above the din, and ground crews swarm the fighter, armed with tools and refuelling hoses. Dia sprints through the organized chaos of the hangar, dodging techs and cargo trolleys with the ease of someone accustomed to the pandemonium of battle preparations. Her violet eyes scan the bay, locking onto the LAAT/i gunship prepped and ready for deployment. Its engines emit a low hum, vibrating through the deck as troopers secure supplies and weapons in its troop bay.

Standing beside the gunship, Staff Sergeant Rose and her section of ARF troopers exude quiet readiness. Their scout armour is dulled with custom camo patterns to blend seamlessly with Kabal’s rugged terrain, and their stances are relaxed but alert. Rose spots Dia approaching and steps forward, a faint smirk playing on her lips.

“You’re cutting it close, Commander,” she remarks, her tone steady but carrying an undercurrent of tension—the kind that settles over soldiers just before a storm.

“Not my style to keep you waiting,” Dia replies lightly, though the urgency in her movements betrays her seriousness. She slows only to nod briskly at the other troopers, who snap to attention, their helmets tilted slightly in deference. Without hesitation, Dia steps into the gunship’s troop bay, her eyes quickly taking stock of its occupants. Two full infantry squads sit shoulder to shoulder, their blasters secured and ready. In the rear section, two speeder bikes are strapped into place, their sleek frames gleaming under the overhead lights, a silent promise of speed and agility once deployed. The troopers exchange brief nods with Dia, their expressions hidden but their determination palpable.

“Load secure!” a crew member shouts, slapping the gunship’s armoured flank. Dia grabs hold of an overhead rail as the pilot’s voice crackles over the comms. “All units, prepare for launch. Descending to surface in two minutes.”

The gunship lifts off with a jolt, its repulsorlifts flaring as it rises into the air. Dia steadies herself, her grip firm on the rail as the ship banks sharply toward the planet’s surface. Through the open side doors, she catches glimpses of the battle-scarred blockade still raging above. Flashes of laser fire and the distant, soundless eruptions of dying ships paint a grim picture against the backdrop of space. As they descend further, the atmosphere thickens, and the dull roar of the engines shifts to a deeper timbre, signalling their approach to Kabal’s surface.

Rose steps up beside Dia, her voice pitched low enough to avoid carrying to the rest of the troopers. “LZ is hot. Expect heavy resistance as soon as we’re on the ground.”

Dia nods, her jaw tightening as she replies. “Good. Let’s make it count.” The weight of command settles squarely on her shoulders, but she bears it without flinching. This is the moment she’s been preparing for.

The gunship vibrates violently as it pierces the cloud cover, the turbulent atmosphere peppered with bursts of anti-aerospace laser fire from entrenched Separatist positions below. Streaks of red and green flash past the open side doors, illuminating the rugged expanse of Kabal’s terrain as it comes into view. Columns of black smoke rise from smouldering craters, painting the landscape with stark reminders of the chaos below. The landing zone—a rocky plateau surrounded by dense forests—is alive with blaster fire and explosions. Republic forces engage entrenched droid positions, their weapons lighting up the smoke-filled battlefield in relentless, staccato flashes.

Above the plateau, Y-Wings streak through the air in coordinated waves, their engines roaring like thunder. The first group dives into a bombing run, their payloads creating earth-shaking explosions that obliterate droid emplacements. Dirt, debris, and shattered droids are hurled skyward, the impact craters radiating destruction. Other Y-Wings swoop low over the forest’s edge, their laser cannons firing in precise bursts, cutting swathes through advancing droid formations and collapsing enemy barricades. The smoke and fire of their wake create openings for the ground forces pushing forward.

LAAT/i gunships dart through the maelstrom, their manoeuvrability tested as they dodge incoming fire. Blaster bolts ricochet off their armoured hulls, and the faint shimmer of deflector shields holds firm against smaller strikes. With practised efficiency, they disgorge squads of infantry and speeder bikes at key points, the soldiers dropping to the ground in defensive stances before charging forward. Nearby, heavier LAAT/c transports hover with a mechanical grace, their magnetic clamps releasing AT-TE walkers and TX-130 Saber tanks. The walkers are gently lowered to the ground with a resonant thud, their articulated legs immediately propelling them forward into the fray. Their cannons boom, tearing apart droid fortifications, while the Saber tanks advance alongside infantry squads, their twin laser barrels spitting rapid-fire destruction.

Dia narrows her focus as the overwhelming sensory assault threatens to drown her. The cries of soldiers, the hum of blaster bolts, and the distant thunder of detonations threaten to splinter her concentration, but she leans into the Force. Its currents flow through her, steadying her thoughts and sharpening her resolve. Through it, she senses the battlefield’s chaotic rhythm, the deadly patterns of incoming fire, and the opportunities to strike back. As the gunship jolts under a near-miss from an anti-aerospace turret, she grips the overhead rail tightly, the blue glow of her lightsaber at the ready in her mind.

The pilot’s voice cuts through the comms. “Touchdown in thirty seconds. Hold tight!”

Dia shifts her stance, planting her feet firmly as the gunship descends rapidly. The cabin vibrates under the strain of evasive manoeuvres, the roar of the engines nearly deafening as anti-aerospace fire explodes perilously close. Outside, streaks of red and green light flash past the open doors, painting shifting shadows across the grim determination etched on the faces of the troopers. Each near-hit jolts the gunship, and Dia tightens her grip on the overhead rail, letting the Force sharpen her senses to a razor’s edge.

The troopers around her ready their weapons, the metallic clicks of safety latches disengaging blending seamlessly into the chaotic noise. The air inside the cabin is thick with anticipation, the kind that hovers between fear and focus. Rose grips her blaster rifle tightly, her knuckles white against the weapon’s stock. Her voice cuts through the hum of the engines, steady but edged with urgency. “Remember, stay low and keep moving. We’ll punch through their lines and clear the way for the main advance. Watch each other’s backs, and don’t let up!” Her gaze sweeps over her section, her confidence radiating outward, grounding the troopers even as the battlefield draws nearer.

As the gunship hovers just above the ground, its side doors slide open with a mechanical groan, revealing a battlefield engulfed in chaos. The tableau outside is a storm of violence: blaster bolts crisscross the air in deadly latticework, while the ground erupts with fire and debris as artillery shells impact with thunderous force. Smoke and fire obscure the horizon, the flickering light casting jagged shadows across the plateau. The sound of war roars into the cabin—the sharp crack of blaster fire, the rumbling detonations of grenades, and the faint but urgent shouts of Republic troopers locked in combat.

Dia takes a deep breath, her eyes fluttering closed for a fraction of a second as she centres herself in the Force. Its currents flow through her, grounding her amidst the cacophony of destruction. She feels the fear and pain rippling through the battlefield, the cries of the wounded and dying pressing against her mind like a tide threatening to overwhelm. But she pushes it aside, focusing on the clarity and purpose the Force provides. Her grip tightens on the rail, and her jaw sets with determination. As the ramp begins to lower, she ignites her lightsaber, the brilliant blue blade springing to life with a resolute snap-hiss.

“Go, go, go!” Rose’s shout pierces the din, and the troopers spring into action. They pour out of the gunship with practised precision, their movements a coordinated blur as they disperse into the chaotic battlefield. Blaster bolts zip past them, striking perilously close, but their formation holds. Rose’s voice echoes through the comms, barking orders over the sounds of the skirmish. Her blaster rifle fires in measured bursts, each shot cutting through the haze as she directs her section into cover.

Dia leaps from the ramp, her boots hitting the dirt with practised grace. Her lightsaber hums as it deflects incoming blaster fire, the bolts ricocheting harmlessly into the ground or back toward the droid lines. Around her, the battlefield is a whirlwind of movement and sound. The acrid scent of ozone and scorched metal fills the air, mingling with the heavy heat of smoke and fire. Dia moves instinctively, her blade a blur as she carves a path through the chaos, her every step guided by the Force.

Above, Y-Wings streak by in low formation, their engines screaming as they release another wave of payloads. Explosions ripple across the droid emplacements, sending dirt and shrapnel raining down in fiery arcs. In the distance, a TX-130 Saber tank surges forward, its laser cannons spitting rapid bursts of fire that rip through enemy barricades. An AT-TE walker stomps across the battlefield, its massive cannons booming as it obliterates a cluster of anti-aerospace turrets. Around its legs, Republic infantry advance in tight formations, their blasters blazing as they push toward the entrenched Separatist lines.

Behind Dia, speeder bikes roar into action, their riders weaving through the chaos in a flanking manoeuvre that scatters the droid ranks. The tide of the battle shifts as the Republic forces press forward, their momentum building with every step. At the centre of it all, Dia moves like a storm, her lightsaber cutting arcs of brilliant light through the smoke-filled air as she leads the charge deeper into the fray.

Around her, the roar of battle is deafening—a symphony of chaos. Shouts from Republic troops meld with the harsh mechanical clank of advancing Separatist droids and the distant, rhythmic thunder of artillery shells pounding the scorched ground. Smoke and ash swirl through the air, turning the battlefield into a haze of shadows and flickering light. Dia’s lightsaber ignites with a sharp snap-hiss, its brilliant blue blade cutting through the murk like a beacon. The hum of the weapon vibrates in her hand, steady and sure, grounding her in the chaos as she steps forward into the fray.

Blaster bolts streak toward her almost immediately, red lances of energy searing through the smoky air. Dia pivots smoothly, her movements fluid and precise as her lightsaber arcs in tight, controlled sweeps. Each deflected shot ricochets back toward the ranks of droids with pinpoint accuracy, sparks flying as one after another collapses in a heap of scorched metal. Around her, the air crackles with energy, and the ground trembles under the weight of heavy cannon fire.

Rose and her section follow closely behind, their formation tight and disciplined. The clones move like a well-oiled machine, their blaster rifles spitting rapid bursts of blue energy that cut through the advancing droids. Each shot is calculated, their firepower focused, carving a path through the enemy line with deadly efficiency.

“Push forward!” Dia shouts, her voice slicing through the cacophony like a whip crack. Her tone carries urgency and resolve, driving the troops onward. She strides ahead, her blade a blur of motion as she deflects another volley of blaster fire. The bolts rebound in a deadly dance, striking down droids with unerring precision.

Rose echoes the command, her voice steady and authoritative. “Advance! Spread out and find cover!” She gestures sharply toward the debris-strewn field, directing her troops to use the shattered remains of vehicles and structures as makeshift shields. Her eyes scan the battlefield, sharp and alert, ensuring no detail escapes her notice.

“Take the barricades ahead!” Rose barks, her voice cutting through the cacophony like a battle horn, pointing toward the first line of Separatist defenses. The droids have entrenched themselves behind a chaotic wall of prefabricated panels and scavenged wreckage, their formation unyielding and their fire relentless. Blaster bolts streak through the air like a deadly web, cutting down any trooper who lingers too long in the open. Smoke coils upward from their defensive line, thick and acrid, adding to the oppressive haze that blankets the battlefield.

Dia charges forward, the Force flowing through her like a surging current. Her lightsaber is an extension of herself, slicing through two B1 battle droids with a single, fluid motion. Sparks shower as their metal bodies collapse, and she leaps over the barricade, her landing precise and controlled despite the chaos. She finds herself surrounded by a squad of droids. The closest super battle droid turns toward her, its wrist cannon whirring ominously to life. But Dia moves with lightning speed, her blade flashing upward in a deadly arc, cleaving the droid’s torso clean in two before it can fire. The halves of the droid crumple with a crash, sparks and smoke erupting from its ruined core. Without hesitation, Dia spins, her blade deflecting incoming fire as she advances on her next target.

Behind her, Rose and her section surge forward, their formation unbroken. The clones’ blaster rifles unleash rapid bursts of fire, each bolt a precision strike that punches through the droid ranks with lethal efficiency. Rose’s voice rises above the din, sharp and commanding. “Zeke, Trim, cover the left flank! Solar, watch our six! Don’t let them pin us down!” Her words are a lifeline of order amidst the chaos, keeping her troops coordinated and focused.

A thunderous explosion erupts nearby, a missile from a Separatist turret slamming into the remains of a downed gunship. The shockwave rattles the ground, sending chunks of debris flying in every direction. Dia staggers, her balance momentarily faltering, but she recovers quickly. Her lightsaber spins in a defensive blur, intercepting a fresh volley of blaster bolts aimed at her position. She spots the turret, its barrel swiveling ominously toward their line. Extending her hand, she reaches out through the Force, her focus razor-sharp. With a powerful pull, she yanks the turret’s stabilizing base off balance. The massive weapon teeters for a moment before crashing to the ground, crushing three battle droids beneath its weight with a metallic crunch.

“Nice work, Commander!” Rose shouts, her tone carrying a mix of relief and admiration as she drops another droid with a precise burst of fire. Her rifle’s muzzle flashes briefly, illuminating her faceplate as she pivots to cover a trooper advancing toward the barricade.

The Republic forces push forward, step by step, each movement a calculated effort to close the gap to the first line of Separatist resistance. Blaster fire rains down from entrenched positions, bolts carving through the smoky air as the droids fight to hold their ground. Dia deflects a bolt aimed squarely at one of Rose’s troopers, her lightsaber arcing in a tight, defensive sweep. With the momentum of her movement, she spins gracefully, her blade slicing cleanly through a droid that had taken aim at her flank. The severed parts of the machine crumple to the ground in a heap of sparking metal, smoke rising from its shattered circuits.

“We’re almost through!” Rose calls, her voice steady and commanding despite the chaos. Her blaster rifle barks with precision as she covers one of her troopers vaulting over a collapsed barricade. The clones move with practiced precision, each step a display of their relentless training and unshakable camaraderie. They leap over debris, use fallen wreckage as cover, and return fire with pinpoint accuracy, their unity and discipline shining through in every motion.

Dia can feel the shift in the battle, the tide beginning to turn as the Republic forces press their advantage. The balance of the fight tips in their favour, and she seizes the moment. The Force flows through her, sharpening her senses and heightening her reflexes. Her strikes become a blur of light and motion, each movement guided by an almost preternatural awareness. With a final, decisive push, she drives her lightsaber into the chest of a droid officer. The machine shudders violently as its command systems spark and fail, collapsing into a lifeless heap. Around her, the remaining droids falter, their fire becoming sporadic and disorganized in the absence of leadership.

“Clear the barricade!” Dia commands, her voice cutting through the battlefield’s din with resolute authority. The clones surge forward with renewed energy, their blaster fire overwhelming the scattered remnants of the droid defenders. Rose leads the charge, her movements swift and deliberate. Her blaster rifle unleashes a volley of bolts, each one finding its mark as she clears the path ahead. With a final burst, she drops the last B1 droid standing and vaults over the barricade, landing with practiced ease.

“Hold this position!” Rose shouts, her tone sharp and steady as she rallies her section. “Watch for counterattacks! Eyes on the perimeter!” The clones fan out, securing the area with disciplined efficiency, their rifles trained on the surrounding terrain as they anticipate the next wave.

Dia takes a moment to catch her breath, the hum of her lightsaber steady and reassuring in her hand. Her chest rises and falls with controlled breaths as she surveys the battlefield. Smoke and scorched metal litter the ground, the remnants of the first line of resistance now silent. But the fight is far from over. The distant rumble of droid reinforcements rolling into position sends a shiver of anticipation through her, a reminder of the challenges still ahead.

She turns to Rose, her voice firm but filled with determination. “Good work. Let’s regroup and prepare to push to the next objective.”

Rose nods, her expression resolute and unwavering. “Understood, Commander. We’ll be ready.” She adjusts her grip on her rifle, her gaze briefly scanning the horizon before returning to her section.

Dia’s grip tightens on her lightsaber, the weight of the battle and what lies ahead settling in her chest. She lifts her gaze toward the horizon, where the faint silhouette of the Separatist stronghold looms like a dark promise. The battle has only just begun, and the path forward is fraught with danger. But in her heart, Dia knows they must prevail—for the Republic, for her troops, and for the hope that this fight will bring an end to the tyranny they face.

~~

The skies above Kabal were a chaotic blur of fire and metal, the air thick with the streaks of laser fire as Republic and Separatist fighters clashed in deadly combat. The blue-and-white markings of Zela’s Delta-7B flashed as she rolled her starfighter through the chaos, her hands steady on the controls, her emerald eyes focused with razor-sharp precision. Below her, the battle raged, the ground forces of the 42nd pressing forward against the entrenched droid positions, but the enemy still held strong. Heavy blaster cannons mounted on fortified positions peppered the sky with anti-aerospace fire, forcing Zela and the other Republic pilots to fly dangerously low.

Her astromech beeped a sharp warning as a squadron of Vulture droids locked onto her, their red sensor eyes glowing like ominous stars in the thick, smoke-choked atmosphere. Zela pulled hard on the controls, banking her Delta-7B into a sharp dive. The nose of her ship tipped downward, angling toward the broken landscape of the battlefield. The towering cliffs and dense forests below were treacherous, but she had no choice—if she stayed in open sky, she would be picked apart.

“Vanguard Two, you’re pulling too close to the ground!” a concerned voice crackled over the comm.

“I know what I’m doing,” Zela shot back, her voice tight with focus.

The Vultures followed, their blasters spitting deadly red streaks past her canopy as she skimmed the treetops. The thick jungle beneath her swayed violently from the turbulence of her passing, leaves and debris kicked up by the wake of her engines. Zela gritted her teeth, twisting her ship sideways as she threaded the narrow gap between two massive rock formations. The droids tried to follow, but their rigid programming worked against them—one clipped a jagged outcropping, spiraling out of control before slamming into the ground in a fiery explosion. Another barely corrected its trajectory before Zela pulled her fighter into a hard spiral, causing it to overshoot and get torn apart by clone interceptor fire.

Her astromech let out a trill as another pair of missiles streaked toward her from a Separatist anti-air emplacement below. Zela exhaled slowly, letting the Force flow through her. Time seemed to slow as she flicked a switch, engaging her starfighter’s stabilizers for just a fraction of a second. She twisted hard to the right, rolling the ship through a narrow canyon lined with jagged spires of stone. The missiles followed, streaking past her canopy before slamming into the rock walls, detonating in a blast of shattered debris. Her ship trembled from the shockwave, but she kept control, guiding it upward into open sky just as she squeezed the trigger, sending a burst of laser fire into the emplacement below. The anti-air cannon erupted into flames, its droid gunners vaporized in an instant.

“Nice flying, Commander!” one of the Y-Wing pilots called out over the comm, their formation cutting through the sky above. “We’re lining up for another bombing run, but those emplacements are tearing through our shields!”

“Not for long,” Zela said, adjusting her course and pushing her Delta-7B into a steep climb. She twisted her ship back toward the battlefield, spotting a trio of Hyena bombers moving into position to unleash a payload on the Republic’s ground forces.

Zela’s fingers tightened around the controls. She adjusted her thrusters, feeling the ship vibrate as she accelerated toward them. The moment she had a clear shot, she fired. A pair of precise laser bursts tore through the lead Hyena, its frame crumpling as it exploded midair. The remaining two tried to break formation, but she was already moving, rolling her ship between them and firing again. The second bomber caught fire, smoke trailing from its fuselage before it slammed into the ground below in a violent crash.

The third bomber fired back, its tail gun peppering the space behind her with crimson bolts. Zela let out a sharp breath, twisting into a barrel roll to avoid the blasts before cutting her engines just long enough to let the bomber overshoot her position. As soon as it was in front of her, she squeezed the trigger again. The laser fire ripped through the droid ship’s central fuselage, sending it spiraling down in flames.

“Bombers down,” Zela reported, already angling her ship back toward the Y-Wings. “Stay on course. I’ve got your backs.”

“Copy that, Vanguard Two. Dropping payload in five.”

Below, the battlefield roared with another explosion as the bombers released their payload over the Separatist fortifications. The ground shook as fire and smoke erupted from the hardened positions, creating an opening for the Republic forces to press forward. Zela exhaled, her grip on the controls steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

“Keep up the pressure,” she ordered over the comm, scanning the skies. More droid fighters were coming in fast, but she was ready.

Her astromech let out another series of beeps—three more Vulture droids approaching from her starboard side. Zela twisted sharply, juking to the left as laser fire flashed past her, barely missing her shields. She leveled out, pulling into an aggressive turn to position herself behind them. The droids immediately began evasive maneuvers, but Zela anticipated them, her movements precise. She fired, hitting the first one square in its sensor eye, sending it tumbling in flames. The second tried to break away, but she pursued, cutting her thrusters for a split second before snapping back into a hard loop, bringing it right into her targeting reticle. A second burst of fire tore through its frame, breaking it apart midair.

The third Vulture made a desperate attempt to flee, but Zela wasn’t in the mood to let it go. She dove after it, chasing it low across the battlefield, dodging towering rock formations and trees as she kept up the pursuit. Finally, as it attempted to pull up, she fired again, striking its engines. The droid fighter exploded, debris raining down over the battlefield below.

~~

The battlefield was a storm of fire and chaos, the roars of explosions mixing with the whine of engines and the steady crackle of blaster fire. The ground beneath them was a blur of shattered duracrete, wreckage, and burning debris as Dia leaned forward on her BARC speeder, gripping the controls tightly. The wind howled past her, her cloak billowing behind her as she weaved through the destruction, leading the charge with Hunter Company’s recon forces.

Above them, Zela’s Delta-7B streaked through the sky, darting between droid fighters as she kept the skies clear for their advance. The battle above was just as intense as the one below, Republic and Separatist starfighters weaving through the sky in a deadly ballet of light and fire. Every so often, an explosion from a downed fighter sent wreckage tumbling toward the battlefield, forcing the ground troops to adjust their path amid the mayhem.

At her flanks, the ARF troopers of 2nd Lieutenant Winter’s recon troop sped forward on their BARC speeders, their movements precise and disciplined. The supporting troop followed close behind, mounted on AT-RT walkers, their long-legged frames bounding over the rough terrain as they provided fire support. Staff Sergeant Rose’s section was positioned directly with Dia, their armor camouflaged in streaks of dust and dirt, making them blend seamlessly into the ruined battlefield.

Their mission was clear—reach the town where the Separatist anti-aerospace cannons were entrenched. The droid emplacements were preventing the Republic from deploying their Acclamators, keeping much-needed reinforcements from landing. Until those cannons were destroyed, the larger assault force remained stuck in orbit.

Blaster fire rained down from the Separatist fortifications ahead, streaks of red slicing through the air. The droids had set up a hasty blockade along the main approach, using wrecked vehicles and chunks of collapsed buildings as cover. The moment they detected the Republic’s recon force, the line of B1 and B2 battle droids opened fire, their blasters peppering the incoming speeders with relentless precision. Explosions from well-placed mines rocked the battlefield, sending plumes of dirt and smoke into the air.

“Contact, two o’clock!” Winter’s voice came through Dia’s comm, calm despite the rapid-fire battle unfolding. “Droids dug in around those barricades. Looks like they have an anti-vehicle emplacement dead center.”

“I see it.” Dia adjusted her trajectory, angling her speeder slightly to the right. She keyed her comm to the entire troop. “Engage at speed—flank wide and don’t give them an easy target. AT-RTs, keep mobile and lay down covering fire!”

A chorus of acknowledgments rang through her comm before the BARC speeders surged forward, splitting into staggered formations as they weaved between wreckage and rubble. Blaster bolts zipped past them, some striking the ground in violent bursts of energy. A missile from a droid emplacement barely missed them, streaking through the air before detonating against a ruined building. Dia twisted the handlebars of her speeder, veering sharply as she dodged incoming fire.

Rose’s section was already moving, the Staff Sergeant leading her team in a wide arc around the left flank, while Winter and the rest of the troop cut to the right. AT-RT walkers bounded over a fallen speeder tank, their riders unleashing suppressive fire as they kept pace with the charge. One AT-RT walker took a direct hit to the leg from a Separatist cannon, sending it toppling to the ground in a heap of sparks and flame. The pilot barely managed to eject before another blast rocked the battlefield.

She flicked her comms over to Winter. “Taking the center with Rose’s section. We’ll draw their fire—take the opening when you see it.”

“Copy that, Commander,” Winter responded. “We’ll be right behind you.”

Dia’s eyes locked onto the anti-vehicle turret ahead, a massive emplacement nestled between the wreckage. A B2 Super Battle Droid stood at the controls, its targeting systems locking onto the advancing Republic forces. If they didn’t take it out now, the walkers would be torn apart before they could break through.

Without hesitation, she reached out with the Force. The air around her seemed to thrum with energy as she extended her will forward. The B2 at the turret suddenly lurched backward, its grip on the controls slipping as an unseen force sent it crashing against the barricade behind it. Before it could recover, Dia pulled her lightsaber from her belt and ignited it in a flash of blue.

“Rose, with me!” she called, kicking her speeder into a tighter turn. She and Rose’s squad veered toward the emplacement, the clones firing in precise bursts as they closed in. The moment they were in range, Dia leapt from her speeder, flipping through the air as she landed atop the barricade. Her lightsaber slashed downward, slicing through the turret’s barrel just as the weapon attempted to fire. The cannon exploded in a brilliant burst of flame and smoke, sending a shockwave through the immediate area.

The droids scrambled to recover, but the damage was done. The left flank collapsed under the Republic’s assault as Rose’s section cut through the remaining droids, while Winter’s troops swung around, their blaster fire cutting off any chance of retreat. Explosions from well-placed charges set by the ARF troopers tore through droid strongpoints, further breaking their lines.

Dia landed lightly beside Rose, breathing heavily as she scanned the now-smoking battlefield. The first major obstacle had been cleared, but she knew better than to relax just yet.

“Position secured,” Winter reported over the comms, his voice steady. “Looks like the droids are already shifting their forces back. We hit them fast enough that they didn’t expect us to break through this quickly.”

Dia deactivated her lightsaber, exhaling as she felt the Force settle around her. She glanced skyward, sensing Zela still locked in the fight above, her fighter weaving through the chaos as explosions filled the skies.

“Good,” she said. “We keep pushing. The sooner we reach that town and take out those cannons, the sooner we can bring in our reinforcements.”

“Copy that, Commander.”

Dia turned back to the clones beside her, nodding at Rose before mounting her speeder once more. The smell of burning metal and ionized air filled her senses, the battlefield still active with enemy reinforcements. 

~

The roar of repulsorlifts faded as Dia brought her BARC speeder to a halt near the edge of a jagged cliff, thick trees and rocky outcroppings providing them with cover as they overlooked the settlement below. The air was filled with the distant sounds of battle, blaster fire echoing from the Republic’s continued advance toward the town. Dia swung her leg off the speeder, her boots crunching softly against the loose dirt and stone as she pulled out her macrobinoculars.

"Hold here," she ordered, her voice quiet but firm as she raised the binoculars to her eyes. Behind her, the ARF troopers of Winter’s and Rose’s troops dismounted from their speeders and AT-RTs, taking defensive positions behind natural cover. Their helmets pivoted as they scanned the surroundings, weapons at the ready. The tension was palpable; they had fought hard to get here, but now they needed to assess their next move carefully.

Through the macrobinoculars, the settlement came into focus. The town itself was a cluster of aging duracrete structures, some reinforced with makeshift barricades. Narrow streets crisscrossed between the buildings, and stationed throughout were countless battle droids, patrolling in squads or standing guard near key positions. But unlike previous Separatist-occupied settlements, this one was different. The presence of civilians—near-human and alien species alike—was not one of suffering, but of support.

Dia's stomach twisted as she realized these civilians weren’t captives or refugees; they were Separatist loyalists. Groups of men and women moved among the droids, their expressions hardened with resolve as they reinforced barricades and unloaded supply crates of munitions and medical supplies. Children carried smaller loads, running between cover with an efficiency that spoke of practiced routine. These weren’t people trapped by war—they were part of it. The realization sent a chill down Dia’s spine.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath.

Winter crouched beside her, his helmet tilting as he followed her gaze. “This changes things,” he said grimly. “I count at least four heavy anti-aerospace cannons spread throughout the town. Main defensive lines seem to be concentrated around them, with barricades and dug-in droid squads. But there’s more—the bunkers aren’t just droid storage. They’ve got organic forces in there too.”

“Militia?” Rose asked, lowering her own binoculars.

Winter shook his head. “More organized than that. They’ve got a proper chain of command, uniforms, even rank insignia on some of them. Likely planetary defense forces who sided with the Separatists. They’re not just holding out—they’re prepared for a siege.”

Dia exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the binoculars. A frontal assault would be disastrous. This wasn’t just an enemy position—it was a fortified town full of people willing to fight and die for their cause. The droids were one thing, but dealing with civilians-turned-combatants was another. Every tactical maneuver would have to be precise to avoid unnecessary slaughter.

“They won’t surrender,” she murmured, lowering the binoculars. “Not without a fight.”

“We can’t afford to wait too long,” Winter continued. “If we give them time, they’ll reinforce further, and we’ll lose the element of surprise.”

Dia glanced at the terrain between them and the town. The trees and rocky outcroppings gave them an advantage—they could use the natural cover to move in quietly. But once the fighting started, it would be brutal. She took a deep breath, centering herself in the Force.

“We go in quiet,” she decided. “A full-frontal assault will get us bogged down, and the Acclamators will be sitting ducks in orbit. We infiltrate, neutralize key defenses from the inside, and disable the cannons before the main Republic force arrives.”

Rose gave a sharp nod. “Stealth insertion, close-quarters takedowns. We can do that.”

Winter shifted his grip on his blaster rifle. “And if they notice us?”

Dia’s grip tightened around her lightsaber hilt. “Then we finish the job before they can react.”

She turned back toward the assembled troopers, the setting sun casting long shadows over them as the weight of the mission settled onto their shoulders.

The night air was thick with tension as Dia led Winter’s troop silently through the trees, their movements precise, careful. The dense foliage provided cover as they advanced toward the town’s perimeter, the distant hum of droid patrols and the occasional murmurs of Separatist troops filling the otherwise quiet space. Every step forward had to be deliberate; one misplaced footfall could bring the entire force down upon them.

Dia moved at the front of the formation, her eyes scanning ahead as she reached out with the Force, sensing the presence of patrols before they became visible. At her side, Rose matched her pace, her blaster held at the ready, while behind them, Winter directed the rest of the ARF troopers in staggered pairs, each keeping to the natural cover as they descended toward the outskirts of the settlement. The other troop, along with the AT-RTs, remained at the ready, positioned further back in case their infiltration was compromised and they needed immediate support.

The town’s outer defenses were not light as expected—this was no mere droid-occupied settlement, but a hardened Separatist holdout. The presence of organic troops gave the defense a discipline that droid programming alone could not replicate. They patrolled in formations, their armor uniform, if simple, and their weapons ready. These were not ragtag fighters—they were trained soldiers, loyal to the Separatist cause, and that made them far more dangerous.

Dia signaled for the group to halt, pressing herself against the trunk of a gnarled tree as she studied the nearest patrol. A squad of armored Separatist soldiers, mostly near-human species, moved with practiced efficiency, their rifles held at the ready, scanning the tree line. Alongside them, a pair of B1 droids trailed behind, less perceptive but still another set of eyes watching for intruders.

Rose leaned in. “We take them down quietly?” she whispered.

Dia nodded, though a part of her stomach clenched at the thought. “If they get a call out, we’re done.”

Winter signaled his troops, and two ARF troopers moved ahead, each selecting a target. In a synchronized motion, they lunged—one clamping a vibroblade to the neck of a Separatist soldier, the other pulling a droid backward into the underbrush. The muffled struggle lasted only seconds before the bodies slumped, unseen. The other troopers moved swiftly, taking down the remaining soldiers in the patrol with brutal efficiency.

Dia’s fingers tightened around her blaster as she watched the lifeless Separatist soldier crumple to the ground, his body still warm in the humid night air. The Force rippled uneasily around her. She had fought pirates and outlaws before the war, had defended civilians from bandits—but those were engagements of necessity, and the goal had always been to subdue, not to kill. This was different. This was war. And the men lying motionless before her had been trained combatants, just like her.

Rose caught the brief hesitation in Dia’s stance and nudged her shoulder. “It’s them or us, Commander.”

Dia exhaled sharply, nodding, but the cold weight in her gut remained. She couldn’t afford to hesitate now. The mission had to come first.

They crossed into the town’s outskirts, moving through the shadowed alleys between buildings. The structures were a mix of older, weathered duracrete and hastily constructed barricades, reinforced with armored plates. The enemy had fortified this place well. More Separatist troops moved between positions, checking supplies, repairing damage, and manning elevated watchtowers that gave them clear views of the streets.

The anti-aerospace cannons were positioned near the central square, towering above the surrounding buildings. Their massive barrels were already firing, sending heavy energy rounds skyward. Explosions erupted high in the atmosphere as the cannons struck incoming Republic gunships and smaller transports attempting to land, forcing them into evasive maneuvers. The sky itself seemed to burn as flak bursts illuminated the clouds, each impact shaking the air and sending fiery debris crashing down into the battlefield below.

Even from here, Dia could see that taking them out would be no easy task.

She signaled for the team to halt once more, pressing herself into the shadows of a ruined wall as a Separatist officer strode past, flanked by two soldiers. Their boots thudded heavily against the cobbled streets, their voices low but urgent as they spoke. Dia caught snippets of conversation—mentions of Republic forces closing in, the need to hold their position at all costs, and the readiness of additional reinforcements hidden within the bunkers.

The closer they got, the more the town felt like a fortress. Separatist soldiers clustered around command posts, monitoring scanners and issuing orders. Droids patrolled in rigid formations, but they were outnumbered by the organic forces moving with tactical precision, their blasters slung over their shoulders but ready at a moment’s notice. The tension was palpable—these weren’t civilians pressed into war. They were fighters prepared to defend their stronghold with everything they had.

Every few steps, Dia would motion for the group to pause, pressing herself against a wall as a patrol passed mere feet from them. The ARF troopers moved with trained silence, blending into the shadows, their camouflage making them nearly invisible. But even the smallest mistake—a loose piece of rubble, a shifting foot—could give them away.

She glanced at Rose and Winter, then gestured toward a side alley leading toward a half-destroyed building with a vantage point overlooking the cannons. It would be risky, but from there, they could assess the defenses more clearly.

Rose moved first, keeping low as she sprinted across the gap. Winter and two troopers followed, then Dia and the rest of the team. They slipped into the ruined structure, crouching behind a broken wall as they took in the sight before them.

The anti-aerospace cannons were surrounded by a network of barricades and fortified gun nests. Dozens of Separatist troops moved between them, some adjusting power relays while others stood at the ready, weapons in hand. Snipers were positioned on nearby rooftops, their scopes sweeping over the town’s entrances and major pathways. A command tent stood nearby, officers gathered around a holomap, strategizing. The entire area was a death trap, layered with overlapping fields of fire and choke points.

Above them, the sky continued to burn with every strike from the massive cannons, the Republic forces in low orbit unable to break through as their landing attempts were turned into blazing wrecks. Dia clenched her jaw. They had made it inside, but the hardest part was still ahead.

“We need a plan,” Winter murmured.

Dia narrowed her eyes, scanning the enemy positions, considering their next move. They needed to disable the cannons before the Republic fleet could begin its landing operation. But with so many trained soldiers in such close proximity, one wrong step could turn this mission into a massacre.

She took a deep breath, centering herself in the Force. “We’ll split into two teams,” she decided. “One will plant charges on the cannon control stations while the other secures an exit route. We do this quietly. No alarms, no reinforcements.”

Rose smirked slightly, but there was tension in her voice. “Stealth mission. Just how I like it.”

Winter adjusted his grip on his rifle, his expression unreadable behind his helmet. “Then let’s make this count.”

Dia nodded, her expression resolute. The mission had just begun, and there was no turning back now. Every movement from this point forward had to be flawless. One misstep, one sound too loud, and they wouldn’t just be fighting droids—they’d be fighting an entrenched and organized Separatist military force ready to defend their home.

And for the first time in the war, Dia knew she would have to fight, not just to disable an enemy, but to kill. The weight of that truth settled over her shoulders as she prepared to give the next command.

The ruined structure provided them with enough concealment to finalize their plan. Dia crouched behind a broken section of duracrete wall, the distant glow of Separatist searchlights sweeping across the town’s defenses. The massive anti-aerospace cannons continued their relentless barrage, sending explosive rounds into the upper atmosphere, striking at any Republic ships attempting to break through.

Dia exhaled, steeling herself as she looked over the gathered clones. "We split up," she said, keeping her voice low but firm. "SSgt Wave, your section is securing our exit route. We need a clear way out in case things go wrong. Identify fallback points and keep an eye on enemy movements. No engagements unless absolutely necessary."

Wave gave a sharp nod, his visor gleaming in the dim light. "Understood, Commander. We’ll keep your path open."

Dia shifted her gaze to Winter. "Your HQ section will stay here and provide overwatch. Keep your snipers and heavy gunners in position. If the alarm gets raised, we’ll need you suppressing any reinforcements before they can lock down the area. Keep communication open and report any changes."

Winter adjusted his grip on his rifle and nodded. "Copy that, Commander. We’ll make sure no one gets the drop on you."

Finally, she turned to Rose, her violet eyes meeting the sergeant’s. "We take out the guns," Dia said, her voice unwavering. "We go in fast, plant charges, and disable those cannons before the main Republic force gets ripped apart trying to land. No unnecessary risks—precision and speed are key."

Rose smirked, checking her blaster. "Just how I like it."

Dia took a deep breath, looking at each of them in turn. The weight of responsibility settled on her shoulders, but she pushed aside any hesitation. "Move out," she ordered, and the squads broke apart into their respective roles.

Wave’s section slipped back into the shadows, moving with the practiced silence of seasoned recon troops, their focus now entirely on clearing an escape route. Winter’s men took up positions in the half-collapsed building, their rifles trained on the Separatist troops and droids patrolling the area around the cannons.

Dia, Rose, and their section remained low, slipping between the alleyways, sticking to the darkest parts of the settlement as they advanced toward their target. Every movement was deliberate, every breath controlled. The closer they got, the louder the sounds of the cannons became, their deafening fire rattling the ground beneath them. The fate of the landing operation rested on their shoulders.

The shadows stretched long against the uneven terrain as Dia led Rose’s section deeper into enemy territory. The sounds of distant explosions and the rhythmic pulse of the anti-aerospace cannons reverberated through the settlement, a constant reminder of the stakes. Each step forward had to be perfect. One mistake, one stray noise, and the entire Separatist garrison would come crashing down on them.

Dia moved first, her body low, her breath steady, her senses stretched out with the Force. She could feel the presence of the enemy nearby, a web of life and machinery standing between them and their objective. Behind her, Rose mirrored her movements, her carbine held at the ready, scanning the alleys and rooftops for signs of a threat.

Sergeant Solar brought up the rear, his expression hidden behind his helmet, but his body tense and ready to react. Beside him, Squire and Trim flanked the formation, while Curve and Zeke moved along the opposite wall, each clone moving with the fluidity of seasoned recon troopers.

They paused as a patrol of Separatist soldiers passed ahead, their armor glinting under the dim artificial lights strung between the buildings. The enemy moved in pairs, well-trained, their weapons at the ready. Dia held up a clenched fist, signaling a halt. The entire squad melted into the darkness, pressing against the walls, barely daring to breathe as the Separatists stopped, exchanging a few hushed words before moving on.

Zeke exhaled quietly, shifting his grip on his blaster. “They’re well-coordinated,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper over the comms.

“No room for mistakes,” Solar muttered back, his visor never leaving the road ahead. “We keep moving. Stay close.”

Dia motioned them forward, leading them across a broken fence and into the ruins of a half-destroyed building. The smell of scorched duracrete and oil filled the air. They could hear the cannons up ahead now, their mechanical servos whining as they adjusted angles, firing relentlessly into the sky. The constant thudding sent vibrations through the ground, an oppressive weight pressing down on them.

Crouching behind a fallen durasteel beam, Dia pulled out her macrobinoculars and scanned the area ahead. The anti-aerospace cannon loomed just past an open courtyard, surrounded by entrenched Separatist forces. Organic troops manned the command consoles, barking orders as B2 Super Battle Droids stood at the perimeter, their heavy arms primed for defense. Additional snipers had taken positions on the rooftops, their rifles sweeping the surrounding area.

“This is going to be tight,” Dia whispered. She turned to the others, keeping her voice low. “We need to take out the cannon operators first, or they’ll lock us down the moment we make a move. Solar, you and Squire take the right side. Trim, Curve, Zeke—you’re covering us. Rose, you’re with me. We move on my mark.”

Rose nodded, her fingers flexing over her blaster as she took a steadying breath. The clones made slight adjustments to their positions, their grips tightening around their weapons as they prepared for the attack. The air was thick with tension, the knowledge that if this went wrong, they wouldn’t be making it back out.

Dia steadied herself. There was no turning back now.

“Go.”

They moved as one, swift and silent, slipping through the night like wraiths toward their target.

Dia moved with practiced precision, her breath steady as she and Rose darted through the shadows, their boots barely making a sound against the duracrete. The anti-aerospace cannon towered above them, its servos whining as it adjusted angles, belching fire into the sky. Every shot sent vibrations through the air, a reminder of what was at stake.

They waited in the cover of a supply crate, watching as the cannon operator moved between the controls, checking readouts, oblivious to the approaching danger. The timing had to be perfect—patrols were circling the area, their routes predictable but tight.

Dia glanced at Rose and nodded.

In one fluid motion, they moved. Dia lunged forward, her lightsaber still clipped to her belt—silence was key. She wrapped an arm around the operator’s throat, pulling him back as Rose pressed a vibroblade between the gaps in his armor, ending him before he could react. As the body sagged in her grip, Dia carefully lowered it to the ground, forcing herself not to linger on the warm blood that seeped through his uniform, staining her gloves. Her breath hitched as she caught sight of his lifeless eyes, staring past her into nothing. A shudder ran through her, but she tore her gaze away, swallowing the nausea rising in her throat. There was no time for hesitation, no time for doubt. She exhaled sharply, scanning for any sign that they had been noticed.

Nothing.

She exhaled. "Plant the charges. We need to move."

Rose nodded and got to work, setting the explosives at the base of the control station, securing them against the primary power conduit. Within moments, the detonator was armed, set to remote activation. The first cannon was as good as destroyed.

Keeping low, they moved to the second emplacement, using the gaps in the patrols to slip across the open courtyard. The shadows stretched long as they ducked behind a maintenance station, waiting as another squad of Separatist troops passed by. The second cannon loomed ahead, nearly identical to the first.

This time, there were two operators. They moved quickly. Rose took one, Dia the other, their approach swift and efficient. As she closed the gap, Dia clenched her fist, the gauntlet knife extending above her knuckles. She struck fast, driving the blade into the operator’s neck, feeling the resistance before the blade cut through. A choked gasp escaped the Separatist’s lips, his body stiffening as green blood gushed over Dia’s glove, dripping down her wrist.

For a split second, she locked eyes with him. His expression was frozen in shock, his life slipping away as his body slumped. A deep pit formed in her stomach, nausea creeping up her throat. This was different from fighting droids, from disabling pirates or criminals—this was a person.

She forced herself to move, to ignore the warm blood seeping into her glove, the way his lifeless stare seemed to bore into her. She exhaled sharply, wrenching the knife free and wiping it on his uniform before stepping away. There was no time for hesitation. No time for doubt.

Dia turned, reaching for the detonators, preparing to set the next charges—

A piercing klaxon shattered the quiet.

The alarm blared across the settlement, echoing through the streets like a war drum. Dia’s blood ran cold as the searchlights activated, sweeping across the area, turning night into day. Shouts erupted from the command posts. The once-organized patrols pivoted into an immediate response, weapons drawn.

"We’re blown!" Rose hissed, already raising her rifle.

Blaster fire erupted from the rooftops as snipers locked onto their position, red bolts scorching the duracrete as Dia and Rose dove for cover. The mission had just changed.

They had seconds to act before they were overwhelmed.

Dia tapped her comms. "Winter! We’ve been made! Cover fire now!"

The battle had begun.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XXI

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

Blaster bolts screamed through the air, slamming into duracrete and sending shards of molten debris flying. The second anti-aerospace cannon loomed over Dia and Rose as they pressed themselves against the cover of a low barricade, trapped in a storm of enemy fire. The alarm blared across the settlement, its piercing wail merging with the roar of combat. Smoke from burning wreckage curled into the air, casting jagged shadows beneath the flashing lights of the Separatist defenses.

Dia grit her teeth, ducking lower as a hail of blaster bolts chewed into their cover. The acrid smell of scorched metal and ionized air filled her nostrils, mixing with the coppery tang of blood in the back of her throat. She flicked her wrist, her blaster pistol humming in her grip as she fired a series of precise shots toward the enemy positions. The Separatist forces—both droids and organic soldiers—remained dug in at range, using the fortified defenses of the gun emplacements to keep her and Rose pinned. She could hear the sharp mechanical voices of B1 droids barking out attack patterns, mixed with the shouted orders of Separatist officers directing their troops.

A series of red streaks blazed through the air, hammering the barricade in front of them, forcing Dia and Rose to duck further down. The heat from the near-misses burned against Dia’s exposed skin, sweat beading along her brow despite the cool night air. The enemy fire was relentless—precision volleys designed to keep them trapped and unable to maneuver.

“We’re cut off!” Rose shouted, snapping off a few shots before ducking down again. The heat of battle reflected off her visor, the tension in her stance making it clear they couldn’t hold this position for long. “Curve, Zeke, anyone—where the hell are you?!”

“The whole section is trying to get to you!” Sergeant Solar’s voice came over the comm, breathless with exertion and combat. “We’re pushing, but they’ve locked down the courtyard! Heavy fire from entrenched positions—Trim’s squad is flanking, but it’s slow going!”

Dia’s comm clicked again, this time Winter’s voice cutting in. “We’re providing overwatch as best we can, but they’ve got sniper nests across the rooftops—we’re getting torn up here!”

A bolt sizzled past Dia’s shoulder, forcing her to duck lower. She reloaded her pistol with a sharp snap, her mind racing. They had managed to sabotage the first cannon, but they hadn’t even set the charges on this one yet, and now they were stranded in the worst possible place—right at the center of the Separatist stronghold, surrounded and exposed.

The gun emplacement loomed over them, its massive frame silhouetted against the smoke-streaked sky. Every few seconds, it let out a thunderous shot, the recoil shaking the ground beneath them. Dia knew every blast meant another Republic transport was at risk, another squad of troopers fighting for survival against aerial bombardments and relentless counterfire. The mission wasn’t just critical—it was life or death for those still trying to land.

“Where’s the AT-RT troop?” she demanded, squeezing off another round before flattening herself against the barricade.

“Still fighting their way in from the outskirts,” Winter responded, frustration thick in his tone. “They’ll get here, but it’s not going to be soon enough.”

A new wave of blaster fire ripped across the battlefield, slamming into their cover. The air filled with the scent of burning carbon as a shot struck close enough to send debris flying into Dia’s shoulder, pain flaring along her arm. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to ignore it.

Rose turned to her, her voice tense. “We can’t sit here! We either take out that cannon, or we die trying.”

Dia exhaled sharply, glancing at Rose, who met her gaze with grim determination. They were running out of options. The enemy wasn’t advancing, content to keep them pinned until reinforcements arrived to wipe them out.

She flexed her fingers, feeling the weight of her lightsaber at her hip. The Force buzzed in her veins, urging her forward, but she knew charging headfirst into the gunfire wasn’t an option—not yet. Her mind raced, calculating every possible route, every potential weakness in the enemy’s formation.

She tapped her comm. “Winter, get your snipers on those rooftops. We need those Separatist officers down, now.”

A crackle of static, then Winter’s voice came through. “Copy that, Commander. Taking shots.”

Above them, the night lit up with sudden precision fire, streaks of blue slamming into enemy positions. The sharp cries of wounded Separatist troops echoed across the battlefield as Winter’s men worked to peel back the layers of opposition. It wasn’t much, but it was an opening.

Dia took a deep breath, centering herself. They had seconds to act before the enemy regrouped.

“Rose,” she said, shifting her blaster pistol to her off-hand. With a practiced motion, her cybernetic fingers wrapped around the hilt of her lightsaber, drawing it free. The weapon flared to life in a brilliant azure glow, casting flickering light against the smoke-filled battlefield. "We move now."

Then, without hesitation, she pushed off the barricade and sprinted toward the cannon, deflecting blaster fire as she closed the distance.

Blaster fire tore across the open ground as Dia and Rose sprinted forward, each step a battle against the chaos around them. The roar of explosions and the wail of sirens filled the night, but Dia barely registered them. Her focus was singular—reaching the cannon. Her lightsaber moved in fluid arcs, deflecting the incoming blaster fire as they pushed forward, each step a gamble against the sheer number of enemies trying to cut them down.

Panic rippled through the Separatist lines as she advanced, the sharp cries of "Jedi!" rising above the din of combat. The enemy fire grew more erratic, the weight of their fear palpable in the Force. Some of them held their ground, but others hesitated—a fatal mistake in battle.

As they neared the third anti-aerospace cannon, a blur of movement caught Dia’s eye. A female Devaronian soldier popped out from behind a stack of durasteel crates, her blaster rifle already raised, her horns glinting in the red emergency lighting. The moment stretched into eternity, the two locking eyes—Dia saw the woman’s determination, her certainty as she lined up the shot.

Dia moved on instinct.

Her lightsaber arced down, the precise motions drilled into her through years of training. First, the strike to disarm—the glowing blue blade sliced through the Devaronian’s arm just below the shoulder, sending the blaster rifle clattering to the ground as the woman cried out in agony. The scent of burning flesh filled Dia’s nostrils, thick and acrid, mixing with the carbonized air of the battlefield.

Her grip tightened. The second strike followed through seamlessly, cutting across the woman’s chest. The Devaronian barely had time to gasp before the lightsaber completed its path, the energy cauterizing the wound instantly as her body went rigid. For a breath, her expression froze in shock, then she crumpled backward, collapsing onto the hard duracrete.

Dia’s breath caught in her throat. The battlefield noise faded for a fraction of a second as she stood over the fallen soldier, her gaze locked onto the lifeless eyes staring up at her. The woman’s face—once full of fire and determination—was now slack, empty, devoid of the spirit that had been there only moments before.

The stench of seared flesh clung to the air around her, the sharp, sickening scent forcing its way into her lungs. She had fought before, had killed before—but only once. But never like this. Never so deliberate, never with her lightsaber carving through flesh instead of droid plating. A deep unease crawled beneath her skin, a cold pit settling in her stomach as the weight of what she had done pressed against her chest. The way the Devaronian had stared at her in those final moments—pain, fear, then nothing—etched itself into her mind, refusing to fade.

She forced herself to move, to push the moment away. There wasn’t time to hesitate. There wasn’t time to dwell.

Rose grabbed her shoulder, snapping her back to the present. "Dia! We need to move!"

Dia blinked, nodding sharply. She turned away from the body, tightening her grip on her saber as she pushed forward. The cannon was still standing, the battle still raging, and if she let herself falter now, more would die.

There would be time to process later—if they survived this.

The smoke hadn’t yet cleared when Dia and Rose ducked behind the base of the third anti-aerospace cannon, hearts pounding in unison. The roar of blaster fire echoed off the surrounding buildings, and sparks rained down from a power conduit severed during the firefight. The air was thick with the acrid scent of ozone, smoke, and scorched durasteel. Dia's limbs ached from the sprint, her muscles tight with tension, but her hands moved with mechanical precision as she reached for the satchel of explosives clipped to her belt. Across from her, Rose fired short, controlled bursts over the top of a ruined barricade, suppressing the advancing droids and keeping the Separatist soldiers at bay.

Dia’s hands trembled slightly as she opened the access panel on the cannon’s power core housing. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked inside—the internal circuitry was dense, more complex than she’d anticipated, but nothing Curve hadn’t trained them to handle. She focused her mind, pushing away the adrenaline and chaos swirling around her. “We need to move fast,” she said through gritted teeth. “This one has to go down before they regroup.”

“I don’t think they ever stopped,” Rose muttered, ducking low again as a bolt zipped past her helmet and scorched a gouge in the wall behind them. “This is barely holding. They're boxing us in.”

Before Dia could respond, the sound of boots pounding across cracked stone made her pivot, lightsaber already half-drawn. She relaxed only slightly when she saw the battered figures of Curve, Trim, Squire, and Zeke charging toward them through the haze of smoke and laser fire. Their armor was scorched and dust-caked, and they moved with the urgency of soldiers who knew how close death was. They dove into cover behind crates and collapsed durasteel plates just as another barrage erupted from the far side of the courtyard.

“You picked a hell of a spot!” Curve shouted as he skidded to a stop beside Dia, dropping into a crouch and dragging his own gear behind him.

“Glad you made it,” Dia said, breathless with relief. “We were about to call this cannon our grave.”

“Would’ve been a decent marker,” Zeke added dryly, pressing his back to a wall as return fire stitched a line just above their heads.

Squire popped up to return fire, then ducked again. “We’ve got Separatist squads tightening the perimeter from three sides. Last cannon’s too far—we’ll never reach it unless we cut a hole through half the town.”

Dia’s brow furrowed, mind racing. “Then we’ll have to figure something else out.”

Curve, still panting from the sprint, followed the long barrel of the massive cannon they were huddled beneath. His gaze tracked it to the horizon, where it still loomed upward, glowing faintly from its last barrage into the upper atmosphere. Then his eyes lit up, and a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“What if we didn’t have to reach the fourth cannon?” he said, already pulling a datapad and slicing tool from his pouch.

Rose raised a brow as she exchanged a quick look with Dia. “You’re thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

Curve’s grin widened. “These guns can be manually calibrated once you override the safety locks. If I can patch into the local targeting controls, we can rotate it—aim it right at the fourth cannon.” He patted the side of the cannon like it was a long-lost friend. “We’ve got a kriffing siege weapon in our hands. Let’s use it.”

Dia blinked, the audacity of the idea hitting her like a shockwave. She turned to look at the cannon again—massive, looming, thrumming with power. The barrel stretched toward the sky, but if it could be lowered and rotated…

“If we can hit it directly, you think it’ll go up?” she asked.

“If I hit the power couplings?” Curve nodded with confidence. “It won’t just go up—it’ll take half the street with it. We’ll bring the whole emplacement down.”

Rose let out a low whistle. “I’m starting to like the way your brain works.”

The team exchanged glances, their expressions grim but determined. Blaster fire still rained down around them, the pressure mounting by the second. But in that moment, something shifted—hope, desperate and fragile, but real.

“Do it,” Dia said, nodding. “We’ll cover you. Make it count.”

Without another word, Curve was moving, crawling into the maintenance access panel beneath the targeting node. His datapad lit up with blue schematics, and he began slicing into the system with practiced speed.

Rose leaned toward Trim. “Cover the northwest corridor. They’ll try to flank us when they realize what we’re doing.”

“Already on it,” Trim replied, adjusting his position as he tracked movement between two buildings.

Squire and Zeke reinforced the eastern approach, laying down suppressive fire to keep the Separatist troopers from advancing. Dia took up a position beside the cannon, lightsaber igniting in a vibrant azure blaze. Her cybernetic fingers gripped the hilt with familiar certainty as she deflected an incoming bolt, the blade humming with power.

More shadows moved in the distance—reinforcements. The enemy knew something was happening. Time was running out.

“Come on, Curve,” Dia whispered. “Make it count.”

Blaster fire turned the courtyard into a maelstrom of chaos as Dia crouched behind a wrecked barricade, deflecting shots with her lightsaber and returning fire with her off-hand blaster. Her cybernetic fingers, wrapped around the hilt of her saber, flexed and locked with each deflection, absorbing the feedback from the impacts. Her organic arm throbbed with exertion from supporting herself and maintaining fire with the blaster, while her lungs burned from smoke and effort, but she didn’t dare slow. The enemy was pressing in from all directions—organic Separatist troops with blaster rifles and light armor used the buildings and shattered debris for cover, supported by waves of B1 and B2 battle droids laying down coordinated suppressing fire.

Zeke and Squire were pinned on the eastern flank, firing in careful bursts to keep the enemy from sweeping in behind them. Their voices crackled over comms, breathless and urgent. On the northwest alleyway, Trim and Rose traded fire with a squad of Trandoshan mercenaries using the rubble of a collapsed building for cover. The sound was deafening—the overlapping shrieks of plasma bolts, shouted orders in multiple languages, and the constant rumble of explosions turning the town square into a warzone.

Curve, half-buried beneath the massive cannon’s targeting assembly, worked with frantic speed. Wires, tools, and datapads were scattered around him, his gloved hands flicking between connection ports with trained efficiency. The blue glow of the diagnostics reflected off his visor, illuminating the sweat streaming down his brow. “Almost there. Just need another minute. Maybe two,” he called, his voice tight with stress and effort.

“We don’t have two minutes!” Rose snapped as another barrage slammed into their position, dislodging their makeshift cover and sending shards of plastoid and duracrete raining down. She pulled Dia back just in time as a bolt exploded where her shoulder had been.

Dia could feel the collapse looming—not just of their immediate position, but of the entire mission. Her comm pinged sharply, Winter’s voice cutting through the storm of noise.

“Commander, we’re getting hammered up here! They’ve got snipers closing on the roofline, and one of the alley approaches is compromised. I’ve already lost two men. We can’t hold much longer!”

Dia ducked behind cover, her mind spinning as her instincts screamed at her. Another bolt singed the air by her cheek, the heat curling strands of hair against her damp skin. She closed her eyes briefly, reaching into the Force. It felt like diving into a tidal wave of chaos—so many lives teetering on the edge, so much pain and confusion. She gritted her teeth and keyed her comm again.

“Winter, status on the AT-RT troop?”

“Bogged down,” Winter replied. The sound of battle filtered through the transmission. “STAPs ambushed them at the edge of the district. And two AATs just came out of hiding. They’re dug in. Holding, but barely.”

Dia’s stomach twisted. Every lifeline they had was being cut. Time was bleeding out, and there was nothing more to wait for. She turned to look at Curve, who didn’t even look up from his tangle of wires.

“Thirty more seconds,” he said. “Maybe. Probably.”

Dia looked up at the clouds swirling high above, illuminated by the glow of orbital bombardments in the upper atmosphere. Her thumb hovered over the secure channel as her heart pounded.

Then she pressed it.

“Winter, make the call. Prairie Fire. Say again, Prairie Fire. Immediate danger close air support and emergency extraction. Hostiles in all quadrants. We are at risk of being overrun.”

There was silence on the line for half a heartbeat, and then Winter’s voice came back, firm and unwavering despite the noise around him.

“Copy that, Commander. Transmitting Prairie Fire now.”

The weight of those words settled across the team. The code was only used in the worst-case scenarios—a signal to any orbiting strike force or fleet elements that a Jedi and their unit were on the brink of destruction and required immediate support regardless of cost.

Dia swallowed hard. Her fingers were shaking. Somewhere above, Republic strike craft would already be scrambling. Gunships. Fighters. Whatever they had left to throw. But it would take minutes. And they had seconds.

She flicked to the local channel. “All units, hold this line!” she shouted. “Curve needs time. Buy it for him. No matter what, we make this shot count!”

The clones responded with shouts of affirmation, voices raw and steady despite the hell around them. Squire repositioned his rifle and dropped a pair of advancing droids with clean shots. Zeke lobbed a grenade into the alleyway, silencing a flanking squad. Rose stood tall, rifle spitting plasma, her body a shield for the tech who might be their only hope.

Dia stood by the cannon, her lightsaber igniting once more. The blue blade cut a streak through the smoke, a beacon amid the storm. She caught a bolt aimed at Curve, deflecting it into a distant rooftop.

Behind her, the anti-aerospace cannon groaned, the servos inside whining as the targeting system slowly began to move.

Curve was getting through.

But the enemy knew something was changing. They were pushing harder. Footsteps thundered on the stone. A Trandoshan soldier vaulted over a low wall, roaring as he charged.

Dia stepped forward.

They weren’t finished yet.

The Trandoshan let out a guttural roar as he vaulted over the crumbling wall, his massive frame silhouetted against the smoke-filled sky. He landed with a thunderous impact that cracked the stone beneath his feet, sending a tremor through the ruined courtyard. His eyes locked on Dia, burning with the thrill of the hunt, his mouth twisted into a feral grin that bared rows of jagged, predatory teeth.

Dia didn’t hesitate. Her lightsaber swept up in a defensive stance, its emerald blade casting a glow across her face. The familiar hum buzzed in the air as she stepped forward to meet him, pushing back the fear that twisted in her gut. He was massive—easily a foot and a half taller than her, built like a war machine, his thick, scaly hide encased in scavenged armor layered with durasteel plating.

Clutched in his clawed hands was a vicious vibrosword, the blade long, jagged, and humming with energy. It pulsed with power as if hungry for contact. Dia felt the Force scream a warning through her senses a split second before the first clash. She stepped into it, raising her saber to intercept.

The blades collided with a shockwave of sparks, the energy crackling as metal met plasma. Her cybernetic fingers locked around the hilt of her saber, absorbing the jarring impact. The vibrosword didn’t melt or shatter. It resisted. Phrik alloy or cortosis-weave. She recognized the materials from her training. This wasn’t just any weapon. He had come prepared to kill Jedi.

The Trandoshan snarled something guttural in his native tongue and lunged again, bringing the blade down in a brutal arc. Dia sidestepped, pivoting on her heel with a dancer’s grace, meeting the blow with her saber. The strike rang out like thunder, and her knees buckled slightly beneath the force. She staggered back a step, narrowly regaining her balance.

He was relentless. Each swing came with the weight of his entire body behind it, meant not just to kill, but to dominate. He struck from above, from the sides, from low angles that forced her to constantly adjust her stance. Dia moved with the speed and fluidity of someone who had spent years training for this—ducking, spinning, intercepting. She tried to turn his strength against him, redirecting his power rather than meeting it head-on. But every time their blades met, it stole a bit more of her strength. Her muscles ached, her shoulder burning with the strain of holding her ground.

"You Jedi bleed the same as the rest," the Trandoshan rasped, his voice like gravel. He feinted to her left, then swept his blade low and viciously toward her legs.

Dia dropped into a crouch, narrowly evading the strike. Her boot skidded across broken stone, and she lashed out with the Force. A wave of kinetic energy burst from her outstretched hand, catching him square in the chest and sending him stumbling back a few paces. It wasn’t enough to drop him, but it gave her breathing room.

"Maybe," she said, panting, her voice low and controlled, "but we don’t fall easily."

He circled now, slower, more deliberate. His eyes narrowed with a predator’s focus, analyzing her every movement. Dia mirrored him, blade held low in a ready stance, her breath slow, her senses expanded. Around them, the battle still raged—the chatter of blasters, the deep thrum of explosions, the scream of starfighters ripping across the sky—but to Dia, it was all distant noise. Here, in this ruined courtyard, it was just her and the Trandoshan.

He lunged. She turned.

Their blades met again, but this time Dia was ready. She slid along his guard, twisting her saber to parry his strength aside. She stepped in close, too close for his longer reach to adjust, and struck low at his knee joint. Sparks flew, but his armor deflected the blow. He roared in fury, swinging a clawed fist at her head. She ducked under it, rolled past him, and came up behind his left side.

"You’re slowing," she taunted, her voice cold.

He whirled around, blade sweeping wide. Dia blocked it high, their weapons locked together, faces only inches apart. She could see the fury in his eyes, smell the sweat and blood on his breath.

And she pushed.

Channeling the Force, she surged forward, knocking him off balance. He stumbled back, and she advanced, blade sweeping in a blinding flurry. He caught the first strike with his vibrosword, the second with the edge of his armor, but the third came too fast. Her saber sliced across his midsection, scoring through armor and scale. He bellowed in rage, blood sizzling as it hit her blade.

Still, he didn’t fall.

Dia stepped back, chest heaving. The fight wasn’t over.

~~

Miles away and high above the burning skyline of Kabal, the skies were a storm of ion trails, twisting cloud banks, and black smoke from burning Separatist targets. Zela's Delta-7B starfighter cut through the upper atmosphere with precise, unwavering purpose. Her gloved hands were steady on the controls, the stick vibrating subtly beneath her fingers as her HUD flickered with a haze of telemetry, squadron pings, and targeting data. The comms were flooded with layered chatter—orders, squad status reports, threat indicators—but none of it registered clearly until a sharp, garbled transmission cracked through the static on her secured command channel.

"--aie Fire. I say again, Prairie Fire. Immediate danger--extraction--coordinates--Delta ground units--"

The words broke through the haze like a lightning strike. Zela froze for half a second, her breath caught in her throat.

Prairie Fire.

Her heart skipped a beat. The distress code wasn't just urgent—it was a last-ditch call. A Jedi unit on the ground, pinned, surrounded, and facing annihilation. Her HUD flared with a barely-there signal tag, flickering with the interference still radiating from the enemy-held town. But she recognized the voice, even under the distortion. Winter.

Dia.

Her hand shot to the comm controls. "Command, this is Vanguard Two. I've received a Prairie Fire signal from Hunter Company’s ground element. Hostile saturation confirmed, and fallback positions appear to be failing. Coordinates uploading now. Requesting immediate vectoring of all nearby air assets."

The reply came back in overlapping transmissions as fleet controllers in orbit and planetary command scrambled to respond.

"Copy Vanguard Two. Signal verified. Interference confirmed near the target zone. Rerouting available strike elements. Standby for vector updates."

Zela watched as her HUD exploded with activity—vector lines, squadron markers, data feeds pouring in as multiple squadrons were diverted. Some of the incoming were newly rearmed and fueled, just preparing for another round of attack runs. Others were less than optimal—pilots low on ammunition or fuel, hulls already scorched from earlier missions. But no one held back. Everyone who could fly, did.

The entire air war pivoted in real time. Within seconds, V-19 Torrents began to peel from their flight paths, their engines screaming as they angled toward the battlefield below. A handful of ARC-170s, the only heavy starfighters available, also answered the call, flanking the rapidly organizing Y-wing strike group. Battered but not broken, these Y-wings had already given more than their fair share to the day’s battle, but they descended anyway, loaded with whatever ordinance their crews had managed to scramble together.

Zela didn't hesitate. She shoved her Delta-7B into a dive, punching through the upper atmosphere. Her fingers tightened on the controls as her HUD flared with a storm of radar contacts—dozens of IFF markers blinking as strike craft surged around her.

"All units, this is Vanguard Two. Prairie Fire response is live. Marking last known friendly fallback positions now. Warning: jamming source present in or near the settlement. Confirm targets visually. Use extreme caution. Do not engage unless visual ID is confirmed. We cannot afford friendly fire."

Below them, the surface of Kabal came into view in sharp relief. The jagged ruins of the town glowed with fire and chaos, smoke curling into the air like fingers. A web of anti-aerospace cannon fire lanced skyward from the outskirts and rooftops. Bright flashes marked the clash of infantry fighting for every inch. From this altitude, she could almost sense the desperation below, even before the Force made it clear. The weight of impending loss pressed against her chest.

The sky screamed around her as she descended, buffeted by high-altitude turbulence and the contrails of other fighters diving in around her. Her teeth clenched as her flight suit adjusted pressure and temperature in real time, bracing her body against the rising strain.

Please, let me be in time. Please let her still be alive.

In the middle distance, scattered blips of enemy interceptors began to stir, closing to meet the Republic strike group. Zela keyed her targeting array, syncing with the lead Torrent squadrons, ready to intercept. As the altitude dropped and the haze of static thickened, she could feel it—the pressure of the Force pulling her downward, toward Dia, toward danger, toward the storm.

And through that haze, her Delta-7B arrowed straight into the heart of the fight.

~~

The courtyard was a battlefield turned into a furnace. The very air shimmered with heat and smoke, the ground pockmarked with cratered stone and scorched metal. Blaster bolts zipped in every direction, ricocheting off walls and striking sparks from durasteel. The sound of war was deafening—the thunder of explosions, the hiss of plasma fire, the shouted commands of clone troopers and Separatist officers alike. And yet, for Dia, the world had narrowed to a single point: the towering Trandoshan warrior before her.

The two of them circled each other, blades humming and crackling with power. Dia's lightsaber shimmered with a steady emerald glow, her grip tight on the hilt, cybernetic fingers flexing with practiced instinct. The Trandoshan's vibrosword sparked with each swing, its jagged edge resisting her blade with brutal efficiency. He was wounded—deep gouges across his side and thigh bled thick green blood, sizzling where plasma had cauterized flesh, but not dulled the warrior's fury.

His movements had slowed, his breath rasping, but the danger was far from over. He was still lethal, still determined to take her with him. Dia could see it in his eyes—a burning hatred, but also the flicker of respect. He viewed her not as prey, but as a worthy adversary. A predator.

He lunged again, snarling, his sword arcing for her midsection with deadly speed. Dia twisted aside, meeting the strike with a jarring parry. Sparks exploded between their blades. The shock ran up her arm, but she held firm, stepping in and carving a shallow line across his back. He roared in pain, the sound rising above the din of battle.

Dia pressed forward, her boots slipping slightly on the scorched and cratered stone. She leapt into the air, twisting through smoke and flame, her saber descending in a clean, diagonal cut. The Trandoshan turned too late. Her blade carved into his shoulder, severing muscle and bone, his dominant arm dropping limp at his side. He stumbled back, swaying.

The warrior turned to face her, blood dripping freely now. His breathing was ragged, labored, but his stance remained defiant. For a moment, he stood there, eye to eye with her, and she felt a strange kinship in the Force—a shared understanding between two warriors.

Then Dia surged forward.

The Force flowed through her in a rush of clarity and motion. Her saber was a blur—one, two, three swift strikes, each one purposeful, precise. The final blow sliced cleanly through his chest, cutting deep into vital organs. The Trandoshan gasped, a strangled noise of pain and final defiance.

He dropped to his knees, swaying for a breath, then crumpled to the ground with a thunderous thud. His body sprawled across the stone, unmoving.

Dia stood over him, chest heaving, her lightsaber casting long, flickering shadows in the smoke and firelight. Her skin was streaked with ash and sweat, her heart racing. Around her, the battle still raged—blaster fire from Rose’s section, the cries of the wounded, the high-pitched whine of a Republic gunship cutting through the air.

But in that moment, the world was silent between her and the fallen warrior.

Her stomach twisted. He was the third person she had ever killed.

And she had felt all of it—the heat of the blade, the rush of the Force, the moment his presence vanished into the ether.

Dia took a step back, swallowing hard, and turned her gaze toward the massive anti-aerospace cannon looming above. She blinked sweat and smoke from her eyes, scanning for Rose, for the rest of the section.

They still had a mission to finish.

Even as the thought crossed her mind, the cannon beside her groaned to life. Massive gears shifted with a grinding moan, its internal systems spinning up with a deep, rising hum. Dia stepped back further, eyes widening. The barrel swiveled, angling toward the far side of the town where the final cannon stood—still operational, still a threat.

A bright pulse of energy surged through the cannon's conduits, glowing like a power core flaring to life. Sparks jumped from the cables. The very ground seemed to vibrate beneath her boots.

And then it fired.

The blast tore through the air like a thunderbolt from the heavens. The cannon recoiled with a massive shudder, its discharge lighting up the sky and the rooftops below. Dia dropped into a crouch, shielding her face as the wave of heat and concussive force slammed into her. Her ears rang. The ground trembled.

A heartbeat later, the fourth cannon—hidden behind barricades and rooftops—erupted in a cataclysmic fireball. The explosion swallowed it whole, sending debris and flame high into the sky. The shockwave rippled outward, leveling buildings, tearing apart streets, and sending a tidal wave of rubble, dust, and smoke crashing across the district.

Dia was thrown to the ground, grit stinging her face as a cloud of ash engulfed her. The air was thick and hot, every breath a struggle. But she pushed herself up, coughing, blinking through the haze.

She stared at the smoking ruin where the fourth cannon had once stood.

Curve had done it.

The cannon they had fought so hard to capture was still glowing, its barrel seared with heat, but it had done its job.

Dia dove back behind the half-crumbled barricade, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she dropped beside Rose. The flash and thunder of the cannon's detonation still echoed in her ears, a constant ringing that made every sound feel distant and muffled. Dust swirled thick in the air, painting everything in muted tones of gray and orange. Even with the anti-aerospace cannons now destroyed or inoperative, the Separatist forces had not let up. If anything, the assault had intensified.

"They’re not pulling back," Rose muttered grimly, peeking over the edge of cover just long enough to squeeze off a shot before ducking down again. Her voice was tight, tense, her face streaked with grime and sweat. "They’re throwing everything they’ve got at us."

Dia didn’t respond immediately. Her muscles ached, her limbs trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline. But she could feel it in the Force—a deep, boiling tension, fear, pain, resolve. It pressed against her mind like a storm surge. The Separatists weren’t retreating. They were trying to break them.

A pained cry rang out from their left flank. Dia twisted toward the sound, just in time to see Zeke collapse behind a chunk of fallen masonry, clutching his shoulder. His blaster clattered from his hand. Blood streamed from a wound in his upper arm, the armor scorched and melted where the bolt had hit.

"Medic!" Trim was already crawling toward him, dragging his kit. Zeke gritted his teeth as Trim knelt beside him, hastily applying a pressure wrap and a bacta patch. "You’re out of this fight, vod. Stay down."

"Can’t feel my arm," Zeke grunted, his face pale but resolute. "Doesn’t matter. I can still shoot left-handed."

Dia’s heart clenched. Every clone here was doing everything they could to hold the line, but they were running out of time, out of strength, out of cover. She turned to Rose, her voice low.

"We can’t stay here much longer. We’re boxed in."

Rose gave a sharp nod. "We fall back any farther, and there's nowhere left to go. The cannon's done its job, but we’ve got no fallback point. We hold here, or we’re done.”

Blaster fire crackled overhead, burning deep gouges into the stone. The Separatist troops were closing in, their advance methodical and precise—a mix of droids and organic soldiers pushing from every angle. More plasma fire raked across the barricade, forcing Dia and Rose to duck lower.

Dia took a steadying breath and reached out through the Force again, seeking some glimmer of hope. Above, she felt something—a flicker of movement through the haze, the distinct roar of engines punching through the clouds.

Reinforcements?

She grabbed her comm, keyed it quickly. "Winter, what’s your status? We’re pinned and running low on everything. Zeke’s down. Do you have eyes on any friendlies inbound?"

Static answered at first. Then Winter’s voice crackled back. "Air support is inbound, but ETA is still five, maybe six minutes. Hold if you can. We’re doing everything we can from up top, but our position's barely holding."

Dia looked to Rose, then to the exhausted soldiers around them. Five minutes felt like a lifetime. But it was all they had.

"Then we hold," Dia whispered, reigniting her lightsaber, the green blade glowing defiantly in the smoke.

They would not fall. Not here. Not yet.

Blaster fire hissed in from all directions, chewing up the already shattered courtyard with a relentless barrage. The ground around Dia shook with every nearby impact, shards of stone and scorched debris erupting from every strike. She pressed herself lower behind the fragmented barricade, her back scraping against the crumbling wall as plasma bolts scorched the air overhead. The stink of ozone and charred plastoid clung thick in the air, and the acrid haze bit at her eyes, making it hard to breathe, harder still to see. Her chest heaved with each breath, ribs aching with the effort, exhaustion pulling at her limbs like lead weights. Across from her, Rose dropped into cover beside a scorched permacrete slab, fired a quick burst from her rifle, then ducked back, shouting over the crackling comms.

"They’re everywhere! We’re surrounded! They’re pressing from every direction!"

"I know!" Dia shouted back, her voice rough, raw from smoke and yelling. The words tasted like ash. The situation had gone from bad to critical.

To their right, the distinctive, high-pitched whine of AAT repulsorlifts grew louder, rising above the din. Then came the booming report of heavy cannon fire. A shell slammed into the far side of the courtyard, erupting into a geyser of fire and stone. Squire was caught in the blast radius, launched like a broken doll through the air, landing hard with a ragged cry that was quickly lost in the thunder. Solar wasn't so lucky. A section of collapsed wall crumbled atop him, the weight of the rubble burying him before he had a chance to react. Dirt, flame, and durasteel fragments rained down on their position, forcing heads down and breaths held.

"Incoming armor!" Rose shouted again, voice sharper this time. "Two—no, three AATs just rolled in from the east! They're flanking us!"

Dia ducked lower, her lightsaber deactivated but gripped tightly in one hand. She dared a quick glance over cover just as another tank shell obliterated the second floor of a nearby building. Chunks of duracrete the size of her torso slammed into the earth, sending up another wave of dust and heat.

"Trim! What's our status on munitions?"

"Low! Almost dry!" Trim called back, crouched low and cradling his nearly depleted rifle. Even as he shouted, he fired a single shot, the whine of his weapon cycling empty the next breath.

It was worse than they thought. Wave's section, which had been holding their only viable exfiltration corridor, had been forced back. The last message Dia had received was clipped, panicked. Shouting. Static. Then silence. No count of losses. Just a grim understanding that they were either falling back in tatters or were already gone.

Winter's HQ team, their only overwatch support from a rooftop across the square, had also been overrun. Pinned by snipers, overwhelmed by sheer numbers, they’d been forced to abandon their position. Dia had felt his frustration and regret ripple through the Force just before his voice crackled through the comms.

"Sorry, Commander," Winter had said, breathless. "We couldn’t hold. We’re falling back and boxed in."

She hadn't had time to reply. The next barrage had torn through their perimeter like a blade.

Now, both their flanks were exposed. They had no overwatch, no fallback route, and no reinforcements in reach.

The AT-RT unit—once their hope of mobile support—was still bogged down at the edge of town. STAPs and entrenched Separatist infantry had turned the narrow alleys into a death trap. Their calls for relief were grim and measured: "Holding position. Casualties rising. No clear path through."

And now, the AATs were taking firing positions.

Dia peeked out again, just in time to see one of the tanks pivot, its barrel locking onto their position. The targeting sensors pulsed, casting a red glow through the swirling smoke. The world felt like it slowed, every heartbeat thunderous in her ears.

She yanked herself back, slamming her hand against the stone wall beside her, her voice cutting sharp and clear through the squad channel.

"Hold the line. We don't retreat. Not until air support arrives. Not one step back."

There was a beat of silence on the line—the kind of silence that stretched forever in the space between life and death.

Then Rose answered, her voice like steel. "You heard her! We hold! We're not letting these clankers dig us a grave!"

Around them, the clones adjusted. Those who could still fight raised their rifles, redoubling their efforts. The wounded propped themselves up, using barricades and broken stone for support. No one argued. No one flinched.

Dia could feel their fear, simmering just below the surface—but more than that, she felt their resolve. These troopers, her troopers, were ready to die beside her. For her.

She clenched her jaw, reigniting her saber. The green blade sprang to life, its glow defiant in the smoke-choked air. She knelt beside Squire, the young scout trooper clutching his side, his armor scorched and cracked where a bolt had slammed into him. Blood leaked between the plates, and his face was tight with pain, teeth gritted as he tried to stay upright. Dia laid a steadying hand on his arm, feeling the tremble beneath her touch.

"Stay with me," she whispered. "Just a little longer."

They were outnumbered. Outgunned. Surrounded.

But they weren’t beaten.

Not yet.

And for however long it took until the skies opened, and salvation descended in the roar of engines and streak of lasers, Dia would fight. For them. For the mission. For hope.

Because sometimes, that was all you had left.

The world had shrunk to a haze of pain, smoke, and blaster fire, a suffocating maelstrom that crushed sound and thought alike.

Dia pressed her back against the battered wall, blood trickling down the side of her face from a glancing hit that had seared across her temple. Her body ached, bruised and burned in too many places to count, every muscle tight with tension and fatigue. The fabric of her undersuit clung to her like a second skin soaked in sweat, soot, and blood. Around her, the remaining clones of Rose's section were little more than silhouettes in the smoke—ghosts holding a line that was rapidly collapsing. Still, they fired. Still, they fought.

Even Rose had taken a hit, a deep gouge torn through the thigh of her armor, black scorch marks still smoldering where the bolt had seared through. Her movements were slower now, more labored, but she never stopped—never wavered.

They were almost overrun. The Separatist forces had them boxed in, pressing from every direction with relentless fire. The latest AAT salvo had reduced their last usable cover to little more than broken stone and slagged durasteel. The stink of ozone and molten metal choked the air. Dia could hear the chittering clicks of advancing B1s, the thudding steps of B2s, and the harsh bark of organic officers shouting orders in tongues she didn’t recognize. The Separatist forces were coordinated, determined.

There was nowhere to fall back to. No backup left to call. No shadows to disappear into. No high ground. No miracle coming.

Dia gritted her teeth, blood slicking her lower lip as she braced herself tighter against the wall. Her cybernetic fingers clenched tighter around the hilt of her saber, the blackened metal groaning from overuse and heat exposure. She risked a glance over the shattered barricade—just a quick look.

A droid sniper spotted her immediately.

The bolt flashed past her cheek, singing the edge of her lekku as she ducked back down with a hiss of pain. Her heart slammed in her chest, and she gasped as she dropped lower. Her breathing was ragged, each inhalation drawn through clenched teeth. Even the Force felt tired, like she was trying to draw water from a cracked well. Her connection pulsed, distant and flickering, like it too was struggling to endure.

And then—she heard it.

A low, rising roar.

Faint at first. Almost mistaken for a shell burst. Then louder. Sharper. Rhythmic.

Engines.

Zzzzzzzraaaawwwmmmm.

The scream of V-19 Torrent starfighters cut through the haze, sharp and fast and righteous. They soared over the rooftops, dropping like avenging hawks, wings slicing through the smoke. Their forward cannons blazed, blue bolts lancing into Separatist positions with surgical precision. Droids burst apart in molten shrapnel. Defensive positions exploded in fire and shrieking metal. The air itself seemed to crackle.

The courtyard lit up with the fury of the heavens. Dia could feel the heat as the fighters passed low overhead, their engines shaking the ground beneath her. The shockwaves from their strafing runs lifted dust and ash into towering clouds, momentarily obscuring everything.

"CAS inbound! Danger close!" someone shouted through the comms, but it was too late for warnings.

A second wave followed. Y-Wings, their engines guttural and heavy, roared in like beasts of burden bearing vengeance. Their bomb bays opened in unison. The sound that followed was deafening.

Detonations tore through the Separatist rear lines. Entire rows of buildings vanished in pillars of flame. Streets cracked and caved beneath the pressure. One AAT was lifted off the ground, hurled sideways into the remains of a duracrete barricade. The ground shuddered beneath Dia’s boots, nearly throwing her off her feet.

Dia stumbled back into cover, her body battered by the shockwave. Dust and debris pelted her from all sides. Her ears rang. Her skin stung. But through the dust and pain, her eyes stayed open.

The Separatist advance was faltering. Breaking.

Some droids turned and ran. Others fell where they stood, their circuits fried or their limbs twisted into ruin. The remaining organic soldiers began to retreat, their coordination collapsing under the relentless onslaught.

And then she saw it.

A Delta-7B starfighter carved through the chaos like a blade. Sleek. Fast. Controlled. Its green-tipped lasers blazed as it banked hard to the left, slicing through a pursuing squad of Vulture droids. It was nimble, dancing between columns of smoke and crumbling buildings.

Zela.

Even through the carnage, the ash and the fire, Dia knew that silhouette. She could feel it in the Force like a spark cutting through shadow.

Her breath caught, and a laugh escaped her lips—half a sob, half joy. Her knees buckled, not from injury, but from overwhelming relief. Zela was here.

They weren’t alone anymore.

Air support had arrived.

And Zela was with them.

The fight wasn’t over. There were still enemies on the field. Still wounded to protect. Still ground to secure. But now—now they had a fighting chance.

And Dia was ready to make every second of it count.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XXII

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

The fires still burned, licking at the collapsed skeletons of buildings and lighting the smoke-choked sky with a sickly orange glow. The once-thriving settlement was now a shattered graveyard of duracrete and steel, torn apart by artillery, crumbling under the weight of Republic bombs and Separatist desperation. Bomb craters marred the streets, some still smoldering. Dust hung thick in the air, coating everything in a pale, lifeless gray.

Dia moved through the devastation like a shadow, the once-vibrant red of her skin now dulled beneath layers of ash and soot. Each step was slow, careful—half from exhaustion, half from the uncertainty of what she might find buried beneath the ruin. The pain in her limbs had dulled into a constant throb, her muscles heavy and bruised, her left shoulder scorched from a near miss. She bore it without a sound.

Smoke curled past her lekku as she ducked beneath the twisted remains of a doorway, her eyes sweeping the broken landscape. Rose was crouched beside what remained of a wall, directing the few surviving clones of her section. Scorch marks streaked her armor, and blood had dried down the side of her leg, but her voice remained steady, firm. She looked up as Dia approached.

"We lost the overwatch team," Rose said, her voice hoarse. "Wave’s boys too. Zeke’s up, but he's limping bad. Squire's not moving yet. Solar..."

She trailed off, her mouth set in a grim line.

Dia didn’t respond. She turned toward the pile of rubble that had once been their fallback barricade. Her eyes settled on the cracked edge of white armor jutting out from beneath the collapsed stone. Blood oozed slowly into the dust from the wreckage.

Without a word, she stepped forward. Her cybernetic hand rose, fingers trembling for a heartbeat before they curled into a fist. Reaching out with the Force, she let it flow through her—despite the pain, despite the weight of everything pressing on her chest.

The rubble shifted, groaned, then slowly lifted, pieces rising and scattering away. Dia stepped in closer, her breath catching in her throat as the body was revealed.

Solar.

His helmet was still on, cracked at the chin, one arm twisted beneath him. His chestplate had buckled inward, the white stained dark with blood leaking steadily from beneath. There was no rise or fall of breath. No movement.

Zeke limped forward from behind, blood seeping down the side of his face, his arm hanging uselessly. He knelt beside the body as Dia stepped back to let him in. For a moment, Zeke was silent, resting his remaining hand on Solar’s shoulder.

Then he looked up and shook his head once.

"He's gone, Commander."

Dia closed her eyes, the ache in her chest sharp and unrelenting. The air was thick with the stench of scorched metal and acrid smoke, mingling with the heavy scent of blood and dust. The once-lived-in streets were now jagged scars of fire and ruin, hollow buildings barely standing, their interiors open to the sky where roofs had collapsed in the bombardment.

She could barely feel the Force anymore.

Where once it thrummed at the edges of her awareness, vibrant and full of life, now it was deafening in its silence. The town had been alive with people, soldiers, civilians—supporters or not, they had all existed within the Force. And now… it was like a void had opened, a hollow space where presence had been snuffed out in an instant. The suddenness of it all—the eruption of life into nothing—left her numb. She felt unmoored, the deaths of her troopers blending with the weight of all the other lost lives. It was too much.

She swallowed thickly and opened her eyes.

"Then we make sure he’s not left behind."

Her voice sounded distant to her own ears as she activated her comm, trying to focus through the haze clouding her thoughts. "Secure the wounded. Mark the fallen. I want a landing zone cleared two blocks west of here, now. We have transports inbound."

The troopers responded without hesitation, moving like ghosts through the ruins. They gathered the injured with practiced hands, their armor smeared with soot and blood, their faces unreadable beneath their helmets. Others combed through rubble and fire-blackened streets for the dead, lifting broken bodies with reverence.

The AT-RT troop, having finally broken through on the outskirts, had begun preparing their own LZ beyond the town limits. Even they were subdued, the usual banter silenced under the weight of what they’d walked into.

Minutes later, Winter limped into view. His armor was scorched and cracked, the white stained brown and black from fire and blood. He held his helmet loosely in one hand, his face pale beneath grime and ash, his eyes sunken with exhaustion and grief. Only three others followed him, a shattered remnant of his once-full HQ element.

Behind them, Staff Sergeant Anchor was being half-carried by Clone Medic 2nd Class Draffin. Anchor’s lower body was bound in layers of cloth and field dressings, his right leg missing from mid-thigh down. Two filled syringes were strapped to his chestplate, just above a thick tourniquet cinched cruelly tight. His face was slack, dulled by painkillers, but he was breathing.

Dia stepped forward, her boots crunching over shattered stone. Her gaze flicked over each clone before settling on Winter. "Status?"

Winter shook his head slowly, his expression bleak. "Wave’s section is gone. He’s gone. Anchor’s stable, but he needs evac now. HQ… half of them didn’t make it."

Dia nodded, but the motion felt mechanical. Her throat was tight, her hands trembling faintly at her sides. The weight of it all pressed on her shoulders, heavy and cold. The names. The lives. The suddenness of their loss.

There would be time to grieve later, she told herself. There had to be.

"Help Anchor to the LZ," she said quietly. Her voice was calm, almost too calm. "We'll hold until the transports arrive. No one gets left behind. Not today."

And she meant it. Even if she had to carry every body herself.

But inside, a numbness had taken root—something cold and unfamiliar. Dia didn’t know what it meant yet, only that it scared her in ways no blaster ever had.

The makeshift landing zone was little more than a flattened plaza, surrounded by the jagged wreckage of shattered buildings and scorched rubble. Smoke curled in lazy columns from half-collapsed structures, their skeletal remains groaning with every shifting gust of wind. The acrid stench of fire and blaster discharge lingered thick in the air, clinging to skin and cloth, burning in the lungs with every breath. Ash drifted down like gray snow, coating the ground, the fallen, and the living alike.

Clone Troopers moved quickly but quietly, their boots crunching softly over rubble as they gathered the fallen and triaged the wounded. There were no shouted orders, no chatter—just the grim efficiency of soldiers who had seen too much. Draffin worked furiously, his gloves stained crimson, his medkit nearly empty. His hands moved with practiced speed, applying bacta patches, stabilizing fractures, injecting stims into limp arms.

The dead had been lined up in careful rows, each one covered with a tarp or a torn cloak, their helmets placed gently on their chests. The wounded leaned against scorched walls or lay motionless on stretchers, groaning softly or silent with pain too deep for words. Dia walked among them like a ghost, her expression unreadable, her steps steady despite the slight limp in her stride. Her red skin was masked beneath layers of soot, her lekku streaked with ash, her eyes distant.

The hum of engines started low and distant but quickly built to a deafening roar as four LAAT/i gunships tore through the smoke-choked sky. Two peeled off early, banking hard toward the outskirts of the shattered town to retrieve the embattled AT-RT troop still fighting at their perimeter. The other two roared toward the plaza, repulsorlifts screaming as they came in hot, kicking up gales of dust and debris. Their wings snapped open, bay doors already yawning wide.

"Get them aboard! This whole sector’s coming down! We don’t have time to waste!" Clone pilots barked over the comms, their voices strained with urgency.

White-and-red-armored medics leapt from the gunships before they had fully touched down, sprinting into the fray. Stretchers were hoisted, wounded loaded, cries of pain and urgency merging with the thunder of the ships. Even the medics looked drained—faces hollow behind visors, their movements slowed by exhaustion.

Dia was already moving, helping a clone with a scorched pauldron limp toward the nearest LAAT/i. Her free hand steadied another trooper who had blood seeping from a head wound, his eyes glassy with fatigue. Her limbs screamed with every step, her side ached fiercely, but she ignored it. She had to.

Above, ARC-170s and V-19s circled like vultures over a corpse, their engines roaring a dirge for the town below. Occasionally, they peeled off to rain blaster fire and missiles on the retreating Separatist remnants, shockwaves rolling across the rubble. Zela’s sleek Delta-7B cut through the haze like a blade, and the brief glimpse of her fighter gave Dia the strength to keep moving.

Then came the whine of incoming fire.

A high-pitched whistle shrieked through the smoke, and Dia’s instincts screamed at her. She turned just in time for the ground to erupt beneath her.

The shell exploded close—too close. The world turned white and red and screaming. She was lifted off her feet, thrown like a ragdoll. Her back hit something hard, and the breath was torn from her lungs. Her vision swam, stars bursting behind her eyes.

She hit the ground in a heap, pain radiating from her side. The impact cracked something deep in her chest—a rib, maybe two. The pain was sharp and hot, lancing through every breath. Her ears rang, a high, keening tone that drowned out the world. Smoke and dust clogged her vision, her lungs. The acrid taste of scorched metal coated her tongue.

She blinked through the haze, limbs trembling as she tried to push herself up. Her fingers scrabbled at broken stone and melted duracrete. She couldn’t tell up from down, only the pain anchoring her to her body.

Then hands grabbed her—strong, steady. Rose.

Dia felt herself being hauled upright, her weight leaning heavily against the other woman. She groaned, her side aflame, but Rose’s voice reached her through the ringing.

"Commander—come on. We’re getting out. You with me?"

Dia nodded numbly, her jaw clenched tight against a cry of pain. She could feel the warm trickle of blood down her side, the growing stiffness in her ribs. But she forced herself to move, one foot dragging after another as they reached the gunship.

Blaster fire still cracked in the distance, the last few clones firing from cover. Zela’s fighter wheeled overhead once more, a protective shadow.

Behind them, Draffin shouted to medics, his voice hoarse from the smoke. The last of the wounded were lifted aboard. A few stretchers bore the still forms of those who hadn’t made it.

Dia turned her head, her gaze sweeping over the remains of the town. Nothing but rubble and flame. A town once filled with people and noise—now silent. In the Force, there was only stillness. A silence so profound it rang in her skull.

The doors sealed with a hydraulic hiss, and the LAAT/i lifted off.

Dia let her head rest back, eyes drifting shut. The war was far from over.

But for now, they had survived.

Dia sat slouched against the inner wall of the LAAT/i gunship, one knee drawn up, her arm draped loosely over it while the other clutched her side. Pain radiated from the cracked rib beneath her armor with every breath. The roar of the engines thudded dully in her ears, a steady, constant presence that gave her nothing to hold on to. Smoke and ash clung to her skin, painting her crimson complexion in grim, gray streaks. The air in the cabin was heavy with the scent of blood, bacta, and scorched metal. Around her, clone troopers lay or sat quietly, some unconscious, others merely too exhausted to speak.

Her commlink buzzed. She blinked slowly, then tapped it with a gloved thumb.

"Padawan Dia," came the warm, measured voice of Jedi Master Emmari. "We've received word of your success. The orbital controllers confirm the anti-aerospace cannons have been eliminated. Reinforcements are landing. Excellent work."

Dia leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. She didn’t respond immediately. Her jaw tightened before she forced her voice to emerge, low and even.

"Yes, Master. Mission complete. Cannons are neutralized. Survivors en route."

A pause. Then Emmari's voice softened slightly. "You sound... tired. I'm sure the fighting was intense, but your strength guided them through. When you land, debrief with command and then take time to meditate. Trust in the Force, Dia. Let it carry what you cannot."

"Yes, Master," Dia said quietly. The words felt hollow. Her eyes opened, staring blankly at the opposite wall of the gunship. Trust in the Force. She'd felt nothing but silence in the Force since the final charge. It was as though the roar of death had drowned out everything else.

Emmari continued, still unaware of Dia's emotional state. "This is a victory, Dia. You're growing stronger every day. Have faith in that. The Force is with you."

Dia ended the call with a soft, "May the Force be with you," before slowly lowering her hand.

She let the commlink rest against her leg, her fingers uncurling numbly. Around her, the wounded groaned, the LAAT/i jostled through turbulence, and medics moved through the crowded bay. But Dia felt none of it.

She didn’t feel strong. She didn’t feel victorious. All she felt was numb.

And that silence in the Force lingered, like a storm waiting just beyond the next breath.

~~

The gunship's landing struts slammed into the ground with a jarring thud, the engines letting out a high-pitched whine as plumes of dust and smoke surged outward across the scorched flight line. Even before the bay doors had fully hissed open, medics were sprinting forward through the haze, their movements sharp, efficient, and unyielding despite their visible fatigue. Stretchers were yanked from racks and unfurled, clone troopers with scorched armor, blaster burns, and shrapnel wounds lifted gently but quickly by medics in red-and-white-marked armor. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic, blood, smoke, and scorched metal—a sickening reminder of the battle that had just ended.

The dead were carried out in solemn silence, a grim procession of brothers who would not return to the front lines. Blackened armor plates cracked and twisted, some still faintly smoking. Their helmets, once pristine symbols of unity, were now resting like tributes over their chests as the body bags were zipped closed one by one. One medic paused long enough to press a hand to a fallen trooper's shoulder plate, muttering a wordless farewell before continuing on.

Inside the LAAT/i, Dia remained slumped against the forward bulkhead, her posture loose with exhaustion, her arms dangling over her knees. She hadn't spoken since the call with her master, Emmari. Her mind was still echoing with the distant, detached praise from the voice over the comms. Words like "well done" and "trust in the Force" rang hollow in her ears. Emmari hadn’t noticed—couldn’t have noticed—how far away Dia truly was. How distant she had become from herself.

The noise outside grew louder again as another LAAT/i landed beside them, its repulsors sending up fresh clouds of soot and ash. The medical teams shouted over the roar of engines, coordinating evacuations, yelling names and priority codes as they moved. The entire landing zone was a whirlwind of motion and muted grief.

Rose crouched beside Dia, her expression tight beneath the smudged lines of ash and grime across her face. Her armor was battered, streaked with dried blood—some of it hers, most of it not. Her voice was low, laced with a blend of concern and frustration.

"Commander, that side wound needs to be looked at. You're bleeding through your armor."

Dia blinked slowly, not meeting her eyes. She focused instead on a streak of dried green blood caked against her glove, remembering too vividly how it had gotten there. "After debriefing with Marshal Commander Neva," she murmured, her voice quiet, almost monotone.

Rose shifted, leaning in closer. "You can’t keep doing this. That last explosion nearly broke you in half. You're not invincible, Dia. Let me grab a stretcher. Please."

Dia exhaled slowly, waving her off with her organic hand, her other—the cybernetic one—still clutched loosely around her lightsaber hilt. Her fingers twitched, an unconscious tremor. "I’m fine," she said, a little too fast, a little too sharp. "Neva needs a report. He needs answers."

"He also needs his Jedi Commander able to stand upright. And breathe."

Dia forced a brittle smile, devoid of humor. "Then I better keep moving before he notices I can’t."

With considerable effort, she pushed herself upright. Her ribs screamed in protest—at least one was definitely cracked, maybe broken—but she bit back the sound, swallowing the pain like she had everything else since the fighting began. The strength in her limbs felt borrowed, her mind dulled beneath the weight of exhaustion, loss, and too much silence.

Rose stepped aside, clearly torn between orders and concern, her gaze lingering on Dia’s trembling form. She recognized the look in her commander’s eyes—not just stubbornness, but something buried deeper. Numbness. Detachment. A wound the medics couldn’t treat.

She didn’t push further. There was no point.

Dia stepped down from the ramp into the chaos of the landing zone, her boots crunching over debris and gravel. She didn’t look back. She didn’t plan to go to the medical tent. Not yet. Maybe not at all.

There were reports to give, orders to receive, more battles to survive.

Everything else would have to wait.

If it could wait at all.

The command post was a sturdy prefab structure hastily erected at the edge of the forward operations base, its walls lined with holoprojectors, comm stations, and tactical readouts displaying troop movements across Kabal's scarred surface. The smell of plastasteel and scorched earth lingered even here, seeping through the seams of the reinforced walls.

Dia moved stiffly through the entryway, her gait uneven, shoulders tight, one arm held close against her side. Dust and blood streaked her crimson skin, her armor still smeared with soot and the grime of battle. The pain in her side pulsed with every breath, and her left leg burned from a deep bruise she hadn’t taken time to check. She ignored it all, forcing herself forward.

Inside, Marshal Commander Neva stood at the center of the room surrounded by a half-dozen clone officers, all of them bearing the marks of recent combat. Their helmets were off, revealing weary eyes and sweat-slicked faces as they reviewed a holographic map showing troop dispositions, artillery placements, and the still-burning remains of the town Dia's force had barely escaped.

Neva's eyes flicked up as Dia entered. He was tall, broad-shouldered in his white-and-red armor, the Commander of the 42nd Legion. His gaze lingered on her injuries for only a moment before turning toward the officers beside him.

"That'll be all," he said. "I want updates on the artillery positions along the ridge before the next push. Dismissed."

The clone officers saluted sharply and exited, giving Dia subtle nods of respect as they passed. Their expressions carried weariness, but also something else—acknowledgment. Recognition. They knew what her troop had endured. As the door sealed behind them, quiet settled over the command post.

Neva stepped forward, his red-trimmed armor gleaming faintly under the interior lights. He studied her as if trying to take her full measure—not just physically, but mentally. His jaw tightened ever so slightly.

"Commander," he greeted, his voice firm but not unkind. "You look like you walked through the heart of a firestorm."

Dia straightened despite herself, lifting her chin. "It was close. We lost over half the troop. If the air support had arrived even a few minutes later..."

Neva’s brow furrowed. He gestured toward the nearest chair. "Sit down, Dia. You're pale and trembling, and I doubt it’s just from the smoke."

She hesitated, pride flaring for a heartbeat before exhaustion swamped it. Slowly, she eased herself into the seat, doing her best to mask the wince that twisted her features. Her side throbbed with each breath, and the sharp sting beneath her ribs reminded her of the cracked bone she was still ignoring.

Neva moved around the table, removing his helmet and placing it beside a cluster of datapads. He studied her in silence for several moments, arms crossed over his chest.

"You're injured," he said at last, his tone more direct now.

"I'm functional," Dia replied automatically, her voice flat.

He narrowed his eyes. "That’s not what I asked."

Dia didn’t meet his gaze. Her fingers, both organic and cybernetic, curled around the edge of the table. "There wasn't time," she said, her voice quieter now.

Neva regarded her for a beat longer, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. Then, with a slow nod, he moved to his own seat.

"Very well," he said. "Give me your report."

Dia launched into it mechanically—the push into the town, the discovery of organic Separatist forces, the civilians aligned with them, the intensity of the resistance, the assault on the cannons, the loss of Wave's section, Solar's death, Squire’s injuries. Her voice was steady, but behind her words was a tension that never eased.

When she finished, Neva was quiet for a long time. He finally leaned back, one hand resting on the edge of the table.

"You did what had to be done," he said. "It wasn’t clean, but the job is never clean. You held your position long enough for support to reach you. If you hadn’t, we’d have lost the entire front."

Dia nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on a spot just beyond the holomap. "It doesn’t feel like a victory."

Neva's voice dropped. "It never does, Commander. It never will."

Dia didn’t speak a word as she stepped away from the command post, her boots dragging slightly in the dust-choked soil. The adrenaline that had held her upright began to ebb, leaving behind only the raw ache of exhaustion and injury. Without the weight of duty propelling her forward, the pain she’d kept at bay surged with a vengeance. Every breath sent a lance of fire through her side where fractured ribs protested movement, and the deep gash along her torso pulsed with warmth, blood seeping steadily beneath scorched armor plates.

She passed the medical station without slowing. The medics were overwhelmed—barking orders, calling for supplies, moving between stretcher after stretcher with the grim urgency of those trying to stave off death. The air reeked of bacta, burnt plastoid, and blood. Clone troopers groaned or lay silent in neat, brutal rows. Dia caught sight of Anchor, unconscious, pale beneath the harsh medbay lights. His leg was gone below the mid-thigh, twin syringes strapped above the tourniquet that had saved his life. A medic was still securing the last bandage.

She looked away.

Her assigned tent stood near the edge of the officer’s camp—small, canvas-sided, and barely shielded from the chill wind sweeping down from the hills. The fabric fluttered weakly, dust gathering in the seams. Dia reached it and all but collapsed in front of the entrance, lowering herself with a groan and letting her weight settle against the support post. She didn’t bother going inside. She couldn’t find the strength.

Blood dripped from beneath the plates of her side armor, soaking into her tunic. The crimson of her skin was streaked with ash, grime, and sweat. She let her head fall back against the canvas, eyes shut, listening to the dull throb of distant artillery and the nearer, subtler sounds of mourning and movement in the camp.

She raised her cybernetic hand, the metal fingers sluggish as they flexed. Her vambrace was streaked with dried green blood—thick, dark, smeared across the top and around the joints. The same blood that had sprayed from the Trandoshan’s throat when she drove her saber home. The same blood that marked her as a killer now.

She turned the arm slowly, catching the glint of fading light on the dried stains. The metal bore a notch from where the vibrosword had struck her. She remembered that moment—the weight of him, his sheer size, the resistance in her blade as it met muscle and tendon and bone. She remembered his eyes, wide and furious until the pain overtook them.

And then she remembered the Devaronian.

The panic in her gaze. The snap of her body when Dia’s lightsaber carved through chest and heart. The sudden silence in the Force where once there had been breath and motion.

Dia curled her bloodied hand into a fist, then let it fall limply to her side.

This wasn’t like the drills. This wasn’t like fighting droids. Those didn’t bleed. They didn’t scream. They didn’t stare at you as life slipped from their eyes.

Zela’s voice echoed in the back of her mind. Soft and firm. The words they’d always exchanged like anchors in a storm.

"I’ll always find my way back to you."

Dia looked down at her hands.

The blood was drying now. Hers. Theirs. It didn’t matter. The Force around her felt frayed—too loud in some places, death-silent in others. A strange hollowness had settled behind her ribs. Not grief, not yet. Just absence. Numbness.

She stared into the dust and darkness of the evening and wondered, with a quiet ache, if she was still the kind of person who could be found at all.

~

Night had fallen over the forward base like a shroud, the wind stirring the dust into soft waves that whispered across the permacrete landing pads. The sky overhead, once choked with the smoke of battle, now lay clearer, revealing a scatter of stars blinking faintly through the darkness. The hum of repulsorlifts cut through the night as a Delta-7B fighter descended with smooth precision, landing gear kissing the ground with a practiced touch.

The cockpit hissed open, and Zela leapt down lightly, her boots crunching against the dirt. Her lekku twitched slightly with tension, her emerald eyes scanning the quiet bustle of clone troopers, droids, and officers moving between tents. But she didn’t head for her own quarters. Her presence in the Force stretched outward, searching not for coordinates, but for a feeling.

A hollow space. A heavy stillness.

Dia.

Zela followed it, weaving between crates and med tents, guided by instinct and bond more than sight. She found her seated in the shadows beside her tent, half-slumped against the canvas wall. The post lamps behind her cast soft pools of light, but Dia sat in darkness. She didn’t move when Zela approached.

Zela stopped a step away, taking in the sight.

Dia's armor was still on, streaked with blood and ash. Her shoulders sagged. Her face, usually bright with fire and mischief, was blank—eyes dull, her brow slack, as though everything inside had been scraped hollow.

Zela said nothing. She didn’t need to. Instead, she knelt in front of her, hands gentle as they reached for Dia's chestplate. With slow, careful movements, she began unfastening the buckles. Dia didn’t resist. Her breathing hitched once, but she didn’t look up.

As the armor loosened, Zela slid it free, one piece at a time. The burn on Dia’s side was angry and raw, half-covered in dried blood. Bruises painted her ribs, and her cybernetic fingers trembled faintly with spent adrenaline and pain. Zela’s brow furrowed as she took in the damage, every wound another shard of worry buried deeper into her heart.

She placed her hand over Dia’s wound, her touch feather-light, reverent. The Force flowed through her slowly, steadily—not just to mend the physical harm, but to cradle Dia’s fractured spirit. Zela poured herself into it, her own presence folding around Dia like a protective embrace, a whispered promise: I’m here.

It wasn’t just healing. It was love. It was devotion.

Dia didn’t speak. Her head dipped forward, breath shuddering through her lips as Zela’s presence filled the hollow ache inside her. Her body sagged toward the warmth like a dying ember catching a breeze, flickering but not yet out.

Zela moved with care, with tenderness, guiding her to her feet. Dia followed without protest, her strength a memory, her trust absolute. Zela supported her with quiet strength, one arm around her waist, her other hand never leaving Dia’s side.

Inside the tent, the flap closed behind them with a whisper. The space was dim and still, quiet but not cold.

Zela eased Dia down onto the sleeping mat and followed, lying beside her, then pulling her close. Dia buried her face into the crook of Zela’s neck, her breath hitching once before settling into a slow, broken rhythm.

Zela held her tightly, protectively. One arm wrapped around Dia's back, the other slipping beneath her shoulders, fingers threading through her lekku with aching gentleness. Her touch said everything her voice could not—I see you. I love you. You’re not alone.

Dia clung to her, small tremors wracking her frame, but no tears came. She was too empty even for that. And yet, Zela didn’t pull away. She stayed, her body a barrier against the world, her Force presence woven into Dia’s like threads of light knitting a frayed soul.

In that silence, there was no need for words. Only breath, only closeness. Zela pressed her forehead to Dia’s, her heart breaking at the weight of her pain and yet never hesitating to carry it.

They stayed like that, tangled in silence, in grief, in love. A heartbeat shared between two who had seen too much, who had lost too much, but who still had each other.

And in Zela’s arms, Dia began, slowly, to believe she could come back from this.

The tent was quiet save for the soft rustle of canvas and the distant thrum of speeders moving through the base. Zela held Dia close, their bodies entwined on the sleeping mat, the warmth between them a small island in a sea of cold grief. Dia’s face was still buried in the curve of Zela’s neck, her breath hitching every now and then, as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to speak.

Their limbs tangled together, but more intimately, their lekku curled in a soft embrace. Dia's lekku, limp and heavy with exhaustion, found shelter against Zela’s longer, stronger ones that wrapped protectively around hers. It wasn’t a Togruta custom—Togruta didn’t typically curl their lekku this way. But Zela had learned from Dia what it meant to her people, to Twi’leks. How vulnerable it made one feel. And how meaningful it was to let someone close enough to do it. So she did, instinctively, with all the tenderness in her heart. "I’m here. I’ve got you," her presence seemed to say.

Then Dia finally spoke. Her voice was barely a whisper, rough and hoarse from smoke and silence.

"I killed them."

Zela's hold didn’t falter. She remained still, quiet, listening, her presence in the Force unwavering—a patient, steady current against the storm that churned within Dia. But her heart clenched at the words. A deep, painful ache bloomed in her chest—not just because of what Dia had done, but because of how much it hurt her.

"The Devaronian. The Trandoshan," Dia said, each name falling heavy between them. "I killed them. Not just droids. Not pirates. People. And I didn’t hesitate. Not really. I did what I had to do." She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into the fabric of Zela’s undersuit, clinging as if she might otherwise fall apart. "But they’re still dead because of me."

Zela pressed her lips to Dia’s forehead—not with words, but with presence—a promise that she wasn't alone. Her Force signature wrapped tighter around Dia’s like a warm, protective shroud, trying to shield her from the jagged shards of guilt digging deep.

"And the clones... Solar. Wave. Gods, Squire... all of them. They followed my orders. That town was a death trap and I led them right into it. It wasn’t the first time I’ve lost troopers—but it’s the first time it was all me. My plan. My command. My failure."

Dia pulled in a shuddering breath, her voice cracking at the edges. "And when the airstrikes hit..." Her voice caught. "I could feel them die in the Force. Hundreds. Civilians, soldiers, everyone. It went quiet all at once. I couldn’t even breathe. I still can’t. It was like the galaxy held its breath and never let it go."

Zela’s arms tightened just a little more, as if she could physically keep Dia from slipping into that silence again. Her hand slid up to gently cradle Dia’s jaw, guiding her face out from the crook of her neck so their foreheads could touch, so she could see her.

Their lekku stayed gently coiled together, pulsing faintly with the rhythm of their shared pain. The faint twitch of Zela's lekku around Dia's wasn’t just comfort—it was mourning. Empathy. An unspoken cry of I feel it too.

Dia’s violet eyes were glassy, wet with unshed tears, her expression twisted with guilt and exhaustion. Zela's own eyes shone with quiet sorrow, but also fierce, aching devotion. She ached not only because of what Dia had endured, but because the woman she loved so deeply was breaking in her arms—and Zela couldn't bear it.

"You came back," Zela whispered. "You’re here. With them. With me. You did what you had to, Dia. You made the best call you could."

Dia shook her head, but Zela cupped her face more firmly, gently but insistently.

"You carry it because you care. Because you always have. That’s why you’re still a Jedi. That’s why they followed you. Why I will always follow you."

Dia’s throat worked around a reply, but nothing came. Her tears finally fell, silent and slow, trailing down her cheeks. She didn’t sob. She just breathed. Shook. Let it out in pieces—one small tremor at a time.

Zela rested her forehead to Dia’s again and closed her eyes. She didn’t press. Didn’t ask her to be anything she wasn’t ready to be. She simply stayed with her—anchored her. She held her tighter, her fingers brushing soothing circles against Dia’s back. Her love spoke louder than any words ever could, pulsing through the Force and their bond like a steady heartbeat.

Outside, the wind howled softly across the camp, whispering over wreckage and tents and the ghosts left behind in the ruins of the day. But inside the tent, two hearts beat in time, bound by grief, by war, and by a love that had only grown stronger with each scar.

The night deepened around them, the chill of the war-torn world held at bay only by the warmth of the small tent and the bodies entwined inside it. Dia finally began to doze, exhaustion dragging her down like gravity. Her head remained nestled beneath Zela's chin, her lekku and Zela's intertwined in a silent promise of closeness, of not letting go.

Zela lay awake a while longer, her arms still wrapped protectively around Dia, her breathing slow and measured as she pressed a soft kiss to Dia's brow. But soon even she surrendered to sleep, their hearts beating in tandem.

Dia's sleep, however, was not peaceful.

Images swam behind her closed eyes: the stutter-flash of red and green blaster bolts, the scorched walls of the settlement on Kabal, the crater where the fourth cannon had been blown into nothing. Her fingers twitched against Zela's side, searching for the hilt of her lightsaber—or maybe reassurance—reaching for something that wasn't there.

She dreamed of smoke—billowing, thick, choking—and of voices screaming in pain, cries of anguish piercing through the haze like shards of glass. Solar’s broken form, twisted beneath a slab of duracrete. Squire, limp and bloodied, flung like a discarded doll. The Trandoshan’s yellow eyes boring into hers in that final moment before her blade severed his spine. The Devaronian woman’s gasp, the shock in her eyes as the lightsaber cut through her chest—surprise, pain, and the final flicker of life fading all at once.

And then—silence.

Not the absence of sound, but the hollow vacuum she'd felt in the Force after the airstrikes. It echoed now in her dream like the aftermath of a scream. In that barren vision, Dia stood alone amid the ruins, the world around her reduced to skeletal buildings and drifting ash. The snowfall of soot clung to her skin, to her armor, to her soul. Everywhere she looked, faces stared—clone, civilian, friend, stranger—their eyes empty and unblinking, mouths silent in judgment. Her lightsaber was still active, still humming, but now it dripped with blood—too much blood—and no matter how she tried to wipe it clean, the red stains only deepened.

She stumbled back, gasping. “I didn’t want to… I had to… they were counting on me—”

From the swirling ash, a voice twisted and cracked by distortion answered: “You led them.”

Dia spun toward it, her pulse thundering. A figure emerged from the shadow—her own face, mirrored and yet ruined. Burnt flesh curled around empty sockets. Her lekku hung torn and singed. Blood smeared across her mouth.

“You brought the fire,” the figure said again, voice devoid of emotion.

Dia's knees buckled, and she collapsed into the ash-laden mud. Her fingers dug into the grime, but it offered no comfort—only the sensation of cold, sticky blood and the stench of scorched flesh. Her mouth opened in a sob she couldn’t release. The taste of iron and ash coated her tongue.

The dream twisted further, the silence growing heavier, her own breath rasping in her ears. And from that silence rose the unmistakable snap-hiss of a lightsaber igniting. She turned again, heart stuttering.

A figure approached, cloaked in darkness. Red light bloomed into view—violent, searing. A lightsaber, humming with menace. Yellow eyes glowed through the smoke, piercing her. Predatory. Familiar. Her heartbeat became a drumbeat of dread. Her feet refused to move.

And suddenly, she was back there—in the moment she lost her arm. The pain exploded anew across her nerves, phantom yet searing, as if the wound had never truly healed. Her hand throbbed. Her breath hitched. She wanted to scream, but her throat had closed. Her saber was in her grasp, but it felt alien—heavy and numb. Her arms trembled, muscles locked in place.

The red blade raised.

She shut her eyes.

And then—warmth. A pulse like sunlight through a storm.

Zela.

Dia felt it—not as words, but as a presence. A tether. A lifeline. A warm hand brushing her cheek. A voice without sound: I’m here. You’re not alone.

The shadows peeled back. The smoke lost its weight. Her heartbeat slowed.

Dia stirred in the physical world, a quiet sound of distress escaping her lips as her body tensed. But Zela moved in response, even in sleep—her arms tightening, her Force signature enveloping Dia like a blanket, steady and strong.

The red faded. The blade disappeared. The echo of death quieted beneath the rhythm of Zela’s breathing, her heartbeat.

Dia’s breathing calmed. Her fingers relaxed.

The nightmare didn’t vanish. But its grasp lessened.

She drifted again—tethered.

Safe.

Held.

~~

The skies above the forward base remained inky blue, the stars still visible even as the faintest line of silver brushed the eastern horizon. It wasn’t quite dawn, and for a few precious moments longer, the world remained hushed—as if the battlefield itself had paused to breathe.

Inside their tent, wrapped in the layered quiet of predawn, Dia stirred. The warmth surrounding her held her still. She blinked sleep-heavy eyes, her body aching but less than before. Zela's weight atop her was unmistakable. Sometime in the night, they'd shifted again, and now Zela was practically straddling her waist, one leg hooked around Dia's thigh, her arms slung over Dia's shoulders in a loose embrace.

Dia didn’t move.

Pinned beneath Zela, she felt something rare. Comfort. Safety. A lightness she never allowed herself to feel during the waking hours. Zela's presence wrapped around her like a shield, the soft pull of her in the Force like the steady thrum of a heartbeat. That gentle, ever-present connection hummed between them like a lullaby—one she didn’t realize she’d needed until she was cradled in its peace.

She inhaled slowly, feeling the rise and fall of Zela’s chest above hers, the soft press of her lekku where it lay tangled with Dia’s against the pillow. The silken brush of their skin-to-skin contact, coupled with the weight of Zela’s embrace, soothed the last trembling edges of her nightmares. The sensation stirred something deep in Dia—something she had long since buried beneath duty, discipline, and doctrine. Love. Deep, fierce, and terrifying in its strength. She'd felt it growing for years, long before their Force bond ever formed, and when it did, it only confirmed what she had already known in her soul. Zela wasn’t just someone she cared for. She was part of Dia’s very life, as inseparable from her as the rhythm of her own breath.

Loving Zela came as naturally as the Force itself. It wasn't a spark—it was a constant, quiet glow that had always lived in the background of her being. Even before they'd realized they were connected by the Force, Dia had felt tethered to her, her emotions rising and falling in tandem with Zela’s presence. It had never needed to be spoken aloud to be real. It simply was.

And she knew she shouldn't. The Jedi Code forbade attachment. But how could she deny something that had always been there, an immutable truth within her? That had been there before the war, before the pain, before the death?

As if sensing her thoughts, Zela shifted with a sleepy murmur. Her claws flexed lightly, dragging against Dia’s tunic just beneath her shoulder blades. One hand curled against Dia's ribcage, claws dimpling her skin but never breaking it. Dia didn’t flinch—far from it. The gesture made her exhale, soft and steady, grounding her in ways words never could. She knew exactly what that touch meant.

Togruta showed affection and trust through physicality—touch, closeness, pressure. The gentle press of claws was a vulnerable intimacy, a sign of absolute safety. Zela wouldn’t do that unless she felt utterly unguarded. And she did it with Dia. Only Dia.

Zela nuzzled closer, half-asleep still, her head tucked beneath Dia’s jaw now. Her nose brushed along Dia’s neck, and she let out a soft, content sound that made Dia’s heart ache. Her breath was warm and steady, and her lekku flexed and twitched softly with sleepy satisfaction, resting across Dia’s shoulder and curling around the back of her arm.

Dia’s arms lifted, slowly, wrapping around Zela and holding her close. She pressed her face into Zela’s shoulder, her own lekku curling softly around Zela’s back in unconscious mirroring of their closeness. The tender weight of Zela’s presence blanketed her fully, the sensation so complete it quieted the storm that had raged in her chest only hours earlier. For a moment, for this moment, she let go of the war, of the weight of command, of the Jedi Code whispering in the back of her mind.

She held Zela. And she let herself feel loved.

Because in truth, she always had.

The predawn hush lingered as Zela stirred, the first faint hints of light brushing at the edges of the sky beyond the tent.

She blinked slowly, golden-green eyes adjusting to the low light as sensation returned to her in slow waves. The warmth pressed against her chest was the first thing she noticed—the comforting presence of Dia, wrapped beneath her like the softest heartbeat in the galaxy. The slow and steady rise and fall of Dia’s breath grounded her deeper than any meditation ever had. Her lekku shifted lazily, still draped over Dia’s back and arm, instinctively tightening in a soft, looping hold that mirrored the stillness in her heart.

Zela yawned, wide and languid, her fangs flashing briefly in the dim interior. Her muscles stretched with feline grace before she relaxed again, her weight still pinning Dia gently to the cot beneath them. One leg hooked over Dia’s thigh, her hip pressed to hers, and her arms—one tucked under Dia’s neck, the other curled protectively around her waist—held their position like a shield she had no intention of lowering.

She didn’t want to move.

Not yet.

Dia was already awake beneath her.

The Twi’lek's crimson skin was warm beneath Zela’s touch, her lekku shifting with the subtle twitch of half-formed thoughts. Dia didn’t speak, but she didn’t need to. The Force pulsed between them with a familiarity that was bone-deep, soul-deep. It was wordless and whole—an understanding forged not just through battle and grief, but through years of quiet moments like this, where they held the pieces of each other that no one else could.

The feel of Dia’s heartbeat beneath her was a quiet music, one Zela knew intimately. And the gentle thrum of their Force bond, no longer crackling with pain or fear, pulsed like a soft glow in the back of her mind. The edge of grief was still there—how could it not be?—but it had dimmed, like a storm retreating behind a hill. In its place was something fragile but healing.

Zela’s claws flexed with idle thought, tracing along Dia’s side just beneath the edge of her shirt, a gesture of affection and grounding. She felt Dia’s breath hitch, her fingers twitch against Zela’s hip. Even in this fragile stillness, they moved in harmony.

Zela lowered her face to the crook of Dia’s neck, her nose brushing against the skin there. The scent was familiar, uniquely Dia—salt and ozone, leather and warmth. She breathed her in, nuzzling gently, letting her lips part just enough to ghost over the ridge of muscle and scar tissue. Her smile curved instinctively, and she felt Dia’s hand rise to rest against her side, fingers curling softly.

They didn’t need to speak for Zela to know. Dia needed this as much as she did. The safety, the stillness, the truth of being held.

Their lekku had slowly entangled during the night, brushing and curling together with unspoken devotion. Zela didn’t move to untangle them. That closeness, that bond, was sacred. It said more than words ever could.

Zela shifted ever so slightly, adjusting her grip, pulling Dia just a bit closer. Her lekku moved in response, curling tighter across Dia’s side, her white and ochre patterns resting warmly against the deep crimson of Dia’s skin. It wasn’t just affection—it was instinct, need, devotion in the language of her people, and Dia understood it just as deeply.

For a fleeting, sacred moment, the war didn’t exist. There were no missions, no commands, no dead to mourn. Just this: Dia’s body against hers, their hearts aligned, and the quiet promise that whatever waited outside their sanctuary, they’d face it together.

Zela let her eyes slip shut again, her breath mingling with Dia’s. She didn’t need to move. Not yet.

Because holding Dia like this felt like home.

The first light of morning crept softly over the edges of the horizon, washing the inside of the tent with a pale silver glow. The warmth that had cocooned them through the night lingered as Dia and Zela slowly stirred from their quiet sanctuary.

Zela shifted first, stretching like a sun-drenched loth-cat, her muscles only slightly sore from the battles of the days before. A faint yawn parted her lips, sharp fangs flashing briefly in the early light. She didn’t move far—because she didn’t want to. Not while Dia was still beneath her, their bodies tangled together.

Beneath her, Dia stirred, her crimson skin gleaming faintly in the dim light, warmth radiating from where her body pressed into Zela’s. She didn’t want to move, and neither did Zela.

But duty waited beyond the tent flap.

They finally began to untangle themselves with reluctant care, limbs sliding apart, their bond humming quietly in the Force. There were no words between them. They didn’t need any. Each motion was already understood, each glance a conversation in itself.

They moved through the motions of their morning routine with gentle synchronicity, as they always had. Zela ducked into Dia’s kit, rummaging with a familiar ease before tugging free a soft tunic—a dusky red one with frayed edges and small embroidery near the hem. Not hers.

Dia arched a brow as she slid into her leggings, smoothing a hand down the curve of one lekku as it curled forward over her shoulder.

"That’s mine, you know."

Zela grinned shamelessly. "You’ve had half my wardrobe since we were Initiates. I consider this reclamation."

Dia rolled her eyes, but there was no real ire behind it. She threw Zela a spare utility belt, which the Togruta caught and buckled in place with an effortless motion. They moved like a unit—like they had done this a hundred times, and likely would a hundred more.

Then Zela paused, brow furrowing. Her hand moved to her jaw, rubbing along the line of her cheek with a subtle wince. The dull pressure was there again—an ache beneath her gums that spoke of another flare in her fangs. Teething stages never fully stopped, and this one was coming on strong.

Dia didn’t need to look up.

She reached into one of the side pouches on her kit and pulled out a bundle of cloth, wrapped with quiet familiarity.

"Here," she said gently, unwrapping a piece of carefully carved Shilti bark and handing it over without ceremony.

Zela blinked in quiet surprise—though she shouldn’t have been surprised at all. She took it in both hands, her fingers brushing Dia’s for a moment, grounding her. She brought it to her lips, biting down with a sigh of relief as the bark yielded and soothed the ache.

The scent of the bark, earthy and sharp, filled her senses. More than the relief, it was the act that mattered.

"You always know," she murmured.

Dia stepped closer, smoothing a strap on Zela’s chest guard, her fingers lingering just a second longer than they needed to. "Of course I do," she replied softly. "I see you. Even when you don’t say a word."

Zela didn’t speak. She leaned forward instead, pressing her forehead to Dia’s briefly, the tips of their lekku brushing in a tender, instinctive gesture. 

They finished dressing in silence, but it was a silence filled with understanding, with comfort. When they finally stepped out into the soft light of dawn, they did so together—not just as Jedi, but as two souls who had long since ceased to be separate.

Side by side, they moved into the coming day—not alone, and never apart.

The morning air was crisp and still, carrying the faint tang of ash from the smoldering wreckage that dotted the horizon. The camp around them was slowly waking, clone troopers moving with quiet precision, officers already gathered around data holos, and medics sorting through the night’s injuries. Dia and Zela stepped out of their tent into the hush of dawn, their boots sinking slightly into the dew-softened ground.

They didn’t speak at first. There was no need. The bond between them—tempered by war, sealed by trust, and steeped in the Force—was its own kind of language. They walked shoulder to shoulder, their steps aligned, a natural rhythm found only between those who knew each other in every breath and silence.

They didn’t hold hands. Not quite. But every now and then, their fingers would brush—soft, fleeting contact that sent warmth up Dia’s arm and eased the tension behind Zela’s eyes. Once, Zela’s pinky hooked around Dia’s for the length of a breath before gently slipping away again. Dia didn’t say anything, but her lekku twitched faintly, a quiet, private sign of contentment.

The command post loomed ahead, a repurposed prefab structure reinforced with durasteel and surrounded by a modest perimeter of guards and field engineers. The banners of the 42nd Legion fluttered lightly in the breeze, and the hum of power generators vibrated faintly beneath their boots.

As they walked, Dia glanced sidelong at Zela, her heart both heavy and lighter all at once. The grief, the death, the weight of command—it was all still there, coiled deep inside her—but beside Zela, it didn’t press so hard. She could breathe. She could walk forward.

Zela caught the glance and met her gaze with a small smile, quiet and fierce and knowing.

The command post was already abuzz with tension and quiet urgency when Dia and Zela stepped inside. The scent of strong caf clung to the air, mingling with the sharp tang of sweat and ozone. Clone officers clustered in tight groups around glowing holotables, murmuring in low tones as they examined the projected tactical displays. The atmosphere was thick with the weight of loss and the unrelenting demands of another day of war.

Dia moved stiffly, every step a muted echo of the battle that still ached in her ribs and settled heavy on her chest. Still, she straightened her posture, her lekku shifting slightly with the effort to maintain composure. Zela trailed just behind, alert and silent, her eyes sharp as they scanned the flickering tactical overlays and marked objectives.

At the center of the post, Commander Neva stood with several senior clone officers from the 42nd Legion. His armor bore the scuffs of command in the field, but his gaze was crisp and unwavering. As Dia approached, he gestured toward a pulsing red segment on the regional map projected above the main holotable.

"Village Taral. Three klicks east," Neva began, voice clipped with the urgency of a man already juggling too many fronts. "Three recon droids shot down near the perimeter. We believe Separatist saboteurs are hiding among the villagers. Civilian population appears compliant, but informants suggest the presence of sympathizers."

Dia's heart sank, a flicker of unease tightening her jaw. She couldn't help but remember the last settlement—the ash and rubble, the silence in the Force after so many lives were snuffed out at once.

Neva continued, gesturing to a series of dotted paths leading into the settlement. "You’ll link up with Captain Rell and his company. Your mission is to investigate, confirm hostile presence if any, and neutralize threats. We’re trying to avoid collateral damage, but if there are Separatist agents operating there, we can’t risk them slipping away."

Dia nodded slowly. "Understood, sir. When do we move?"

"Thirty minutes. Make ready."

Before Dia could take a step back, Zela spoke, her voice soft but unwavering. "I’m going with her."

Several heads turned. Neva lifted a brow. "Your assignment is with 3rd Armored’s overwatch detail."

Zela didn't flinch. "Reassign it."

There was a pause, brief but charged. Dia’s lips parted to object, to remind Zela this wasn’t protocol—but she caught the look in Zela’s eyes. Fierce. Protective. Steady. The kind of look that didn’t back down, not from a commanding officer and not from the war.

Zela continued, her tone sharpened with quiet resolve. "She’s not going in alone. Not again."

The silence that followed wasn’t surprised. It was understanding—unspoken recognition from every clone in the room who had watched brothers die beside them.

Neva exhaled through his nose and gave a tired nod. "Fine. I’ll have Captain Xarr rotate in on overwatch. You’re attached to Rell’s company. Don’t make me regret this."

"You won’t," Zela said.

Together, the two of them turned and left the tent, their footfalls light but steady. The morning air outside was cool, still holding the remnants of night, and the wind tugged at the flaps of tents and tarps alike. They walked side by side in silence, fingers occasionally brushing—never quite interlacing, but each touch a quiet confirmation that neither was alone.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XXIII

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

The landing pad was a flurry of motion by the time Dia and Zela arrived, the morning sun casting long shadows across the duracrete as LAAT/i gunships warmed their engines. Clone troopers bustled about with practiced efficiency, checking packs, stacking crates, and securing weapon lockers as final preparations were made for departure.

Captain Rell stood near the boarding ramp of the lead gunship, arms crossed behind his back, helmet clipped to his belt. His armor was clean and precise, his posture stiff with the unmistakable bearing of a seasoned and by-the-book officer. He turned as the Padawans approached, giving them a sharp nod.

"Commanders," he said crisply. "We're ready to move out. My men are briefed on the mission parameters. We'll establish a perimeter around the village and proceed to sweep sector by sector. Non-combatants will be secured and questioned. If we locate Separatist sympathizers or saboteurs, we’ll act accordingly."

Dia returned his nod. "We'll coordinate with you once we're on the ground. Let’s keep this clean."

Rell’s expression didn’t shift. "That’s the plan, Commander."

Zela exchanged a glance with Dia before the two of them moved to one of the open gunships. The interior was already partially filled with troopers, standing shoulder to shoulder, holding onto the overhead grips or vertical struts for stability. 

Dia and Zela stepped in, grabbing hold of the support bars as the clones shifted to make room. The familiar vibration of the LAAT/i’s engines hummed beneath their boots, and the subtle shift in gravity announced their ascent. The doors clamped shut behind them, sealing the squad into the armored hold.

Dust swirled in the air, caught in shafts of sunlight streaming through the narrow viewports. The landscape of Kabal stretched beneath them as the gunship climbed, a mix of low forest, farmland, and scattered buildings rapidly giving way to open terrain. The wind howled through the open side doors, carrying the scent of smoke and ozone from distant fires and recent conflict.

Dia tightened her grip on the rail above her, her red skin dappled with shifting shadows. Her eyes scanned the terrain, alert for anything unusual. Zela stood just behind her, her presence a steadying weight through the Force. She didn’t speak, but the way her hand occasionally brushed against Dia’s shoulder or side spoke volumes. A touch meant to ground, to anchor.

The flight was brief but thick with tension. Every clone aboard was silent, waiting for the moment the green light would flash, signaling deployment. Dia kept her focus ahead, her thoughts already moving toward what lay in Taral—another village, another unknown. But this time, she wasn’t alone. Zela was beside her, and that made all the difference.

Whatever waited for them down there, they would face it together.

~

The gunships kicked up a storm of dust and loose soil as they descended onto the outskirts of Taral. The village, a collection of old stone homes and duracrete buildings, nestled between stretches of farmland and uneven terrain, looked peaceful from above—but the presence of Republic gunships and a full company of clone troopers transformed that illusion.

As the LAAT/i's touched down, ramps dropped and clone troopers poured out in disciplined formation. Captain Rell was the first on the ground, barking orders over comms as his officers began organizing their platoons.

"First and second platoons, set up the outer perimeter. Third and fourth, prepare to sweep street by street. Staggered line formation. We don’t leave a single door unopened," Rell commanded with clipped authority, his voice sharp through the command channel.

Dia and Zela dropped from the lead gunship alongside him, cloaks whipping in the wind of the repulsors before the gunships lifted off again. The moment their boots hit the ground, Dia could feel it—the tension, thick and coiled in the air like a held breath. Villagers peeked from shuttered windows and half-closed doors, fear etched on their faces. Children clung to parents, and elders watched with wary eyes as clone troopers moved in formation.

Captain Rell approached a cluster of civilians gathered at the edge of the village square. "Secure them all for questioning. I want every building cleared and every person accounted for," he ordered, gesturing to one of his lieutenants.

Dia stepped forward quickly. "They’re scared, not guilty. We can question them without rounding them up like criminals."

Rell's brow furrowed under his helmet. "With all due respect, Commander, these civilians may be hiding Separatist agents. We can’t take chances."

Zela moved beside Dia, her voice calm but firm. "Taking unnecessary actions will only deepen their fear. Let us speak to them. The Force can guide us better than a wall of blasters."

Rell hesitated, jaw tight. "Your orders, Commander Dia?"

Dia's red skin seemed even darker in the shadows of the rising sun. She drew in a breath, eyes scanning the frightened villagers. "Proceed with the sweep, but no mass detentions. We question with respect. We’re not here to terrorize them."

The captain gave a tight nod and turned to relay the modified orders, though his stiff posture revealed his displeasure. Clones swept forward through the narrow alleys and clustered homes, their movements still wary, their rifles still raised.

Zela leaned closer to Dia, her voice low. "He’s not wrong about the danger. But you were right to push back."

Dia didn’t answer immediately. They walked past a crumbling well where two children watched with wide eyes, too afraid to run. One of them held a cloth doll tightly. Dia gave them a small nod, resisting the weight building in her chest.

"Every time we choose compassion," Dia finally said, "it feels like someone else sees it as weakness. Like there’s always a cost."

Zela touched Dia’s arm, just above the vambrace, a gentle reassurance through both touch and the Force. "We’re Jedi. If we stop acting with compassion, we become something else entirely."

They walked on in silence, the sounds of the sweep echoing around them—doors opening, voices calling out, the stomp of boots. The village of Taral was still standing, but the hearts within it trembled.

As they reached a quiet side street, away from the patrols for a moment, Dia paused. Her lekku twitched with unease. "What are we even winning, Zela? A war that turns us into soldiers instead of peacekeepers?"

Zela's gaze was steady. "Maybe. But if we keep holding onto each other… maybe we don’t lose ourselves in it."

And for that moment, wrapped in quiet resolve and each other's presence, it was enough.

The quiet tension of the village shattered with a thunderous boom.

One of the larger homes near the center of the village exploded outward in a shower of flame, debris, and bone-jarring force. The shockwave thundered through the narrow streets, flattening stalls, toppling fences, and sending villagers and troopers alike sprawling. Screams rang out—raw, terrified—as thick black smoke billowed into the sky, curling through the morning light like the breath of some slumbering beast awakened by war.

Dia hit the dirt hard, a cry escaping her lips as she rolled to shield her face. Splinters of wood and shards of stone rained down, clattering against her armour and scorching her lekku. Her ears rang, muffling the chaos around her. For a heartbeat, the world spun.

She was on her feet in an instant, years of training kicking in through the disorientation. Her lightsaber snapped to life, casting a pale azure glow through the smoke. Her eyes swept the chaos, sharp and frantic, heart pounding in her chest.

"Ambush!" someone screamed through the comms. "Civilians are armed! They're not civilians!"

Figures that had appeared frightened moments before were suddenly armed—blasters pulled from beneath cloaks, grenades tossed from makeshift baskets. A woman in homespun cloth hurled a thermal detonator into the midst of a clone squad. The explosion tore through the street in a spray of flame and shrapnel, sending bodies tumbling like rag dolls.

Captain Rell’s voice cut through the static, cold and clipped. "All units, weapons free! Engage hostiles! Sweep for more traps!"

Dia’s heart twisted. Across the plaza, she saw a clone trooper shielding a young child—before being dropped by a bolt from a rooftop sniper. Her legs moved before she could think, lightsaber flashing in swift, practiced arcs as she advanced, deflecting shots and clearing the way for the nearest clone team.

She had insisted they show compassion.

And now the cost was being paid in blood.

Zela appeared beside her in a blur of red and white. Her lightsaber hummed a vibrant green, her expression grim and focused. She intercepted a bolt headed straight for Dia—then pivoted, moving faster than thought.

A young man—barely more than a boy—stood frozen, blaster half-raised. Zela didn’t hesitate. Her blade cut through him in two clean strikes. The first took his weapon arm. The second stopped his heart.

It was her first kill.

For a split second, time stopped. Zela stared at the boy as he collapsed, steam rising from the cauterized wounds. Her montrals rang with the chaos, but inside, a cold silence settled.

She hadn’t hesitated. Not when Dia was in danger.

But the moment her blade struck, something in her cracked.

She didn’t have time to process it. More blaster fire snapped overhead. Zela surged forward with a shout, forcing herself back into the fray.

"This isn’t your fault!" she barked, voice tight with emotion. "They set the trap. They chose this."

Dia didn’t answer right away. Her hand shot out, slamming a trio of hidden attackers into a wall with the Force. The clone squad behind them surged forward, taking control of the alley.

All around them was chaos. Civilians—real ones—screamed and fled, caught in the storm. Others—the traitors—fought with fanatical ferocity. There was no line between the innocent and the guilty. No warning. No mercy.

The plaza burned. Homes collapsed. Smoke swallowed the sky.

When the last blaster fell silent, the world seemed hollowed out by violence. Fires crackled quietly amid shattered masonry. Blaster scorch marked the walls. The stench of ozone and scorched flesh hung heavy in the air.

Bodies littered the ground. Clone. Separatist. Civilian.

Dia stood amid the ruin, lightsaber still ignited in a trembling hand. Her gaze was locked on a clone helmet lying cracked and bloodied in the dirt.

Zela approached slowly, her steps careful, deliberate. Her own saber dimmed and extinguished, and she reached out without a word, resting her forehead gently against Dia’s. Her montrals brushed Dia’s lekku in quiet reverence.

Their bond surged with shared grief, a whisper of unity amid the devastation.

"I told them not to treat these people like enemies," Dia murmured, her voice barely a breath. "I was wrong. And people died for it."

Zela exhaled slowly. Her hands cupped Dia’s elbows, grounding her. "You weren’t wrong to hope," she said, soft but firm. "But hope has a cost in war. Doesn’t mean we stop hoping. Doesn’t mean we stop trying."

Dia nodded weakly. Her saber finally flickered off. "Then why does it feel like we keep losing... even when we win?"

Zela didn’t answer. She only stood with her, holding her in silence.

Above them, the wind stirred ash through the wreckage.

They were Jedi, trained to be guardians of peace. But in the shadow of war, that truth felt more distant with every battle.

And as they stood in the smoldering ruin of what had once been a village, there was no victory. Only survival.

And the long, uncertain road ahead.

~

The return to base was quiet. The surviving troopers of Captain Rell’s company moved in low murmurs and fatigued steps, their armor smeared with dust, ash, and blood. The LAAT/i gunships thumped rhythmically as they lifted into the skies, carrying the broken remnants of the mission home. Inside the humming cabin, Dia stood, hand gripping the rail above her head as her red skin glistened with sweat and grime, her lekku curled faintly around her shoulders. Zela stood opposite her, unmoving, eyes fixed on the open side hatch where the blurred wreckage of the village slipped away beneath them.

Dia didn’t speak. She didn’t look at the clones. She couldn’t.

Not when she knew that some of the armor sets left behind would never be filled again.

Back at the forward command post, the company filed off the ships with mechanical precision. The medics met them on the landing pad, but there were fewer now than there had been days ago. Dia walked toward the command post beside Zela, but every step felt heavier than the last. Captain Rell said little as he broke off, heading toward the clone field medics with a wounded trooper leaning on him.

Inside the command tent, Marshall Commander Neva stood at the center of a holotable surrounded by officers, the faint glow of tactical maps casting blue light across his face. He turned the moment the Padawans entered, his violet gaze sharp. The other officers fell silent as he gestured them away. "Debrief. Now."

Dia straightened her back as best she could. Her sides still ached, her limbs sore from the fighting, but she gave the report: the sweep, the ambush, the losses. Her voice barely faltered until she reached the moment when the civilians had turned.

Neva didn’t interrupt. He didn’t need to. His silence said enough.

Before he could respond, however, the central comms console lit up. An officer turned and pressed the activation key.

"This is Master Emmari Vinives and Master Runi Nima," came the crisp voice of Dia’s master. Emmari’s holographic figure shimmered into view beside Runi’s, the two Jedi Masters standing side by side.

Zela stiffened.

"Padawan Dia, Padawan Zela," Emmari began, nodding once. Her tone held the practiced warmth of a Jedi diplomat, but there was something colder under it. "The Council has requested a check-in. It is… unusual, for Padawans to be deployed together so often without their Masters."

"Especially ones with a bond," Runi added, arms folded. Her sharp, analytical eyes focused on the two younger Jedi. "You both understand how attachments can form under strain. Emotional compromise is a concern."

Dia's hands clenched at her sides. She kept her expression neutral, but inside, she recoiled.

"Master Vos’s assurances have held weight," Emmari continued. "But the Council wishes to review your progress, the influence of your bond, and ensure your judgment remains… unclouded."

Zela’s jaw tightened. "Our judgment was what saved that village from being entirely wiped out."

Runi didn’t flinch. "That is not in question. The question is whether your personal connection is leading you toward unnecessary risk."

Dia swallowed, trying to find her voice. "We follow the Code. We serve the Force. That hasn’t changed."

But even as she said it, she wondered if it were true. The lines between serving and surviving, between duty and emotion, blurred more every day.

"Very well," Emmari said, clearly sensing the tension. "You will both submit full reports. And meditate on this. The Council will continue to monitor the situation."

The call ended.

The silence in the command tent was heavier than before. Neva gave them a nod, dismissing them with no further words.

Outside, the air was cool, the stars still scattered across the edge of the night sky. Dia said nothing as she led Zela back toward her tent. When they arrived, she collapsed at the edge of the cot, legs pulled to her chest, head resting against her arms.

Zela didn’t sit immediately. She stood in the doorway for a moment, framed by the dim glow of the rising dawn. Her montrals flicked, barely perceptible, her eyes locked on Dia with a quiet, unwavering focus.

Then, with a breath so soft it could have been wind, she stepped inside, knelt beside the cot, and reached out with her arms. Gently, reverently, she wrapped them around Dia from behind, her hands resting over Dia’s hands, her forehead leaning against the curve of Dia’s shoulder.

Their bond pulsed quietly in the Force—warmth, sorrow, love, understanding—all flowing between them with the quiet intimacy of shared grief.

Zela’s voice was low, almost a whisper, breath brushing against Dia’s skin. "If I had to leave the Order to stay with you… would you come with me?"

Dia didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned back into Zela’s embrace, her red cheek resting against the soft fabric of Zela’s tunic, the warmth of her presence speaking louder than words. Her lekku shifted subtly, curling toward Zela’s arms as if to anchor herself there.

Zela didn’t press. She didn’t need to. The way Dia nestled into her, the way their bond pulsed with silent understanding—it was an answer all its own.

Not yet. But close.

~~

The Temple training halls echoed with the hum and clash of sparring sabers. Padawans moved in tightly choreographed duels, Masters watched from the periphery with arms folded and expressions unreadable. In one of the smaller rings near the outer edge, Dia and Zela faced off.

Their sabers ignited in near-perfect unison—Dia's azure blade flaring with a clean, brilliant light that bathed her crimson skin in a soft glow, and Zela's emerald green blade humming vibrantly, reflecting in her focused, storm-colored eyes.

They moved with a rhythm that only years of sparring together could build. Each strike, each step, was a conversation of motion. Zela surged forward with a forceful barrage of strikes, her movements powerful, confident—but Dia was fluid, precise, reading the angles and timing like choreography. Her agility let her twist and dodge, slipping past Zela’s reach again and again. Their blades clashed with musical intensity, their footwork mirroring each other like dancers in a familiar pattern.

But momentum slowly shifted. Dia began to anticipate Zela’s patterns, slipping into that calm, instinctual focus only Zela could draw out of her. A feint to the left, a subtle sidestep, a spin—then a flick of her wrist and a disarming twist.

Zela’s saber clattered to the mat with a loud hiss. Dia lowered her blade immediately, the bright hum dying into silence. Her chest rose and fell as she caught her breath, a small, triumphant but compassionate smile on her lips.

"Good match," she offered, holding out a hand.

But Zela didn’t take it. Her montrals tilted, her lekku twitching, brows furrowed.

She turned sharply on her heel and strode out of the ring.

Dia hesitated, glancing toward the instructors. None of them moved to stop her. With a soft sigh, Dia stepped down and followed.

She found Zela in one of the quieter alcoves of the Temple—a place tucked behind a meditation chamber, shaded by flowering vines that curled down from the ceiling.

Zela stood facing the wall, arms crossed, her back rigid.

"You weren’t upset about losing," Dia said quietly, standing just a step behind her.

"No."

Zela's voice was low, thick with emotion. "It’s not that. It's me. Every time we spar, I get... overwhelmed. Not by anger. Not the Dark Side. Just—"

She turned, her eyes locking with Dia's.

"You make me feel everything more clearly. When I fight with you, I don’t think about the Forms. I just move. I just am ."

Dia blinked, taken aback by the confession. Her heart fluttered.

"Is that so wrong?"

"It shouldn’t be. But the Code says this kind of closeness is dangerous. That emotions cloud judgment. But nothing else has ever made me feel this focused. This alive."

They stood in silence. The air between them thick with unsaid things.

Zela stepped closer, her jaw tense, her breathing uneven, her eyes flicking briefly to Dia’s lekku, the rhythmic motion of them grounding her more than any mantra ever had.

"It’s too much sometimes," she whispered, her voice raw. "When I can't sort it out, I get... tense. You help. Just being near you helps."

Dia smiled, though her heart ached at the vulnerability in Zela’s voice. "You know I'm here. Always. I’ve always been."

Zela didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. She simply leaned in, her forehead brushing against Dia’s for the briefest moment before resting her head on Dia’s shoulder. Then, slowly, deliberately, with that familiar twitch of her montrals that always came before, she bit gently into the slope where Dia’s neck met her shoulder.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t fierce. It was ritual—familiar and grounding. Her fangs pressed into skin already marked with faint bite scars, shallow but numerous, clustered like a quiet confession of every moment she’d ever needed Dia to help her breathe again.

Dia exhaled shakily, her arms rising to wrap around Zela’s back, pulling her in without hesitation. Her crimson skin flushed deeper, not just from the sting of pressure or the intimacy of the moment, but from the quiet relief that Zela still chose her, still trusted her this much. Her lekku curled forward instinctively, brushing against Zela’s sides and entwining ever so slightly with Zela’s, an unspoken language only the two of them could truly understand.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Because it did help.

Zela calmed. Dia steadied.

And in that sacred silence where the Temple’s codes faded into irrelevance, they allowed themselves this truth:

They were stronger together—not despite their bond, but because of it.

~

The sun dipped low over the spires of the Jedi Temple, casting long golden shadows through the training halls and quiet corridors. Lessons had ended for the day, and the soft hum of distant sabers was finally replaced by the gentle hush of temple life settling into evening.

Dia gently tugged Zela by the hand, her grip firm but tender as she led her through the curving hallways toward the residential wing. Her crimson skin was bathed in the warm light of dusk, and her lekku twitched with a mix of quiet anticipation and affection. She tried to maintain a composed expression, but her eagerness bled through in the way her thumb brushed gently along Zela’s knuckles.

Zela followed wordlessly, still quiet from earlier. Her montrals twitched with residual tension, and her posture remained a little slouched, the weight of her thoughts clinging to her like a second cloak. Dia felt it in the way she moved—in the heavy silence that wrapped around her.

When they reached Dia’s quarters, the familiar door swished open to reveal the modest but personalized space. A soft blanket lay folded over the edge of her cot, a small shelf filled with carefully ordered datapads, and pinned to the wall just above her desk, a hand-drawn sketch of the two of them mid-duel—Zela’s gift, given long ago, cherished ever since.

Dia guided Zela to the couch beneath the wide viewport, her hand settling gently on her shoulder before coaxing her down. "Sit. Breathe for a moment."

Zela hesitated, then obeyed, her eyes drifting toward the stars beginning to glimmer beyond the glass. Dia, meanwhile, was already in motion—her steps quiet, bare feet padding over the cool floor as she moved into the kitchenette.

She opened a worn tin, the scent of Shili bark and Kashyyyk blossom wafting out. She didn’t have to ask. She’d known Zela’s favorite tea since they were barely more than initiates. It had taken months of trial and error to replicate the blend just right. She set the kettle on, letting the soft hum of heat rise as the room filled with a soothing, earthy sweetness.

From the couch, Zela watched her with eyes less burdened, her expression softening. There was a comfort in this—Dia’s quiet attentiveness, her way of understanding without asking. The way she always knew what Zela needed before Zela could name it herself.

When the kettle whistled, Dia poured the tea into two ceramic cups, worn and a little chipped from years of use. She brought them over, handing one to Zela with a small smile before settling beside her, tugging a thick, woven blanket around both of their shoulders.

With a small flick, she activated the holoscreen. Colors burst to life, illuminating the dim room with the opening sequence of Zela’s favorite childhood series—a wildly animated show full of swoop races, chaotic aliens, and improbable explosions. A sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh slipped from Zela’s throat.

Dia nudged her gently. "I know you still love it. Don’t pretend you’re above it now."

"Never said I was," Zela murmured, taking a slow sip of tea. Her fangs caught the rim of the cup, and her clawed fingers curled into the blanket, pulling it closer.

Dia smiled and leaned her head lightly against Zela’s montral. The warmth of her skin, the press of her presence, was grounding. Their shoulders touched, their legs tucked against each other, and in the low light, the rest of the Temple faded into background noise.

They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to.

Zela breathed easier with each passing minute. Dia felt it in the way her friend leaned into her without hesitation, in the quiet shift of her weight, in the soft exhale against her neck.

Dia had always known how to care for her. Not just the way one cares for a friend, but in the way someone instinctively looks after a part of themselves.

They weren’t Jedi here. They weren’t Padawans, or apprentices, or guardians of peace.

They were just Dia and Zela.

And in this quiet corner of the galaxy, wrapped in blankets and starlight, that was all they needed to be.

~~

The swirling tunnel of hyperspace filled the cockpit windows of the Rang'verde with shifting blues and streaks of white, an endless whirl that pulsed with a quiet, hypnotic rhythm. Kia lounged in the pilot’s chair, her body reclined with the casual grace of someone completely at home among metal and stars. Her boots were propped on the edge of the console, claws tapping an idle beat against the durasteel floor, a rhythmic drumming that matched the pulse of her thoughts more than the hum of the ship.

She was down to her undersuit, the armored plates of her usual gear stowed neatly in the locker just outside the cockpit. The upper half of the suit hung open and tied around her waist, revealing the sleek black fur of her upper body, marred only by old scars and burn marks that traced brutal stories across her collarbones and shoulders. The ghost of the Death Watch sigil lingered faintly on her shoulder, the once-bold symbol now faded, worn down by time and her own attempts to erase it. But it was still there. A reminder. A mark she could never quite leave behind.

The cockpit was warm, the air thick with the scent of metal, oil, and the faint musk of her own presence. Rang'verde —Ash Warrior—was alive with the subtle purr of its systems. The ship had earned its name and its reputation. She'd ripped out the stock weapons and replaced them with custom refitted heavy laser cannons in the nose, twin missile pods locked beneath reinforced panels, and countermeasure systems salvaged from a burned-out patrol ship. Sleek and narrow, it was fast, deceptively nimble, and built to take a hit and hit back harder. It was everything Kia had needed since leaving Death Watch behind—independent, dangerous, and unrelenting.

The rest of the ship was silent save for the occasional hiss of cycling vents. Her sleeping berth, compact and dimly lit, held traces of the person she had once been and the one she was now—an old Death Watch helmet sat on the wall like a warning, beside a cracked vibroblade hilt she had taken from her first solo target. A small carved idol of a hunting beast from a forgotten moon hung on a length of worn leather, swaying gently with the motion of the ship. Her life laid out in fragments and relics, memories and milestones she refused to let go of.

The bounty she was after this time wasn’t particularly flashy—an arms dealer with too much confidence and too little subtlety, who had pissed off the wrong buyer and skipped town before the bodies had even hit the ground. The credits were decent, enough to keep her flying and stocked. But the truth was, she would’ve taken the job for half the price. There was pride in the hunt. And she needed the reminder that she could still track, still take down someone clever and fast. She needed to know she hadn’t softened.

Ever since fleeing the ashes of Death Watch, things had been… hard. Scraping by, stealing parts, bouncing between jobs that barely paid enough for fuel. But she'd survived, built a name for herself. Not a pretty one, not a clean one, but it was hers. She was respected. Or feared. Sometimes both. And she’d made the Rang'verde her home.

A soft ping blinked to life on the console. Still hours out from Kabal. The dealer had passed through there months ago, and Kia had pieced together whispers and shadowed rumors, old supply runs, and encrypted cargo manifests. Kabal was the strongest lead she had. She wasn’t sure if he was still there—but if he wasn’t, someone on that dusty world would know where he went.

She rolled her shoulders, stretching with a long exhale. Her joints popped as she shifted, fangs flashing briefly as she yawned and then rubbed at her jaw with a wince—another pressure spike from the old break in her jawbone. Another gift from her Death Watch days. She drummed her claws again and then leaned back, arms folding behind her head.

Outside, the stars streaked endlessly across the black. Hyperspace had its own kind of silence, and Kia let it wash over her. This was the calm before the strike—the breath before the hunt. She would find her target.

The soft hum of hyperspace reverberated through the Rang'verde , a lullaby of white-noise vibration against the hull. Kia slumped in the pilot’s chair, arms folded across her chest, head tilted back against the headrest. Her breathing was slow, even, the kind of rhythm that only came from long hours alone. Her furred ears gave a twitch, and her tail shifted slightly across the floor. Her body loosened with the surrender of fatigue, and then she drifted into sleep.

Dreams came quickly, wrapped in memory and shadow.

At first, it was the barracks.

Cool stone walls, lit by flickering orange lamps. The clink of beskar against beskar echoed like a lullaby. The muffled laughter of brothers and sisters in arms filled the halls. Her squad—young, loud, daring. They had been her family, the only one she had ever truly known. The Nite Owls had treated her like a sister. Bo-Katan had given her guidance when no one else had, Ursa Wren had trained her with a quiet pride, and the others had become everything she had.

Then the laughter curdled into raised voices. The barracks no longer felt like home. They felt like a cage of ideology and blood.

"We are the blade that cuts the weak away!" "They were civilians. Children!" "Collateral. Mandalore will only rise through strength."

Her gauntlets trembled as she watched the confrontation unfold again. The same fight. The same turning point. The same awful silence after. The dream warped with the heaviness of guilt, scenes flickering in distorted echoes.

Bo-Katan’s face flashed through the dream—stern, furious, betrayed. Her armor gleamed under firelight, but her voice cut deeper than any blade.

"You dishonor the name of your family. You shame everything we trained you to be."

Ursa Wren stood just behind her, arms folded, silent. Her expression unreadable. It was the silence that had hurt the most. Kia had wanted one of them to stop it. To reach out. To understand.

But nothing came. No protest. No comfort. No arms opened to pull her back.

On the ramp of her ship, that storm-lit night forever etched into her soul, Kia removed her helmet. Rain soaked into the short fur lining her exposed face, matting it down against skin and tracing lines through the dirt and soot from the day's flight. Each droplet mingled with the silent tears she refused to name, carried away by the storm as if trying to wash her clean of everything she was leaving behind. Her breath came in short, ragged huffs, pain and fury and mourning coiled tight in her chest.

Her voice cracked when she spoke, soft but firm, every word wrapped in grief and defiance.

"Then I’ll be no one. If keeping my soul means losing my name, then so be it. Kia Naasade."

Nobody.

She dropped the sigil of her clan—a small metal crest—onto the ramp. It clattered and spun before settling near the edge, gleaming faintly in the rain. Bo-Katan didn’t stop her. None of them did. The crest remained there, a small piece of metal weighted with memory and loss, unmoved by the wind, just like Kia—still, defiant, resolute. Her shoulders rose and fell with a final, stuttering breath, and then she turned into the ship.

She remembered the pit in her stomach as she turned away, and how she didn’t cry until the doors had sealed behind her. Her knees had nearly buckled under the weight of what she was leaving.

The dream warped again.

She saw herself flying alone for the first time, the Rang'verde still unfamiliar under her boots. She remembered tightening her grip on the controls like they might anchor her to the life she'd chosen. The first bounty puck she accepted lit up like a cruel star. The credits were small, the danger great, but she needed the fuel, the food, the direction. The scars came quickly. So did the silence.

Bo-Katan's last words echoed again.

"You are not one of us."

But her eyes—her eyes in that final moment had been filled with something else. Regret. Kia had memorized that flicker. Let it become both scar and fuel. It lived with her like a shadow.

The hum of hyperspace remained steady, a soothing background to the quiet interior of the Rang'verde . But inside the cockpit, the serenity was shattered by a sharp, shuddering gasp.

Kia bolted upright in the pilot’s seat, her blaster already clenched in her hand before her eyes fully adjusted to the soft glow of the control panels. Her breathing came in ragged, shallow bursts. Her claws had fully extended without her noticing, digging faint scratches into the padding of the seat’s arms. Every muscle in her body trembled with residual adrenaline, the fine fur on her arms bristling with tension.

Sweat clung to the short fur lining her brow, tracing hot, itching paths down her temple and neck. Her heart thundered in her chest, loud enough she thought it might drown out the steady thrum of the engines.

For several long seconds, Kia remained still, locked in place by memory. Her wide, wild eyes weren’t seeing the streaking stars of hyperspace—they saw rain falling through firelight, the flash of lightning illuminating the ship’s ramp, Bo-Katan’s furious expression, and the echo of her own voice as she cast aside her name.

Her hand twitched around the grip of the blaster before she finally, with visible effort, willed her muscles to ease. The weapon slid back into its holster, her fingers brushing the cool metal with lingering hesitation. Her other hand came up to grip her shoulder, then she folded both arms tightly around herself, curling inward like a flame shielding itself from the wind.

She whispered a single word in Mando'a, a sound so fragile it barely registered even in the silence. A name. A curse. A plea. It lingered in the stale air of the cockpit, reverberating in her bones like a memory she couldn’t shake.

Slowly, she reached down beside the seat, opening a small maintenance hatch nearly hidden in the wall. From it, she retrieved a soft-wrapped bundle of cloth. She hesitated a moment before pulling it into her lap, her fingers trembling as she unwrapped the fabric with reverence, as though touching the past might make it bleed anew.

Inside were two items: a metal crest, its once-brilliant finish dulled with time, and a tattered cloth patch bearing the Nite Owl symbol. The patch’s edges were frayed, the ink faded in places, yet still distinct—a ghost of the allegiance that had once defined her.

She stared at them in silence, her throat tightening with every breath. The crest had been meant for the ground. She had hurled it in rage, rejection, and pain—but it had landed just inside the ship. It had stayed, nestled in a corner, forgotten by everything but her guilt. Some part of her hadn’t been ready. Hadn’t been willing to sever the final thread.

Her thumb ran slowly over the crest’s edge, the cool metal biting into her skin. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, but she didn’t blink. She remembered Bo-Katan’s voice, sharp with fury, spitting accusations like shrapnel. Dishonour. Betrayal. Shame. And then came the worst wound: the silence. No one had reached out. No one had told her she was more than what they had made her.

The ache in her chest bloomed anew, hot and suffocating. These were her only relics—of the family that bore her name and the family that raised her in steel and fire. And both had let her go.

She squeezed her eyes shut, jaw clenched so tightly her teeth ached.

"Still Naasade," she whispered, the word like broken glass against her throat.

Still nobody. Still unclaimed. Still the warrior left behind.

She held the items to her chest for a moment, her claws trembling against the cloth. Then, as though it hurt to part from them, she slowly folded them back into their bundle and returned them to the hatch, sealing it as if trying to trap the grief inside.

But it clung to her.

As she leaned back in her chair, her body sagged with the weight of everything she carried. Her hands lay open and flat on her thighs, trying not to curl in on themselves, trying to stay steady.

There was no one to witness this pain. No one to challenge it. No one to soothe the deep, echoing wound that had never healed.

And for the first time in a long time, Kia let herself feel it completely.

The profound absence.

The grief for the life she had been forged for and then rejected.

The ache for voices and arms that would never return.

Outside, the stars blurred in streaks of light. But in the cockpit of the Rang'verde , Kia sat motionless, her heart echoing with the sound of old names—and the hollow truth that she had always been alone.

~

The navigation computer chimed softly, a calm signal that the end of hyperspace was fast approaching. Outside the cockpit, the swirling blur of starlight began to thin, pulling back into points of light like distant fires waiting beyond the darkness. The transition was nearly upon her.

Kia rose from the pilot's chair in silence, her movements fluid, deliberate. She rolled her shoulders, the tightness of memory and grief not quite shaken, but pushed aside, stored in the locked compartments of her mind where such wounds could linger without bleeding into the moment.

Piece by piece, she began the ritual of donning her armour.

Each segment of Beskar was lifted with care, cradled in her clawed hands before being attached with quiet reverence. The chestplate—scored from blaster fire and etched with thin hairline marks from vibroblades—settled against her torso with a solid click. She adjusted the straps beneath it with practiced ease, securing the underlayer that hugged her fur-covered frame. Her claws scraped softly against the matte finish of the armour, a sound she had grown up with, one that always seemed to silence the noise in her mind.

She paused with the right shoulder piece in hand, thumb brushing over a faint scuff, and then set it into place, repeating the process on the left. The bracers followed, sliding into alignment with the same comforting resistance they always gave. Her gauntlets, modified with tracking scanners and pulse sensors, wrapped tightly over her forearms. Her fingers flexed within them as if greeting an old friend.

Kia bent down, locking in the greaves with a sharp hiss as the seals engaged. Her pawed feet flexed instinctively within the reinforced boots, testing the give of the plates, claws shifting inside with a sense of habitual tension. She gave a small twitch of her toes and the boots responded like old friends—comfortable, balanced, and deadly. She ran a claw lightly along the outer ridge, checking for cracks or imperfections, not out of vanity but as a matter of instinctive preparation.

The final step was her tail—long, furred, expressive—guided carefully into the armoured sleeve that protected its length without hindering movement. She felt the magnetic clasp settle in at the base, the balance shift just slightly as her body reacquainted itself with the full weight of her gear. The tail-sleeve was something she'd designed herself—durable but flexible, a blend of protection and movement that allowed her to fight the way she needed to.

And then, the helmet.

She stood for a long moment, helmet in hand, staring into the T-shaped visor as if it might look back. The shape of it—familiar, defiant, proud. A reflection of everything she had been. Everything she had lost. Everything she still fought to be.

Her claws tightened around the rim, the familiar ridges fitting against her palm.

With one smooth motion, she brought it up and over her head, letting it settle into place. A soft hiss marked the seal engaging as the helmet's structure adjusted to her features, the metal wrapping over her muzzle and locking in with a quiet whirr. The internal padding compressed just right, secure but not restrictive. Her HUD flickered to life across her vision, and the familiar data streams scrolled into place—biometric scans, navigation data, armament readouts.

She exhaled, steady and slow, her breath filtering through the internal systems. The air smelled faintly of oil, plasma residue, and old leather—her scent, her ship's scent.

With her armour fully donned, her weapons checked and secured, she stepped back into the cockpit. Her boots thudded softly against the floor as she resumed her seat. Clawed fingers wrapped around the flight yoke, her movements calm, her posture set. Her ears twitched slightly at the subtle shifts in engine pitch, listening to the ship like it was breathing beside her.

Whatever waited beyond hyperspace, she was ready. Ready to hunt. Ready to face whatever ghosts and enemies lurked ahead.

The Rang'verde hummed around her, systems primed, weapons armed, her breath steady in the quiet of the sealed helmet.

She was the Ash Warrior.

And her hunt was not yet done.

The moment hyperspace peeled away, replaced by the cold vastness of realspace, Kia's eyes widened behind her helmet. Before her, the planet Kabal hung in the dark like a wounded animal, wreathed in a halo of destruction. Surrounding it, the remnants of a brutal battle drifted in silent testimony. Twisted metal and the skeletal husks of Republic and Separatist ships floated in aimless orbit, casting slow, ghostly shadows against the stars. Fires still burned in the hulls of some larger wrecks, scattering dim orange light like distant warnings. A full Republic fleet now dominated the orbital space, Venator-class Star Destroyers maneuvering in measured patrols, flanked by squadrons of ARC-170s and V-19 Torrents weaving cautious paths between the debris fields.

The Rang'verde 's sensors flared with proximity alerts and threat pings, warning Kia of multiple weapons lock-ons before the comms crackled to life.

"Unidentified vessel, identify yourself," came the crisp, clipped voice of a Republic naval officer. "You have entered restricted orbital space. Power down weapons and respond immediately."

Kia’s claws flexed over the comm toggle, her voice calm, even if her pulse had started to spike beneath her chestplate. Her thumb hovered briefly before she toggled the comms.

"This is Rang'verde , bounty designation G-7-3-C-2. I’m Kia Naasade, registered with the Bounty Hunters Guild. Transmitting authorization code now." She flicked the switch to send the encrypted packet, watching it tick across her HUD. "I’m tracking a bounty, confirmed movements traced to Kabal. I’m not here to interfere—just trying to finish a job."

A tense silence followed. Only the low hum of her ship’s engines filled the gap. Outside, drifting bulkheads and shattered fighters slid past the viewport like tombstones. Her tail flicked behind her in agitation as she waited.

"Rang'verde, this system is under Republic military lockdown," the voice responded finally, this time with more edge. "No civilian vessels are authorized to land during active operations. You are instructed to leave the system or await clearance at designated safe zones."

Kia sighed, sitting back slightly in her pilot’s seat, irritation clawing up her spine. Her fingers drummed lightly on the console.

"With all due respect, Commander, I’ve danced around enough battles not to get caught in the crossfire. I’ve worked with Commander Taal before—she knows I don’t make trouble. I stay out of the way, get the job done, and leave quietly. This bounty’s not going to wait for your red tape to clear. If I lose the trail, the Guild loses a high-value target—and I lose months of work."

The silence this time was longer. She could almost hear the officer debating, checking with someone above their pay grade. She leaned forward, eyes scanning the distant glint of Kabal’s upper atmosphere, the pulsing glow of orbital traffic far below.

Finally, the comms hissed back to life. "Rang'verde, your credentials check out. Proceed to Republic Forward Operating Base Delta. Coordinates transmitted now. You are to report to the local commanding officer upon landing. Any deviation from your approach will result in immediate interception. All weapons are to remain safetied. Confirm."

Kia allowed herself a crooked smile behind her visor. "Confirmed. Weapons safetied. On approach to Forward Operating Base Delta. Rang'verde out."

As her ship dipped toward the swirling clouds below, the burning scars of battle flickering in the skies over Kabal, Kia settled her hands on the flight controls. The war zone she was descending into wasn’t part of her mission.

But she had a job to do.

And nothing—not even a war—was going to stop her from finishing the hunt.

The clouds split open as the Rang'verde broke through Kabal's atmosphere, the hull shuddering with the friction of reentry. The violet skies were choked with smoke and ash, the sun only a dim orange smear behind the veil of war. Below, the world burned.

Kia guided her ship with ease, one hand on the throttle, the other adjusting stabilizers. Through her cockpit viewport, the surface of Kabal sprawled out like a scarred battlefield. Forests once dense and vibrant now flickered with slow-burning flame, thick smoke coiling upward like serpents. Wide swathes of countryside had been blasted into pockmarked craters, the jagged wounds in the earth still smoldering from orbital bombardment and artillery strikes. What trees hadn’t been turned to ash had been flattened into splinters beneath the treads of tanks and walkers.

Acclamator-class assault ships loomed in the skies around her, some still descending through low cloud cover, others hovering like monoliths above vast staging grounds. The massive hulls cast long shadows over the war-torn plains, their hangar bays yawning open as gunships and walkers deployed in carefully timed waves. Far below, lines of clone troopers moved in precise formations across muddy fields, distant enough to look like insects but unmistakable in purpose. Squadrons of LAAT/i gunships buzzed through the air like angry hornets, crisscrossing her flight path as they banked toward distant engagements.

Smoke rose from a dozen different places across the horizon. Some came from small towns reduced to rubble. Others from shattered forests or burning wrecks of crashed ships. The planet bore the full weight of war now, and Kabal bled for it.

As she drew closer to her destination, the forward base finally came into view—a hardened encampment nestled within a natural basin, its perimeter bristling with makeshift fortifications and jagged repulsor-fenced barricades. The scars of previous bombardments marred the outer edge of the camp, shallow craters and burnt-out husks of walkers marking where previous assaults had tried—and failed—to break through.

Tents and durasteel prefabs were scattered in a seemingly chaotic but battle-tested layout, camouflage netting strung between prefabricated towers and automatic turrets that slowly tracked the sky. Clones moved with determined urgency between assignments, armor scuffed, helmets under their arms, eyes sunken from days of combat. Smoke rose from a maintenance area where technicians swarmed a battered AT-TE with broken legs, their grease-smeared armor nearly indistinguishable from the soot-streaked metal.

Landing pads dotted one side of the base, the majority occupied by LAAT gunships in various states of readiness. Some were prepped for immediate deployment, others covered in carbon scoring from recent insertions. Smaller transports huddled near hangar tents, their hulls patched with hastily welded plates.

Kia guided the Rang'verde down toward a small, peripheral landing zone cleared specifically for her arrival. It sat slightly removed from the clustered pads, quieter and less trafficked—likely intended for unconventional personnel like herself. She angled the descent carefully, keeping an eye on the dozens of clone troopers nearby. Her retros fired with a subdued roar, the ship groaning as the inertial dampeners absorbed the final touch of gravity.

Ash and dust surged around the ship in thick clouds, painting the air in swirling gray. The Rang'verde 's struts extended with a hiss and settled into place. As the wind shifted, the sky overhead flashed faint orange and red from distant artillery flares, the smoke in the atmosphere catching the light like dying embers.

Kia cut the engines, silence returning to the cockpit aside from the muted thump of distant shelling and the faint whine of shield generators somewhere nearby. It all washed over her like a familiar, bitter perfume—the smell of a world at war.

She remained in the pilot’s seat for a moment longer, one gloved paw resting lightly on the controls. The ship around her pulsed with residual heat, her breath quiet in her helmet.

The hunt had brought her to Kabal.

But stepping out of that ship… she knew she wasn’t just a hunter anymore.

She was walking into someone else’s war.

The air was thick with smoke and the acrid tang of ozone, the thrum of engines and heavy bootfalls ever-present in the background. Kia slowly stepped down the boarding ramp of the Rang'verde , her armour catching the orange haze of the war-torn sky. Her helmet remained clipped to her belt, ears flicking as the noises of the forward base washed over her. Droids buzzed between crates and refueling ports, mechanics shouted over the roar of engines and plasma welders, the whole place alive with the constant churn of a military front.

She paused at the bottom of the ramp, claws drumming lazily against the hull plating as she leaned against one of her landing legs, letting her posture settle into casual confidence. Her golden eyes swept the landing zone, catching every detail, every twitch of movement, until—

Voices.

Familiar ones.

Her ears perked instinctively. She tilted her head slightly, a grin already tugging at the corners of her muzzle. That voice, dry and sharp-edged with sarcasm. The other, smooth and warm like honey over steel. She didn’t even have to look to know who they belonged to.

Zela.

Dia.

She rolled her shoulders, trying to play it cool as her heart leapt in her chest. Her claws twitched against the metal and her tail gave one betraying wag before she managed to still it. She leaned more dramatically against the landing leg, posing like she hadn't just scrambled to straighten her undersuit a minute ago in a sudden rush of nerves.

She hadn’t known they were here. Hadn’t even dared to hope.

They emerged from a row of tents and supply crates, and for a second all Kia could do was stare. They both looked different—older, war-worn. Dust and carbon streaked their armour, and their strides bore the heaviness of recent battle. But it was their eyes that told the story. The weight. The fire. The survival.

Zela spotted her first.

The Togruta’s face lit up, her emerald eyes gleaming as she broke into a run, lekku bouncing with each step. "Kia!"

Kia had just enough time to drop the pose before Zela slammed into her, arms wrapping tight around her waist. The Mandalorian let out a breathless laugh, deep and full of joy, arms encircling Zela without hesitation as her tail betrayed her with an excited wag.

"Missed me that much, huh?" she teased, though her voice wavered at the edges.

"Shut up," Zela murmured into her shoulder, gripping her even tighter.

Dia was right behind, stepping into the embrace, and Kia opened her arms further, pulling her in until they were a tangle of armour, emotion, and quiet relief. They stood there like that, three young women clinging to each other in the heart of a warzone, their world reduced to the beating of three hearts and the silence between.

Kia felt Dia's gauntlet press gently against her own and looked down briefly. They were still wearing the gifts she had given them. Her heart tightened, warmth blooming in her chest.

"Stars, you two look like hell," she said finally, pulling back just enough to take them in. Her gaze swept over each scrape and dent in their armour with a silent, familiar worry.

Dia chuckled softly, her voice tired but genuine. "You should see the other guys."

Zela rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. "Took you long enough to get here."

Kia grinned again, a little too wide, trying to keep her emotions from bubbling over. "What can I say? Fashionably late. But hey, looks like I showed up just in time."

She didn’t say how the sight of them soothed something raw in her chest. How the sound of their voices had steadied her in a way she hadn’t realized she still needed. Her tail betrayed her again, wagging behind her despite all attempts at control.

Despite the smoke, the dust, the ash in her fur and the ghosts of old nightmares still clinging to her mind—this moment made it worth it.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XXIV

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

The sun was still low in the sky, casting long golden rays through the smoke and haze that lingered after weeks of fighting. The mountain range loomed ahead, its rocky slopes dotted with sparse trees and the occasional plume of smoke rising from skirmishes and targeted bombardments. Republic scouts had confirmed a fortified Separatist position nestled deep within the winding cliffs—a holdout threatening to flank the main offensive. It had to be taken.

Dia adjusted the straps of her kit as she stepped into formation with the advance detachment. Zela walked beside her, one hand resting casually on the hilt of her lightsaber. The Togruta's expression was composed, but her presence in the Force was like a steady pulse, calm and sure. They moved like mirrored halves of the same being, steps unconsciously aligned, movements tuned to each other. The bond between them hummed softly, a steady thrum of comfort and awareness—anchoring and familiar.

On Dia's other side, Kia fell into step without a word. She carried herself with that familiar Mandalorian confidence—all swagger and grin, her armor freshly polished. Yet beneath the cool exterior, her tail gave her away, flicking with casual, happy sways. The moment she joined them, the tension in Dia's shoulders lessened, her breath easing like she hadn’t even realized she was holding it.

"Mountains again," Kia muttered with a grin, her sharp teeth flashing in the morning light. "You Jedi always pick the scenic routes."

"We like the high ground," Zela replied smoothly, glancing over with a smirk and a twitch of her lekku.

Dia chuckled under her breath. "And you love pretending you don’t enjoy it."

Kia gave a mock-offended snort but bumped her shoulder lightly against Dia's. The simple touch lingered a little longer than it needed to. Dia didn’t mind. In fact, the warmth from it remained with her far longer than it should have. Just like Zela’s slight lean toward her when they stopped to scan the horizon. Just like the way they all moved, in tune.

Zela reached up to brush a speck of dust from Dia’s lekku, her fingers gentle, lingering just a moment too long. Kia saw it, didn’t say anything, but her gaze softened, her grin tempered by something more honest. Dia’s heart stuttered briefly—not in confusion, but in recognition. Of something deepening. Of something shared, growing with every step, every mission.

They didn’t talk about it—not in so many words. But the feelings were there. In shared glances. In the way Zela’s hand brushed Dia’s when no one was looking. In the way Kia adjusted her pace to keep beside them, one step closer than necessary. They didn’t hold hands. They didn’t speak their feelings aloud. But the affection was clear, steady, and growing.

It was in the silence between words. In the soft touches. In the way they trusted each other more than anyone else. In the ease of their shared rhythm, the wordless language that passed between them, the way they read each other in an instant.

They climbed the narrowing path in sync, Zela’s lekku brushing against Dia’s shoulder as she pointed something out up ahead, Kia’s voice low as she offered tactical insight from her experience. The mountain wind whistled around them, sharp and biting, but the warmth they shared kept the cold at bay.

Occasionally, Zela’s gloved fingers would hook briefly with Dia’s, the barest brush that still spoke volumes. Kia would flash a grin at both of them when they thought she wasn’t looking. And when the path became steep, they moved in harmony, each watching the other’s back without needing to speak. A living rhythm.

As they advanced up into the shadowed mountain paths, side by side by side, something unspoken passed between them. A quiet, powerful truth: whatever came next, they would face it together.

Even if they didn't yet have the words for what they were becoming, they had each other—and for now, that was enough.

The sun had shifted from golden to harsh white by the time they reached the narrowing pass that marked the final stretch of the day’s march. The air had grown thinner, cooler, carrying with it the scent of dry pine, scorched rock, and the distant tang of burned ozone. All around them, the mountain peaks loomed high and jagged, their edges casting deep shadows over the winding road that snaked through the range. The occasional low boom of distant artillery echoed across the granite walls like thunder, a grim reminder that the war was never far.

Dia paused near a weathered outcrop, adjusting the macrobinoculars slung at her hip. Sweat clung to the edges of her red lekku despite the chill, and the long hours of the march had etched lines of exhaustion beneath her eyes. Zela walked just ahead, silent and alert, her head cocked slightly to one side as the comm clipped to her shoulder crackled to life.

"Forward Scout to Command," came the static-laced voice. "We've spotted a small Separatist outpost about two clicks ahead, perched above the road on a narrow ridge. Looks lightly fortified—likely a listening post or an overwatch nest. No clear visual on droid numbers yet, but there's movement."

Dia frowned, raising her hand to signal a halt to the company trailing behind them. The line of clone troopers responded immediately, falling into a ready formation with trained discipline. Some crouched behind rocks, others scanned the ridgelines, fingers tight on triggers.

Kia stepped up beside Dia, her posture alert but casual, her rifle resting across her back as her golden eyes scanned the terrain ahead. She squinted, taking in the distant ridgeline.

"They’ve got the high ground," she muttered, her voice low and serious. "That explains why the march felt too quiet. If it were me? I’d have set up thermal mines and sensor traps halfway down the slope. We’re lucky they didn’t spring an ambush already."

Zela’s emerald gaze cut to Dia, the Force between them humming with that ever-present current of awareness. "We should scout it ourselves. If we’re careful, we can disable their comms before they alert anyone. A clean strike."

Dia nodded, her decision immediate. "Agreed. We go in quiet. Just the three of us."

She turned to Rook, the company’s clone officer, whose armor was already dusted with mountain grit. "Hold position here with the company. Keep your men ready, but no movement until I signal. If something goes wrong—"

"We'll cover your exit," Rook finished with a crisp nod. "Understood, Commander."

With a shared glance and no further words, Dia, Zela, and Kia slipped away from the main column, their boots silent on the packed earth. They moved through the thickening underbrush and sparse tree cover, guided by instinct and years of practiced coordination. The three of them made no unnecessary sound, communicating with hand signals and subtle gestures.

Despite the high altitude and thinner air, the pace remained steady. Their bond—spoken and unspoken—kept them moving in sync. Zela moved like a shadow, always aware, her montrals subtly tilting as she gauged the echoes of movement. Kia’s keen senses tracked shifts in the wind and sound, claws occasionally flexing in anticipation. Dia took point, calm but focused, her presence in the Force like a steady heartbeat anchoring them all.

As they advanced up the narrow slope toward the outpost’s location, the terrain grew steeper and more treacherous. Rocks shifted beneath their boots, and twisted tree roots clawed up through the dirt. But the three of them pressed on, every movement a reflection of trust and shared purpose.

Each step brought them closer to the edge of danger—and to each other.

Whatever the Separatists had waiting at the top of the ridge, they would face it together, side by side.

~

The climb to the ridgeline was quiet but tense, every crunch of boot on gravel muted by instinctive control and years of practice. The high-altitude winds tugged at their cloaks and undersuits, carrying the mingled scent of pine resin and scorched ion. The sunlight was thin, fractured by high-altitude haze, casting long shifting shadows across the mountainside. Kia’s claws flexed instinctively in the cold soil as she vaulted the final ledge, her lithe frame rising beside Dia and Zela. Together they settled low behind a jagged outcrop of stone, their eyes already turning toward the narrow pass and the Separatist outpost nestled above it like a wartime tumor.

The outpost was modest in footprint but cunning in its construction. Prefab walls reinforced with plasteel plating rose from the rock, capped by camo-netting and sensor disruptors. A pair of heavy E-Web blasters were perched on elevated mounts overlooking the pass, shaded and nearly hidden from below. Atop the main structure, a slim comms tower pulsed a dull red glow in measured intervals, its rhythm matching the low hum Dia could now hear through the Force. B1 droids wandered in wide, lazy loops around the perimeter, accompanied by the heavier thuds of B2s, their sensor eyes scanning mostly toward the road far below. It was a trap laid for travelers, not a threat expected from above.

Dia slid forward onto her belly beside Zela, her lekku twitching faintly with tension. She retrieved her macrobinoculars with quiet efficiency, adjusting the focus to study the droid patterns. "Five-minute rotation, maybe less," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. "They’re focused down the slope. We’ve got a clean window between sweeps—if we move with precision."

"Confirmed," Zela murmured, already reading the terrain through her own lenses. Her emerald eyes narrowed, and a breath hitched quietly through her nose. "Heat signatures—biologicals. Techs, scouts maybe. They’re keeping out of sight, but they’re in there."

Kia crouched a few meters away, perfectly balanced, her weight distributed across the pads of her feet and the flat of her claws. With a quiet mechanical hiss, the targeting antenna on her helmet deployed, rising from just behind one of her ears. A soft pulse fed into her HUD, projecting a detailed scan across the interior of her sealed visor. EM interference blinked in hazy arcs around the tower, and faint audio spikes hinted at encrypted signals.

She let out a low whistle. "They’re running a secondary relay. Even if we fry the tower, they’ve got a bounce node nearby—maybe uplinked to a satellite drone. We'll need to jam it or risk reinforcements."

Dia nodded once, sharply. "Then we jam it. We hit hard, clean, and fast. Take the tower out, scramble the fallback, and call in Rook. The company’s waiting."

Zela shifted slightly, her fingertips brushing the smooth hilt of her lightsaber clipped to her belt. "So—stealth first, or eliminate the patrols quietly before breach?"

Kia turned toward them, her visor reflecting the filtered sunlight as her fangs flashed in a brief, toothy grin behind her helmet. "Both," she said simply. "Quiet... until loud."

The three of them shared a brief glance—a flicker of trust honed across years and battlefields. Words weren’t necessary anymore. The rhythm of their bond hummed between them, unspoken but solid.

Then they were moving. Silent shapes in the wind. The mission had begun.

The trio advanced slowly, weaving through the mountain terrain with deliberate caution. The sharp angles of the ridge they followed offered sporadic cover, thick shrubs clinging to the rocky outcrops. Every movement was calculated, every step placed with care to avoid loose gravel or dry branches that might betray their approach.

Kia led the formation, her blaster pistol steady in one hand, a vibroknife reversed in the other. Her eyes scanned constantly, HUD marking enemy signatures, projected paths, and terrain readouts. She moved like she was born to it, a predator among the rocks, silent and lethal.

Dia followed a few meters behind, crouched low, blaster ready. Her gauntlets hummed quietly with stored energy, the blades primed to extend in an instant if needed. Her senses, tuned by years of discipline and the Force, reached outward. That dull, rhythmic hum—the comms tower—was constant now, like the beat of a mechanical heart.

Zela brought up the rear, her cloak blending with the grey and green of the terrain. She touched nothing, let her boots drift light over stone and root. The Force wrapped around her like mist, alerting her to fluctuations in energy and thought. Ahead, within the outpost walls, she could feel the flickers of minds—humanoid, likely technicians. Nervous. Bored. Unaware.

They paused at a crest, ducking behind a low outcrop. From here, the outpost revealed itself more fully. It wasn’t large, but it was clever. Prefab walls hugged the mountain like barnacles, reinforced with plasteel plates darkened to blend with the stone. Camouflage netting fluttered gently in the breeze above the structure, hiding it from aerial reconnaissance. Sensor disruptors pulsed faintly, their energy signature nearly imperceptible—except to Zela.

Twin E-Web blasters rested atop narrow guard stations carved into the rock, positioned to rain fire down on any force advancing up the pass. They were shaded, nearly invisible from the valley floor. But not from above.

Kia pointed with her knife—B1s. Four on the perimeter. Two patrols moving slowly around the compound. Their posture slack, rifles loose in hand. Behind them, heavier steps marked the B2s. Bulkier. Slower. Their sensor eyes glowed a soft orange, focused mostly on the road below.

"They’re guarding against approach from the valley," Dia murmured, low enough only her companions would hear. "Not expecting trouble from the cliffs."

Zela nodded. "There are living signatures inside. Six—maybe seven. Mostly stationary. One pacing. Technicians, probably. No civilians."

Kia crouched lower, flicking a quick hand signal. Options?

Dia scanned the perimeter again, focusing. "We wait for the patrols to loop away from the north wall. Then we cut down to the junction between the antenna array and the maintenance shack. Less reinforced."

Zela added, "That side has weaker shielding. I can suppress the sensor field briefly when we cross. But not for long."

Kia gave a sharp nod. "I'll deal with the B1s if they’re in the way. Quiet."

As the patrol moved out of view, the trio slipped forward again, like water through cracks. Down a narrow slope, feet finding silent purchase. Kia moved first, crawling along the edge of a half-collapsed ledge. Dia dropped after her, rolling lightly and moving into position near the perimeter’s shadow. Zela followed last, her presence a void to the watching sensors.

Just beyond the outer wall, a small maintenance hatch gleamed faintly in the filtered light—unguarded.

Kia kept watch from the shadows as Dia and Zela crept toward the maintenance hatch, their movements slow and silent. The air was still, heavy with the scent of metal and damp stone. The hum of nearby power conduits vibrated faintly through the ground. This close to the outpost, the danger felt tangible, the wrong move capable of unraveling everything.

Dia pressed her gloved palm against the cold alloy wall beside the hatch, her eyes flicking toward Zela. Their gazes met, and in that instant, they didn’t need words. Dia reached out through the Force, brushing against Zela’s presence—a serene, steady flame burning in the dark. Zela responded in kind, her own essence wrapping around Dia’s like braided threads.

The bond between them thrummed to life, pulsing like a living thing. It wasn’t just connection—it was fusion. Their awareness blended, thoughts flickering across the link like stars streaking through hyperspace. What one sensed, the other felt. What one feared, the other calmed.

Dia exhaled softly, and Zela matched the breath in perfect rhythm. One will. One breath. One presence.

The Force responded to their unity. It curled around them like mist, cloaking their presence in layers of misdirection and stillness. Not invisibility, but something deeper—an absence, a void in the perceptual field. Droids wouldn't register them. Security nodes would pass them over. Even the walls, if they could speak, would whisper nothing.

Dia’s fingers moved over the hatch’s access panel with delicate precision, her awareness half in the circuits, half in the Force. Zela stood beside her, hands at her sides but her presence holding the veil. Together, they were a singular thought: silent entry. The hatch lock disengaged with a muted click, and the panel hissed open just enough to allow them entry.

One by one, they slipped inside, the metal panel closing softly behind them.

The interior was cramped, a tunnel flanked by bundled wiring and overhead conduit piping. The walls pulsed dimly with maintenance lights, casting flickering shadows that danced over their armor. The air was warm and smelled faintly of lubricant and dust.

Zela led the way now, her steps light, barely touching the floor. Dia kept close behind her, their shared presence a ripple of muted Force energy trailing through the corridor. The bond between them hadn’t diminished; if anything, it had deepened, synchronizing their thoughts and movements into a perfect dance of stealth. They became one flow, one rhythm.

Kia followed with practiced ease, her blaster ready, vibroknife angled in her grip for close quarters. Her presence was grounded, pragmatic, a steady heartbeat to the ethereal symphony between the Jedi ahead of her. She didn’t need to touch the Force to know they were doing something extraordinary—she could feel it in the way the air bent around them, in how the corridor seemed to hesitate before registering their passage.

As they moved deeper into the outpost, the flickers of droid chatter and distant footfalls echoed ahead. The trap was set for those below, unaware that death and revelation were slipping in from above, silent as a breath in the dark.

The trio crept forward, deeper into the maintenance tunnel. The walls narrowed as they went, forcing them into single file, every footstep measured and muffled by the dull padding of worn boots. The ambient hum of machinery grew stronger, the buzz of relays and the gentle thrum of data lines pulsing in the walls a clear sign they were nearing the heart of the outpost.

Eventually, the tunnel widened slightly at a junction and curved upward. At the end, a vented maintenance hatch overlooked the main control and communications hub. They crouched beneath it, cloaked in shadows, barely daring to breathe.

Through the slotted grate, the room beyond unfolded in clean angles and blinking consoles. A half-dozen technicians moved about, eyes on monitors, datapads in hand, voices hushed as they discussed relays and comm signals. Two B1 battle droids stood near the rear, weapons slung casually across their torsos. One idly swayed side to side, the other watching the technicians with vacant optics.

Kia signaled the others, then leaned up to the vent. With deft fingers, she unclipped the frame and eased the grate free. No sound. No warning. Just open air.

Without hesitation, she dropped.

Her descent was silent as shadow. The nearest B1 turned just in time to see the glint of her vibroknife flash forward—and then it didn’t see anything at all. The blade drove upward through its cranial processor, severing the droid’s systems in a single brutal stroke. It collapsed with a metallic clatter before any alarm could sound.

Zela was next. She landed beside Kia and extended her hand.

The second B1 turned—its photoreceptors flaring red—but never raised its blaster. The Force surged, unseen but overwhelming. The droid's torso compressed inward with a sharp, crumpling screech. Circuits fried and metal shrieked as Zela’s will crushed the machine like a discarded ration tin. It dropped with a hollow clang.

Dia came through third, landing in a crouch, her blaster already raised. The technicians turned, startled shouts dying in their throats. One reached toward the console—

"Don’t," Dia warned, her voice low and ice-edged, eyes locked on the movement. "Hands where I can see them. Now."

The tech froze, trembling, fingers inches from the panel.

Then, one of the others took a slow step back toward the wall, gaze locked on Dia. There was a trace of defiance in his eyes—fear, yes, but also calculation. He glanced at her weapon, then at her robes. "You’re Jedi," he said, voice tight. "You won’t shoot me."

He turned and lunged for the alarm panel.

Dia’s blaster tracked him, finger tightening—but she hesitated, just for a heartbeat.

A sharp retort cut through the air. The technician collapsed face-first beside the panel, a single blaster bolt scorched through the back of his skull.

Kia lowered her smoking pistol without a word.

The remaining technicians went pale, raising their hands higher.

Zela stood with her hand still half-raised, poised to act again. Kia shifted slightly, eyes scanning for more hidden weapons or emergency triggers.

Dia stepped forward slowly, blaster steady. Her voice was colder now. "You try to trip another alarm, and I won’t hesitate next time."

The control hub was theirs.

For now.

Zela moved first, her presence cool and commanding as she stepped toward the cluster of technicians. "On your knees," she instructed, her voice low but carrying the weight of the Force. There was no hesitation now. The surviving techs obeyed, hands still raised, dropping one by one to the floor.

Kia holstered her blaster and crouched beside the first, securing his wrists with a zipcuff pulled from her belt. "No sudden moves," she muttered, tightening the loop. "I’m not in the mood to make another example."

She worked quickly, moving with practiced efficiency, her knife still visible in one hand to discourage resistance. Zela watched over them, using the Force to subtly nudge any who looked ready to bolt, keeping their nerves unsteady and their limbs compliant. Each technician was restrained, wrists bound and seated against the far wall under Zela’s watchful gaze.

Dia ignored the scene behind her and moved to the central console, eyes already scanning its unfamiliar layout as her gauntlet interface synced with the terminal. Her fingers flew over the controls with fluid precision, slicing through encryption firewalls and protocol locks like they were training drills. Lines of Aurabesh code flickered across the screen, terminal output streaming faster than a civilian eye could follow.

She started with the primary comms uplink, rerouting control subroutines and splicing into the command module. The moment she severed the connection to the planetary relay, the interface flickered red—"CONNECTION LOST"—as the tower's uplink dropped into forced isolation. She then disabled the subspace burst protocol, preventing any pre-set distress beacons from auto-firing even if the system went dark. Above the central console, a set of status lights dimmed from amber to a dull crimson as the tower entered a false maintenance loop.

Without pausing, Dia pivoted to the internal alert systems. The outpost’s local grid proved more intricate, with redundancies woven into layers of secondary power relays. She bypassed the primary alarm feed, diving deep into the power routing diagnostics until she found the emergency backup node—tucked beneath the floor and masked as a coolant flow sensor. A smirk tugged at her lips. Clever, but not clever enough.

With a quiet pulse from her gauntlet’s energy discharge module, she fried the access panel and disabled the override directly. A secondary charge—set for magnetic pulse disruption—rendered the remaining emergency beacon inert. There would be no silent alarms, no automated warnings, no desperate messages.

Every link in the chain had been broken.

The outpost was well and truly deaf. And no one knew it yet.

"Comms down," she confirmed over her shoulder. "Backups too. We’re ghosts now."

Zela gave a slight nod, still keeping her attention fixed on their prisoners. Kia stood, stretching briefly, then moved beside Dia to peer over her shoulder at the console.

"How long do we have until someone notices the silence?" she asked.

"That depends," Dia replied. "But if they’re paying attention? We’ve got maybe thirty minutes."

"Plenty of time to wreck their day," Kia muttered with a smirk.

Zela turned her gaze to the sealed door on the far side of the room. "Then we’d best move quickly."

With the alarms and comms down, the trio left the restrained technicians behind, locking the control hub behind them with a manual override and a sealed command from Dia’s gauntlet. The silence that followed was heavy, a pressure in the air that came just before a storm.

They moved with swift, silent purpose through the winding corridor, boots barely making a sound against the duracrete floor. As they neared the main entrance, the hiss of hydraulics greeted them. The outer doors parted.

Kia strode forward without hesitation, her twin WESTAR-35 blaster pistols in hand, sleek and deadly. The polished metal gleamed faintly in the light, and the yellow energy cores within them pulsed like a predator's eyes. She walked out into the sunlight like it belonged to her.

To her right, Dia stepped into position, the distinctive snap-hiss of her lightsaber igniting beside her. The blue blade hummed in the still air, casting a ripple of color across her armor.

To Kia’s left, Zela mirrored her perfectly. Her green saber came to life in a smooth arc, humming in harmony with Dia’s, their resonance like a second heartbeat between them.

From above, the battle droids were already reacting to the movement below. The first of the B1s jerked upright, optics narrowing as they scanned the figures emerging from the main door. Another turned its head, raising a hand to point.

"Organic signatures detected—wait, those are—"

Kia moved first.

Her twin WESTAR-35s snapped up in a blur of motion, and brilliant yellow bolts sizzled through the air. The first B1’s chest plate exploded in a shower of sparks, the second took a bolt clean through the photoreceptor before crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut. Both dropped before their rifles had cleared their holsters.

The rest of the droids jolted into motion, rifles swinging up in a clumsy wave. The thudding of heavy footfalls signaled the arrival of B2s—bulkier, more armored, but no less doomed.

Zela surged forward with dancer's grace, her lightsaber arcing in a seamless loop to catch the first bolts fired their way. Sparks flew as green light met red plasma. Beside her, Dia advanced, controlled and deliberate, stepping through a gap and cutting down a B1 in one tight, economical motion. Her blue blade hissed through metal, and she pivoted without pause to deflect another volley.

They became a whirlwind of coordinated destruction. Kia spun at their center, firing rapid bursts that struck with surgical precision. Yellow bolts punched through chassis and processors, each shot chosen with lethal intent.

Dia ducked under the sweeping arm of a B2 and, with a flick of her wrist, drove her saber upward through its elbow joint. The arm detached in a screech of metal, and with a second motion she bisected the torso. The droid collapsed as she twisted to intercept a bolt aimed at Kia, deflecting it harmlessly into the wall.

Zela was already in motion, a blur of green and brown robes. With a Force-assisted leap, she landed in the middle of a droid cluster, her saber slicing in a spinning arc that decapitated one B1 and severed the legs of another. She finished the motion with an elegant pivot, the Force bursting from her hand in a shockwave that sent the rest crashing to the ground.

Kia ducked behind a jagged outcrop, reloading smoothly before popping back up and dropping two more with flawless headshots. The yellow flare of her bolts lit the battlefield in a staccato rhythm.

The droids fell in rapid succession, caught between blades and blaster fire.

It was over in less than a minute.

Sparks sizzled in the air. Mechanical limbs twitched uselessly across the ground. The trio stood in the aftermath of it all—three warriors in perfect balance, surrounded by the broken remnants of the enemy.

Dia and Zela deactivated their sabers in unison, the blades retreating with twin hisses that punctuated the sudden silence.

Dia holstered her blaster and activated her gauntlet’s comm unit. "Captain Rook, outpost secure. No remaining hostiles. Repeat, the outpost is ours."

Static cracked for a moment before the familiar voice of the clone officer came through, crisp and calm. "Copy that, Commander. We’re on the move. Hunter squads will sweep the lower ridgeline and confirm. ETA two minutes."

Zela stepped to the edge of the outpost wall, scanning the jungle and pass below, her senses stretching outward through the Force like tendrils in the wind. "I can feel them. They’re close."

Dia walked over to a downed B2, kicking its lifeless arm aside as she surveyed the perimeter with sharp eyes. "Let's clear the exterior, make sure the platform’s clean. Rook will want a proper LZ."

Kia nodded, already moving to secure the courtyard gate. "Let’s make it welcoming then."

Above them, the comms tower no longer pulsed. And for the first time since their arrival, the mountain stood still.

~~

Engineers from the 42nd Legion moved in swiftly, establishing a perimeter and reinforcing weak points in the walls with portable blast shields and duracrete foam. They installed repeaters and sensor posts along the heights the trio had used in their approach, turning former blind spots into vantage points. Sharp-eyed scouts took up watch positions with macrobinoculars and rifles, eyes trained on the distant valleys.

The captured technicians were placed in a reinforced storage room, now converted into a holding cell under heavy guard. Clone engineers began working at the consoles in the communications hub, carefully accessing the systems Dia had disabled. The hum of machinery and the low murmur of clone chatter filled the space as the company settled into its new foothold.

Night descended over the mountains like a curtain, the last traces of orange and gold vanishing behind the jagged horizon.

With their part in the day’s mission complete, the trio made their way up the cliffside path to where they’d begun their assault. The wind was cooler now, brushing over them as they sat at the edge, the valley stretching far and deep beneath them. Stars glittered above in a sky unmarred by city light or orbital traffic.

Dia sat between them, her knees drawn up, forearms resting on top. Zela leaned back on her hands, her green gaze fixed on the horizon. Kia lounged in her usual way—arms behind her head, one leg stretched out, the other bent—her helmet set beside her, its paint in rich, deep blues and purples, highlighted by lighter splashes that caught the starlight like reflections in water.

None of them spoke at first.

The silence between missions wasn’t awkward. It was sacred.

A soft rustle broke the quiet. Zela leaned toward Dia, reaching into one of the Jedi’s belt pouches and plucking out a chew stick with casual, unconscious ease. She didn’t ask. She never had to. The movement was familiar, worn into routine by years of trust.

Kia’s gaze flicked over, and her smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"You really are spoiled," she teased lightly, watching Zela take the first chew. "Most people have to work to get into a Jedi’s personal space. You just go shopping in her belt."

Zela chewed slowly, utterly unbothered. "She never stops me."

Dia, who had remained silent until then, shifted slightly, her gaze fixed on the stars. Her skin warmed beneath her armor, a faint flush creeping along her neck. "I’d notice if she took something that didn’t belong."

The words hung in the air, more vulnerable than she’d intended.

Kia’s smirk faded just a touch, but she said nothing. Zela’s chewing slowed for a heartbeat, her expression unreadable.

Dia exhaled and looked back out across the valley, the breeze catching a strand of hair that had slipped from her braid. "We’ve survived worse," she murmured, voice low and thoughtful. "This outpost… the heights… It already feels familiar. Like it’s—"

She hesitated, the words catching in her throat like a confession too fragile to voice.

Kia turned her head slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes, while Zela’s gaze shifted toward Dia with a quiet intensity, as if trying to will her to finish the thought.

Dia’s throat worked as she swallowed, then she continued—barely above a whisper. "Like we make sense here. The three of us. Like this is what we’re supposed to be."

The stars above blinked down, silent and ancient. For a moment, they seemed to pause with the world.

Kia’s smirk faded into something softer, less sure. She looked away, jaw tightening just slightly.

Zela blinked once, slowly, then leaned back on her hands again, not saying a word. But something in her posture shifted—more open, more still.

None of them spoke, yet everything had been said.

They sat like that for a long while, three silhouettes at the edge of the world. Shadows against the stars. Warriors who had carved their lives into survival and solitude—now forced to wonder if peace could ever be more than a fleeting dream.

Eventually, the stillness at the cliff’s edge gave way to the quiet ache of tired limbs and the pull of rest. The three rose slowly, stretching out their stiff muscles, brushing dust from their armor and cloaks. With quiet glances and unspoken agreement, they turned and began the descent back to the outpost, the soft crunch of boots on stone the only sound between them. It was the sound of warriors coming down from a high—one earned not by victory alone, but survival.

Inside the outpost, the clone troopers had fully settled in. Engineers had brought in portable lighting rigs, illuminating the once-shadowed halls. The few intact rooms had been claimed for the injured and those overseeing critical systems—medics, officers, and slicers who worked quietly at the remaining consoles. Dia had insisted, firmly, that the Jedi and Kia would take the tents and leave the indoor space for the troopers who needed it most. Zela had nodded in quiet agreement, and Kia, after some mild grumbling, had relented with her usual shrug and smirk. Sleeping outside didn’t bother her. It never had.

Their small camp was pitched on the outer ridge, nestled between two jagged rock outcroppings for shelter against the wind. The clone engineers had even helped drive in weather-shields to provide some extra protection. The stars above were brilliant and clear, their light dancing faintly across the snowy peaks in the far distance. But the temperature had dropped sharply. The wind came down from the mountains in thin, biting streams that cut through the fabric of their tents and cloaks alike.

Zela was the first to speak as they approached their modest shelter, her voice soft and faintly amused. "It’ll get colder before morning."

Dia, trailing slightly behind her, glanced over her shoulder toward Kia. "You should stay with us tonight," she offered. Her tone was even, but there was a tremor of something more vulnerable beneath the words. "There’s room. It’ll be warmer."

Kia raised an eyebrow, half a smile tugging at her lips. "You two always this generous with your sleeping arrangements, or am I just charming enough to get the special treatment?"

Zela gave a small, tired smile, already unfastening her armor without comment. Dia rolled her eyes faintly, a wry expression playing at her mouth, but she didn’t retract the offer.

"Alright, alright," Kia relented with a small laugh, unclipping the fastenings of her chest plate. "But if I wake up frozen, I’m claiming the middle spot."

They undressed in practiced silence, the ritual of removing armor so familiar it required no thought. Dia and Zela went first, placing their outer layers and protective gear in neat stacks just inside the tent. Beneath the armor, they wore layered Jedi robes that provided warmth and flexibility, soft from wear and weather. Kia followed suit, the gleaming blues and purples of her armor dulled in the shadows as she set each piece beside theirs. Despite her smirks, there was a care to how she handled her gear—methodical, respectful.

The inside of the tent was narrow, the three bedrolls arranged to fit close together. The structure itself was simple, held up by modular poles and insulated panels, but it held heat well enough. Zela was already lying down by the time Dia ducked inside. Without thinking, the two Jedi instinctively moved closer, curling toward each other for warmth, their bodies settling into a familiar tangle that spoke of years of shared quiet nights like this.

Kia paused at the tent flap, helmet in one hand, watching them with a raised brow and an exaggerated grin. A familiar pang twisted in her chest—not of jealousy exactly, but something adjacent. Something old. Something quietly yearning.

"You two are way too coordinated," she said with a chuckle, masking the ache with sarcasm. "It’s like watching Tookas snuggle after a long nap in the sun."

Dia’s eyes opened, startled, a faint flush blooming along her cheeks. Zela blinked up at Kia, a little concerned, shifting slightly.

"We weren’t—" Dia started, already pulling back.

But Kia cut her off with a gentle wave of her hand, her teasing tone softening. She crouched down beside them, setting her helmet carefully atop her armor. "Relax. I’m only teasing. Jedi Code or not, I think you two deserve a little comfort. You’ve got each other. That matters."

Zela exhaled slowly, visibly relaxing again. Dia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and their hands brushed again in the dark. Kia looked at that small contact—the quiet, natural way their fingers found one another—and something in her chest squeezed.

She’d never had that. Not really. Not since Death Watch. And even then, it had never looked like this.

The quiet closeness. The safety. The trust that didn’t need words. It was foreign. And it was beautiful. And it hurt a little more than she wanted to admit.

Kia gave them one last smirk, forcing it into place like armor, and slid into her own bedroll beside them. She stretched out with a quiet groan, arms over her head for a moment before she rolled to one side, facing them.

"Besides," she added, voice softer now, "you’re both warm. I’m not about to pass up something like that."

That earned a quiet chuckle from Zela. Even Dia smiled.

They lay in the hush of night, close enough to share warmth, close enough that words weren’t needed anymore. But even as Kia closed her eyes, listening to the soft rhythm of their breathing, she felt the shape of a wish she hadn’t dared let herself hold onto—that maybe, one day, she could belong somewhere again.

The tent creaked lightly in the wind, the mountain’s breath rushing just beyond the fabric.

Outside, the wind whispered through the rocks and stars watched over them, cold and brilliant as ever.

But inside the tent, it was warm. And perhaps, for tonight at least, that was enough.

~

The tent was quiet save for the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional groan of the wind pushing down from the mountains. Outside, the camp lay still, bathed in silver moonlight and the faint glow of the perimeter lamps. Clone sentries patrolled with silent discipline, their footfalls softened by dry stone and hard-packed dirt, the cold air at this altitude turning every breath into mist. It was not snow season yet, but the bite of the mountain chill crept into every seam and fold. Inside the modest shelter on the ridge, the trio slept in a tangle of warmth and exhaustion, the weight of the day still clinging to their bodies like a second skin.

At some point during the night, Dia stirred.

Her brow furrowed, jaw tightening with invisible strain. Beneath her closed eyes, rapid movement twitched the skin—her mind caught between sleep and the unyielding pull of the Force. Whispers clawed at the edges of her thoughts, dark and half-formed. Flashes of fire and screaming metal, of sabers clashing and the unbearable sense of something being lost. The Force offered no clarity—only dread. Only a storm. She flinched, a breath catching painfully in her throat, her lekku twitching involuntarily where they lay draped across the bedroll. Her fingers clenched around the edge of the blanket as though trying to anchor herself to the present.

Zela’s eyes opened first.

There was no sudden jolt, no sound to wake her—only the ripple in the Force that brushed against her mind like a trembling current. She recognized it instantly. Fear. Pain. Dia. Her instincts overrode the fog of sleep, and she turned toward her friend. Even in the dim light, she could see the strain on Dia’s face, the tension in her limbs. Without a moment’s hesitation, Zela shifted, slipping an arm around Dia and pulling her close, her fingers gently brushing over one of Dia’s lekku in a slow, rhythmic motion meant to soothe.

"You’re not alone," she murmured, voice barely above a breath. "I'm here."

She didn’t expect a response, nor did she need one. The Force between them, familiar and interwoven, began to steady—Dia’s pulse slowing, her tremors easing under Zela’s calm presence. Though she remained unconscious, her body began to untangle itself from the tension of the vision. Her breathing deepened, returning to a more natural rhythm, though small shivers still rippled along her frame.

The quiet movement stirred Kia.

She shifted beneath her blankets, blinking groggily as the edge of cold air tickled her exposed skin. Her senses were slower to catch up, but the moment her gaze settled on the shape of the two Jedi curled together beside her, something ancient and instinctive took over. Half-asleep, guided more by emotion than awareness, Kia rolled toward them.

Without a word, she reached out and wrapped an arm around both of them, her body molding to the curve of Zela’s back and Dia’s shoulders. Her hand found Zela’s hip, fingers curling gently there. Her breath, warm and steady, ghosted along the back of Dia’s neck, just above the sensitive skin where her lekku met her spine.

"Got you," she murmured sleepily, her muzzle brushing the curve of Dia’s forehead. The words were low and barely audible, but full of meaning.

The moment settled over them like a blanket.

Dia’s body relaxed further, nestled securely between Zela’s arms and Kia’s protective presence. Her head tucked instinctively under Kia’s chin, pressing close to the source of warmth and safety. The tangle of limbs, lekku, and breath-bound bodies became one living shape of shared strength, of unspoken trust. In that space, in that connection, the darkness receded just enough.

Kia, drifting again toward sleep, felt it in her chest—that quiet ache that had lived with her for years since leaving Death Watch. The loneliness she wore like armor most days—mocked or masked behind cocky grins—was soothed in this rare closeness. She didn’t speak of it, wouldn’t admit it aloud, but in moments like this, she felt a little less adrift. A little more like she had found something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to have.

Zela pressed a quiet breath against Dia’s temple, her own eyes heavy again. Her thoughts reached not for clarity but for presence. For the peace of knowing she was where she needed to be, and that her presence brought calm where there had been pain.

Outside, the wind continued its mournful song through the mountain ridges, a lullaby for the weary.

But inside the tent, wrapped in a cocoon of silence, warmth, and connection, the three of them slept. Not as Jedi or mercenary or commander.

But simply as people who, for once, didn’t have to face the darkness alone.

~

Morning crept into the camp slowly, the first fingers of sunlight brushing across the jagged mountain peaks and painting them in hues of pale gold and muted lavender. The high-altitude chill still clung to the air, but inside the tent, it was warm. Warmer than it had any right to be. Not just from shared body heat, but from something softer, deeper—comfort, belonging.

At some point during the night, their positions had shifted, rearranged by instinct more than thought. Dia had rolled over in her sleep, drawn like a magnet to the warmth pressed against her. Now she lay curled into Kia’s front, her face nuzzled against the soft fur of Kia’s throat. Every exhale from Kia stirred through Dia’s lekku, gentle and rhythmic, like waves lapping a familiar shore. Zela had followed her without waking, her body pressed flush against Dia’s back, forming a cocoon of closeness.

The three of them were tangled together now, a quiet knot of limbs and breath and unspoken tenderness. Dia’s lekku had wrapped in sleep—one draped loosely across Kia’s waist, the other tucked along Zela’s ribs. Zela’s own montrals and lekku curved around Dia’s frame in perfect harmony, as though shaped to fit there. Kia’s muzzle rested atop Dia’s head, the soft fur brushing against skin with every slow breath.

Dia stirred first.

She didn’t open her eyes right away. She simply breathed in.

Kia’s scent was warm and familiar—dust and metal and something distinctly her. Zela’s breath fluttered over the back of her lekku, calm and slow. Dia was pinned gently in place, her cybernetic arm tucked beneath Kia’s shoulder and pressed into the bedroll, while Zela’s arm curved possessively around her middle. And then there was the pressure—the light touch of claws, one hand at her waist, the other nestled just beneath her ribs.

Zela’s claws, sharp but careful, dug in slightly with each unconscious movement. Kia’s claws, larger and blunter, curled against her side with a steady presence. They didn’t hurt. They never had. Dia didn’t just tolerate the sensation—she welcomed it. The slight sting, the weight, the grounding presence of being held between them—it calmed something primal in her.

She exhaled softly, pressing her face just a bit more into Kia’s chest.

It was quiet.

No alarms. No orders. Just breathing. Just warmth.

Kia’s heartbeat thrummed slow and deep against Dia’s cheek, steady like a metronome. Zela’s was faster, more delicate, but unmistakably close. Dia could feel both of them—could feel herself between them—not as a Jedi Commander, not as someone trying to be strong, but simply as Dia .

She allowed herself the indulgence of stillness. No movement. No thought of duty. Her fingers twitched faintly, brushing against Kia’s fur. The claws pressed in just a little more from both sides, possessive without meaning to be.

Dia let her eyes drift open, then closed again almost immediately. There was no place else she wanted to be. No mission more important than this. This moment.

She belonged here.

Wrapped in strength and stillness. Between presence and peace.

Between them.

Zela stirred next, her fingers tightening slightly where they held Dia. She blinked slowly, blinking away sleep, her senses instinctively reaching through the Force to check on the ones beside her. Her body didn’t move much, only enough to nuzzle her forehead gently into the curve of Dia’s lekku.

Dia didn’t flinch—only responded with a subtle hum in her throat, an acknowledgment, a shared peace. Zela’s claws flexed slightly, the sensation grounding for both of them.

Then Kia shifted with a soft grunt. Her muzzle twitched, a deeper breath pulled into her lungs as she blinked one eye open. Her gaze landed immediately on the Jedi curled into her, her arm still wrapped protectively across Dia’s side. She didn’t move, didn’t speak—just let herself feel it. The quiet. The warmth. The presence of two people who made her feel like she wasn’t alone.

Dia tilted her head just enough to look up into Kia’s sleepy gaze. No words passed between them. None were needed.

Kia’s claws relaxed, gently dragging against Dia’s side in a reassuring, slow rhythm. Zela’s hand splayed more firmly at Dia’s waist. For a few minutes more, they simply stayed like that—entwined, content.

And the mountain air, for all its chill, never touched them.

~~

The days that followed passed in steady motion.

With the outpost firmly in Republic hands, Captain Rook’s company began its slow advance through the mountain passes, combing the rocky spines and forested ridges for any signs of the hidden Separatist base. Their mission was clear—find the launch point of the flanking raids harassing the 42nd Legion’s supply lines and eliminate it.

Every day brought new terrain, new vantage points, and new risks. The terrain was harsh, with jagged cliffs that narrowed into choke points and hidden ledges perfect for ambushes. The company moved with caution. Scouts went ahead. Droids were encountered in scattered pockets—B1s and B2s stationed as pickets or patrolling from concealed bunkers. Each skirmish was brief but brutal. The Separatists were clever in their positioning and retreat paths, never revealing the true location of their forward base.

Amid the tension, Dia, Zela, and Kia were rarely far from one another.

They moved like a single unit in the field—Zela’s calm perception, Dia’s direct intensity, and Kia’s daring precision. Their bond deepened with every heartbeat shared under fire, every glance exchanged without needing to speak. They gravitated toward each other, drawn closer with every mission and every danger faced together. Kia often lingered just a little longer after fights, cleaning her blasters with a grin, watching the way Zela’s hand would hover near Dia’s back or the way Dia’s eyes softened only when they landed on Zela.

"You two keep circling each other like starved Tookas," she quipped one evening, brushing dust from her gauntlet after a firefight. Her voice was light, but her gaze held something more. "You’re either going to pounce or combust."

Zela gave her a patient look. Dia flushed and pretended not to hear.

Kia didn’t push—at least, not unkindly. Her words were always gently teasing, always safe. It was how she expressed a longing she didn’t quite know how to voice: that she was a part of this too. That in their quiet orbits around each other, they made room for her. She felt it in the way Zela handed her rations without asking. In the way Dia checked her gear with a touch that lingered just long enough. In the silence they allowed to pass between them without filling it with performance or walls.

At night, they pitched only a single tent.

It had become ritual now, not habit. As the camp settled and the clones rotated to night watch, the trio would retreat into their shared tent, shedding the day like a second skin. Armour was stacked carefully. Robes loosened. Fur brushed against cloth. Lekku tangled with lekku. They curled together not for convenience, but for the closeness they now craved.

There was intimacy in the way they moved around each other—unspoken agreements, a choreography of comfort. Zela always reached for Dia first, her fingers brushing the edge of her lekku as if to ground her. Kia, ever the last to settle, would slip in behind them and draw the blanket over all three with a contented sigh. Her arm always found its way around them both, claws resting just lightly enough to say, I’m here.

For Kia, who had grown too used to the cold press of solitude and the weight of never belonging, it was everything. She didn’t say it aloud—how could she? But every night she curled up against them, she felt something in her chest begin to ease. In the stillness between Zela’s breath and Dia’s heartbeat, she no longer felt alone.

Out in the mountains, with enemies waiting in the shadows and cold winds clawing down from the peaks, they found safety—not in bunkers or orders, but in each other.

Each day was one step closer to danger.

Each night, one breath closer to something all three of them were beginning to believe in.

Something that felt like home.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XXV

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

The mountain air was thin, dry, and tense with expectation.

After nearly a week of grueling sweeps and hit-and-run ambushes, they had found it—the Separatist base. Hidden deep within the cave systems of the upper ridge, buried into the heart of the mountain, it had taken every ounce of patience, skill, and coordinated effort to locate. But now, standing before the massive sealed outer doors of the complex, there was no more doubt. This was it.

A heavy, artificial silence pressed down on them at the threshold. The doors loomed, reinforced durasteel fused with jagged stone, half-subsumed into the natural rock face. Blaster scoring and signs of recent construction marred the surface. This wasn’t just a hidden base—it had been fortified for a long fight.

Dia stood at the front, her lightsaber humming softly in her hand. Zela stood beside her, her own blade already drawn, casting a soft glow on the stone beneath them. Behind them, Kia crouched low, both WESTAR pistols in hand, her movements coiled and ready, every muscle taut with anticipation.

Captain Rook’s voice came over comms, low and clipped. "Ready when you are, Commanders. We’ve got three squads covering the rear and a perimeter net. We move on your lead."

Dia glanced to Zela. Zela met her gaze with calm certainty. Together, they stepped forward.

The twin sabers ignited in full and sliced into the door as one, searing through durasteel and cutting deep into the lock. Sparks flew. The scent of molten metal filled the air, thick and sharp. The sound echoed down the narrow path that led to the entrance, bouncing off the rocky walls like a warning bell.

Behind them, clone troopers shifted, checking weapons, activating scanners. Engineers held up datapads with the rough layout they’d pulled from the last captured outpost. The map was incomplete, but it gave them a fighting chance—halls, junctions, and estimated security stations. Enough to plan an assault. Barely.

With one final arc of motion, Dia and Zela finished the cut. The doors gave a mechanical groan and then buckled inward with a hiss of released pressure and the shriek of abused hinges.

The path inside yawned open—dark, deep, and waiting.

Without a word, Dia and Zela stepped forward into the gloom, sabers lit. Kia followed close behind, weapons raised, her movements sharp and fluid. The clones surged in behind them, disciplined and alert, fanning out as the trio led the charge.

They had found the base.

Now, they would take it.

The narrow tunnel swallowed the light of their sabers as the assault force pressed deeper into the mountain.

Dia and Zela led the way, blades lit and held high, their glow casting long, flickering shadows against the uneven walls. The space was tight—natural stone merging with durasteel, rough edges and support braces crowding the corridor. Pipes ran overhead, some hissing with the faint strain of pressure. The air was dry and recycled, heavy with the scent of metal and dust. Each step echoed, the sound quickly swallowed by the curved walls.

Kia walked just behind and between the two Jedi, both pistols at the ready, her gaze constantly scanning ahead and to the sides. Her footfalls were soft, balanced, the controlled movements of someone expecting a fight at any moment. Behind her, the clones advanced in disciplined silence, squads branching slightly to either side to cover the flanks as best they could in the tight quarters.

The tunnel opened into the first junction—an intersection between two reinforced corridors. Before anyone could take more than a step forward into the clearing, blaster fire erupted from both sides.

"Ambush!" someone shouted, but the call was barely needed.

Red and blue bolts flashed out from the left and right, sizzling past the Jedi and slamming into the walls. The clones immediately dove for cover, some returning fire blindly around the corners. There was no clear line of sight—only flashes of droid silhouettes, the glow of muzzle fire, and the sound of shots ricocheting off stone and metal.

Dia moved first, stepping forward into the junction with her saber raised, deflecting a bolt cleanly into the ceiling. Zela mirrored her on the opposite side, her saber spinning in a graceful arc as she redirected a stream of blaster fire into a wall-mounted conduit that sparked and exploded, temporarily lighting the space.

Kia pressed in between them, dropping low and sliding into the intersection. She moved with practiced grace, her pistols raised, tracking the rhythm of fire and squeezing off precise shots around the corners. One bolt struck a B1's arm, sending its blaster spinning to the floor. Another clipped a sensor node embedded in the wall, making the lights above flicker.

"We’ve got firing ports embedded into the corners!" Kia snapped. "They’re dug in and using the curve to keep us from getting angles."

"We need to push one side!" Dia called, her voice calm but firm. Her saber spun to knock aside another pair of bolts before she turned to the right. "Zela, with me! Kia, suppress the left!"

Zela nodded, her movements fluid as she stepped in beside Dia. Together, the two Jedi surged forward, sabers flashing like arcs of living light.

Kia didn’t hesitate—she pivoted to the left, firing a rapid burst into the shadows. The clones behind her followed suit, laying down suppressive fire to give the Jedi room to maneuver.

The air filled with the whine of blasters, the hiss of burning plasma, and the sharp commands of clone officers rallying their troops. The battle had truly begun inside the mountain.

And the only way out was through.

Blaster fire painted the junction in chaotic bursts of red and blue, casting jagged shadows across the walls. The sharp scent of scorched metal and ozone filled the air as the defenders poured fire into the narrowing corridor.

Dia and Zela surged into the right-hand passage, sabers flashing in unison. A squad of clone troopers moved up behind them, their blasters raised, advancing in a staggered formation. The narrow corridor turned into a gauntlet—droids firing from behind hastily erected barricades and recessed firing slots.

Dia led the charge, her saber a storm of blue light as she deflected bolt after bolt. A quick, elegant spin sent one shot back into the head of a B1, dropping it instantly. Zela moved just behind her, her emerald blade sweeping through the smoke, carving through a wall-mounted turret that tried to track them. The Jedi moved like twin streams of lightning, clearing the path with decisive grace as the clones advanced behind them, covering each side.

Back at the junction, Kia stood firm.

Her stance was low and steady, both WESTAR pistols raised. She laid down a constant barrage of fire into the left corridor, forcing the droids to keep their heads down. The clones to her left and right followed suit, moving in rhythm with her, feeding off her tempo.

Blaster bolts screamed past her, slamming into the walls and sparking against the floor. One bolt struck her square in the chest, flaring bright against the dark blue of her Beskar armor. The impact forced her a half-step back—but she didn’t flinch.

Another shot clipped her side. Again, the Beskar took the brunt, the bolt dissipating harmlessly off the reinforced plating.

Kia grinned.

"You're going to have to do better than that," she muttered, ducking and firing both pistols in swift, alternating bursts. One droid crumpled. Another lost its weapon arm. The suppressive fire gave the Jedi time they needed to push forward and clear the flank.

She glanced toward the right corridor—just in time to see Dia’s blade cut down a final B2, its smoking chassis collapsing to the floor.

"Right side's almost clear!" Kia called out over the comm.

Zela’s voice came back, calm and steady. "Keep the left contained. We're moving to flank."

Kia bared her teeth in a smirk. "With pleasure."

The battle raged through the tight halls, but now the Republic forces had momentum. And Kia, standing like a wall of defiant strength behind her companions, intended to keep it.

Progress was agonizingly slow.

Every meter of hallway fought for came at a cost. Blaster marks scorched the stone and durasteel walls, the air choked with smoke and heat. Two of the clone troopers who had started the push with Dia and Zela were already down—one unconscious with a scorched pauldron and a bleeding side, another being dragged back with a cracked helmet and burned leg. The medics were doing what they could in cover, but the fight showed no sign of easing.

Dia’s grip on her saber tightened.

They pressed on.

According to the recovered map, the hallway ahead widened into a reinforced room used as barracks—a checkpoint and holdover space for rotating patrols. The door to it was ajar, a faint flicker of movement catching her sharp gaze. She didn’t hesitate.

"Saw two duck inside," one of the clones confirmed, crouched against the wall with his rifle raised.

Without a word, Dia reached for her belt and pulled two thermal detonators free. She primed them in swift, practiced motions. The glow of her saber flickered against her armor as she approached the door.

Zela looked over, about to speak—but Dia had already thrown the detonators.

One—two.

They sailed through the small gap of the partially open door with the precision of muscle memory, just as Dia reached forward and yanked the door shut with a hard pull of the Force.

The boom was immediate.

The door bulged outward from the force of the double explosion. A shockwave of pressure rattled through the corridor, sending a cloud of smoke and dust spewing from the seams around the frame. The clones nearby shielded their faces. Zela stepped back, blinking into the haze, her gut twisting with unease.

And then—a sound. Not the metallic shriek of a dying droid. Not the strangled shout of a wounded soldier.

Screams.

High-pitched. Fragile. Human.

Zela's breath caught. Her stomach turned cold.

She stepped forward, hand going to the door instinctively, her saber dimmed but still in hand. She pushed it open with a slow, cautious pull.

The room beyond was chaos.

Smoke hung thick in the air, curling like ghosts around the shattered remains of bunks. Flames licked hungrily across metal frames, casting warped shadows that danced across the stone walls. Blaster rifles lay strewn across the floor, some broken, some untouched—evidence that enemy soldiers had taken refuge here. Two lay dead near the entrance, their bodies scorched and crumpled where the detonators had landed.

But they were not alone.

Scattered across the room were figures too small for armor. Children. Civilians. Some motionless. Others crying out, whimpering, crawling toward loved ones in blind panic. The youngest were huddled together in makeshift shelters of overturned crates and thin blankets. Blood and soot smeared the floor. One small child, no older than six, was crying beside the still form of their sibling, voice barely audible over the crackle of fire.

The barracks wasn’t just a garrison point.

It had become a shelter.

Dia stood at the threshold, frozen.

She hadn’t known. There’d been no sign—no sounds, no cries, just the glimpse of movement and the decision made without hesitation, honed from war. A clean, calculated action. A tactical choice.

And still, her chest seized like she couldn’t draw breath. Her free hand trembled at her side, the other locked tight around the hilt of her saber, now dark. The smoke stung her eyes, but it was something else—something deeper—bringing the tears welling to the surface.

Zela moved forward, every step slow and careful. She knelt beside one of the smallest—a Twi’lek girl, maybe five years old, clinging to a younger sibling whose face was buried against her shoulder. Both were alive. Both were terrified. Zela deactivated her saber and slowly extended her hand, palm open.

"You're safe now," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

The child flinched.

Behind them, the clones stood still, the sounds of battle beyond the corridor seeming impossibly far away. What had moments ago been a hard-fought advance now felt like an invasion. A mistake.

Dia couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

All she could do was stand in that open doorway, watching what she had done.

She hadn’t known.

But that didn’t stop the weight of it from settling on her shoulders, heavy and real, like the mountain itself had fallen on her.

And she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to stand up straight again.

Zela took one long breath, then another, steadying herself as she turned back toward the corridor.

Dia still hadn’t moved.

Her eyes were locked on the devastation inside the room, her body rigid, lekku trailing low and lifeless behind her. The edges of her presence in the Force pulsed like torn flesh, raw and unshielded. Pain radiated from her—not the kind of injury that could be patched by a field medic, but the kind that ran deep into the soul.

Zela couldn’t let them stop here. Not now.

She turned to the nearest clone officer, her voice calm but commanding. "Get the medics in here. Secure the wounded. Separate the civilians from the dead. Render aid and set up a defensive position in this junction."

The clone nodded sharply. "Yes, Commander."

The soldiers moved quickly, professionalism guiding their steps even as the weight of the moment hung heavy in the air. Medkits were pulled. Water distributed. One trooper knelt and gently helped a sobbing child away from the body of a fallen parent, his voice low and comforting.

Zela stepped closer to Dia, her tone softening as she reached out. "Dia... you don’t have to stay here. Head back. Take the injured and help them. You’ve done enough—"

"No."

The word was hoarse. Cracked.

Dia’s eyes finally met Zela’s. Red-rimmed. Hollow. But resolute.

"I won’t leave you."

Zela hesitated, her heart twisting at the pain radiating from the woman in front of her. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Words failed her in that moment.

Dia took a breath, shaky but solid. Her grip tightened around her saber hilt—not to draw it, not yet, but to hold onto something real. Something tangible. She stepped forward, past the doorframe, toward Zela’s side.

"I won’t run from what I did," she murmured. "I won’t hide. I’m with you."

Zela nodded slowly, her expression unreadable. She didn’t reach for Dia—didn’t touch her. She knew the pain was too fresh, the wound still bleeding in the Force. But she felt it anyway. That spark of shared understanding between them, quiet and unwavering.

"Then we keep moving," Zela said at last. "We finish this."

She turned toward the corridor and motioned for the remaining squad to form up. The troopers fell in behind her and Dia. The hallway ahead still pulsed with blaster fire, the echoes of Kia’s suppressing fire growing louder again as they closed in.

Zela stepped forward.

Dia followed.

One breath at a time. One step after another.

Together.

The rest of the battle passed in a haze.

For Dia, it was all movement without thought—instinct, training, and the gentle current of the Force pulling her forward. Her saber ignited and moved, deflecting blaster bolts and carving through droids, but she barely registered it. The world had narrowed into motion and shadow, the rhythm of combat a dull throb beneath the weight that hung heavy on her shoulders. The sounds of war—blasterfire, shouted commands, the dull thud of detonations—were distant, muffled by the roar of guilt echoing endlessly in her mind.

It was Zela’s presence that kept her anchored.

Soft and steady, a quiet constant in the chaos. A touch of calm that brushed against her fractured awareness in the Force, holding her upright without words. Dia stayed close, not for tactical efficiency, but because it was the only place she could breathe. Zela didn’t speak, didn’t reach out. She simply was —a pillar of strength in a collapsing world, the stillness at the center of the storm.

Kia rejoined them not long after, sliding into position at Dia’s opposite side. Her movements were fluid, sharp, a dance of precision and control. Both WESTARs in hand, she fired in practiced, measured bursts, eliminating flanking droids and covering advancing troopers with near-effortless grace. She said nothing at first, but her eyes tracked Dia constantly, flicking to her between shots, ensuring she stayed on her feet.

When Dia faltered—just a step, a moment when her saber didn’t come up fast enough—Kia was there. A blaster bolt struck her square in the chest and flared harmlessly against her Beskar armor. She stepped into the path without hesitation, fired twice in return, and let the hiss of her breath be the only sound she made.

She didn’t ask if Dia was alright.

She didn’t need to.

She just gave a quiet grunt, low and soft, as if to say I’ve got you.

It grounded Dia more than anything else had since the barracks.

Together, the three pushed onward, deeper into the Separatist base. Corridors twisted in irregular patterns, part carved rock and part constructed alloy, the whole structure a winding fortress. The resistance grew more desperate the deeper they went—final barricades, last stands. Blaster bolts still lit the halls like stormlight, but the Republic forces were pushing hard now, reinforced and coordinated.

Zela guided them through it all, calm and focused. Dia moved beside her like a shadow, her saber rising and falling in mirrored rhythm, letting Zela’s instincts guide her. Kia swept their flanks with fire and motion, watching both Jedi’s backs and moving with a kind of fierce protectiveness that needed no declaration.

Clone troopers closed in from behind, securing rooms, aiding the wounded, and marking cleared sectors. One even paused long enough to give Dia a nod of quiet respect as he passed. She barely saw him.

Dia kept moving.

Because if she stopped—if she let herself truly feel what had happened, what she had done—she wasn’t sure she’d be able to start again.

She wasn’t sure who she would be when the silence came.

So she pressed forward.

With Zela’s steady presence like a lifeline in the Force.

With Kia’s silent strength at her side.

One breath. One step. One strike at a time.

~

The base was secured before Dia even fully registered the shift.

One moment, she was still moving through a darkened corridor, saber humming low at her side, the next—Zela’s hand gently touched her wrist, the soft pressure grounding and insistent. Dia blinked as Zela lowered her arm and reached forward, pressing the activation switch on Dia’s hilt to disengage the saber. The blade vanished with a familiar snap-hiss, leaving behind only silence and the distant sound of clone boots on metal.

"It's over," Zela said quietly.

Dia swallowed hard but said nothing.

Minutes later, they stood in the command room of the base. The walls were scarred by blasterfire and soot, consoles damaged but largely intact. Clone engineers moved with practiced efficiency, rerouting the base’s comm systems to Republic frequencies and pulling up data from the computer cores. The overhead lighting flickered, casting the room in a ghostly white hue.

Captain Rook stood at attention beside the trio, datapad in hand, giving a situation report as the last holdouts were being swept. The tactical map flickered on the holo-table between them, updated in real time. Flanking corridors marked green. Holding zones labeled secure.

Dia, Zela, and Kia stood across from their Jedi Masters, who had joined by holo from the main command center. The transmission wavered slightly as the mountain’s interference gave way to Republic signal relays.

Zela handled most of the debrief.

Clear, calm, concise. Her words outlined the assault, the flanking maneuver, the strength of resistance, and the final casualties. Kia chimed in to clarify positions, describe enemy tactics, and recommend future adjustments to mountain operations.

Dia remained quiet.

She stood with her hands folded in front of her, eyes on the holo-display, but she didn’t speak. Her lekku were drawn low, her posture more guarded than usual. Zela noticed. Kia noticed. But neither interrupted her silence.

It was only when the briefing neared its end that Emmarri, her master, spoke.

"Dia," the human Master said, her voice warm with pride, "you did well. This was a difficult assignment, and your leadership helped secure a strategic victory. You should be proud."

Something snapped.

Dia’s head jerked up, her voice erupting before she even realized she was speaking.

"Proud?!"

Everyone in the room froze.

"I killed civilians. Children. I threw those detonators and never even thought there might be more than droids and soldiers behind that door! And now I’m being told ‘well done’? That I should be proud ?"

Her voice cracked, raw and full of rage and guilt. "What part of this is something to be proud of? The bodies we couldn’t count because there weren’t enough left to count? The fact that I did exactly what I’ve been trained to do—kill fast, decide faster, and move on? And now what? We just get sent off to the next mountain, the next base, the next—next mistake?"

Her chest heaved. The silence that followed was deafening.

Even the console hum seemed quieter.

Dia’s fists were clenched at her sides, her whole frame shaking. No one dared to speak just yet—not even Emmarri.

Zela stepped closer, not touching her, but close enough that Dia could feel her presence. A soft thread of the Force brushed against her—gentle, steady, grounding.

Kia moved too, flanking Dia on the opposite side, her expression unreadable, but her stance unmistakably protective.

The three of them stood like that for a long moment.

And for the first time since the barracks, Dia didn’t feel like she was falling.

Emmarri’s projection remained quiet for a long beat, the soft static hum of the holo transmission the only sound between them. Her expression, though muted by distance and flickering interference, was hard to read. Not disappointment. Not anger. Just… solemnity. A flicker of something that could have been regret or understanding, but that never fully surfaced.

Eventually, she spoke, her tone returning to the clipped professionalism of a battlefield debrief.

"That will be all. The debrief is concluded. Get some rest while you can—the gunship will arrive tomorrow to return you to the forward camp and rejoin the main advance."

There was a pause. One heartbeat longer than necessary.

"Well done. All of you."

The holograms faded, cutting the connection.

Zela didn’t move. Neither did Kia.

Dia stared at the now-empty space where her master had stood, her jaw tight, her hands still shaking faintly.

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. It wasn’t heavy with expectation or restraint. It was the kind of silence that held something close—shared, unspoken.

Zela finally exhaled.

"Come on," she said softly. "Let’s get some air."

And the three of them left the command room together.

Dia’s breathing hitched as the silence stretched.

Then it shattered.

The dam broke.

She collapsed forward into Zela’s arms as Kia held her from behind, the sobs wracking through her body sudden and violent. Her lekku curled tight, her shoulders heaving with every breath as though each one came at a cost. Her face pressed into Zela’s collar, tears streaking down her red skin, soaking into the robes that had held her through battle after battle, but never like this. These weren’t battlefield tears. They weren’t from pain or adrenaline. They were the kind of tears that felt like they came from somewhere far beneath the skin—like cracks in a foundation long thought stable.

The kind of sobs that made you realize how long you’d been holding yourself together.

"I didn’t mean to— I didn’t know —they were just there , and I didn’t stop to think—"

Her voice shattered, dissolving into gasps and half-formed words, a confession not just of what had happened but of the guilt she could no longer carry alone. Zela pulled her closer, her own chest tight, one hand cradling Dia’s back as if to stop her from disappearing entirely, the other resting against her side, grounding.

Kia shifted behind her, strong arms wrapping tighter, her claws pressing with careful intent against Dia’s waist and ribs—into places her body already knew. Not just from the now, but from years of shared nights like this in the quiet, claw-shaped imprints etched into Dia’s skin from Zela’s hands, from Kia’s quiet support. A tactile memory of trust.

Dia’s body reacted before her mind caught up. The trembling slowed. Her breathing didn’t ease, but it no longer fought itself. Her pain, though not lessened, was no longer alone.

And then Zela’s claws dug into Dia too—sharper than Kia’s, familiar, deliberate. They found the same marks she had pressed into Dia a hundred times before in moments like this. Small, shallow imprints along her ribs and sides, old and half-faded but not forgotten. Like pressure points for the soul. Dia’s body recognized the touch. Her trembling slowed.

But as Dia wept, something in Zela finally cracked.

She let her head fall forward, forehead resting against Dia’s. Her voice, when it came, was raw and trembling.

"I keep trying to hold everything together," she whispered. "Every mission, every loss... Every clone that doesn’t come back. And every time I tell myself I can’t cry, that I have to be the calm one. The Jedi. But I hear them, Dia. I hear the fear in their voices when they talk about being wounded. Not dying. Just wounded. Because if they lose an arm, a leg— they won’t be patched up. They’ll be replaced."

Her voice caught, a sharp intake of breath.

"They’re afraid of being reprocessed . Sent back to Kamino, erased, reassigned. They joke about it in the mess halls, but I can feel the truth under it. And I can’t stop it. I’m supposed to protect them. But I can’t . And I hate that. I hate it."

Kia’s arms tightened around them both.

"And I’m not even supposed to be here," she murmured. "I left Death Watch because I thought I knew what was right. Because I thought I could live by a code again. But then you’re out there in the dirt and the heat and some Hutt-lord wants a girl returned to her family, and you realize he thinks she’s property. And the credits are too good to ask questions."

She swallowed hard, voice low and bitter.

"You tell yourself it’s for survival. For another fuel cell. Another ration run. And then one day you don’t look in the mirror anymore. Because you’re afraid of what’s looking back. Because it’s someone who’s done things she swore she never would."

The tent was filled with three voices. Three sets of pain. Three truths, long buried, now laid bare.

None of them bled from open wounds. But they were still wounded. Scarred in ways that couldn’t be treated with bacta. Splintered beneath armor and instinct and Force meditation.

And none of them pulled away.

Zela’s forehead remained against Dia’s. Kia’s claws stayed firm but gentle at Dia’s waist. Dia’s sobs, though ragged, began to soften.

There were no words of comfort. No platitudes.

Just presence.

And in that presence, a promise.

You’re not alone.

After the storm came the quiet.

None of them spoke, not because there was nothing left to say, but because they’d said everything that mattered. The outpouring of emotion had left them raw, unshielded—but together. And that togetherness was what gave them the strength to move at all.

Exhaustion settled into their bones, heavy and final.

Slowly, carefully, they began to undress. The process was unhurried—no urgency, no battlefield adrenaline, only the quiet ritual of shedding what no longer served them. Each movement was gentle, almost reverent, like they were peeling away not just clothes but grief, guilt, and everything heavy they could no longer bear. Their robes and battle-stained undersuits came off in layers, marked with soot, dried sweat, and the residue of violence that clung to them like ash.

Zela moved first, guiding Dia through each fastening and buckle with quiet precision. Her fingers were steady, her breath soft. She helped Dia out of the remaining pieces of her clothing, hands never rushing. There was something intimate in the care—something that spoke of years of shared spaces and deeper understanding. Dia let her, her body heavy and pliant with exhaustion, her breath slow and unguarded.

Kia was silent as she stripped off her armor, her motions methodical. She stacked each piece in the corner of the tent with careful precision, but her eyes—when they occasionally flicked toward Dia and Zela—were full of something softer. Longing. Worry. Devotion. Her armor had shielded her body, but her soul wore its own bruises, and they showed in the way she carried herself now—exposed, tender.

Once undressed, the three of them pulled their bedrolls together, forming one shared cocoon of blankets and padding. It was something they had done before on cold nights, before war had made closeness feel like a luxury. But tonight it wasn’t just a tradition. It was a necessity. It was the only thing keeping the world from cracking open beneath them.

They curled into each other, drawn by instinct and something deeper.

Dia in the middle, held by both like a heartbeat between two lungs. Her back pressed against Zela’s chest, her face nestled into the warmth beneath Kia’s chin. Her one arm draped loosely across Kia’s waist, fingers brushing fur and feeling it ripple softly beneath her touch. Kia’s fur was warm, a comfort against the hairless skin of Dia and Zela, a gentle, grounding contrast that made Dia sigh—a deep, quiet sound of surrender.

Zela molded herself around Dia’s back, her body fitting with a familiarity born of years, of trust, of countless nights curled close in meditation, or sorrow, or both. Her claws settled against Dia’s stomach, digging in just enough to be known. They touched the same places they always did—small, faded indentations they had carved together through shared nights of need. Each touch whispered, I’m here. I won’t let you fall.

Kia’s arms enveloped them both.

Not one of them said a word. None were needed.

The silence wasn’t hollow. It was sacred. Protective. The kind that said I see you. I’m with you. We are safe.

Three bruised souls, tangled together beneath a mountain sky.

And the chill of the world—of war, of memory, of fear—couldn’t reach them here.

And for a little while, they didn’t have to be Jedi, or warriors, or survivors.

They could just be.

Together.

~~

Morning came slow, veiled in a pale grey light that filtered through the thin tent walls. The mountain air was cold and damp with the early dew, but inside the shared cocoon of blankets and tangled limbs, warmth lingered—thick, living warmth, woven from skin, fur, and trust.

Dia stirred first, her breathing shallow beneath the press of weight that held her from both sides. Her limbs were pinned, her muscles slack with exhaustion, but her heart beat steady between them. She blinked slowly, her body aching in a way that had nothing to do with battle fatigue. It was the ache of feeling everything at once—pain, love, release.

Kia’s arms were wrapped tightly around her waist from the front, the soft brush of her fur against Dia’s bare stomach making her shiver with pleasure despite the lingering warmth. Behind her, Zela had one leg hooked over her thighs and her arms curled around Dia’s ribs, claws digging into her side where old imprints had become near-sacred markers of safety. They’d pierced the skin slightly overnight, and the sting made Dia’s breath catch—but it wasn’t pain. It was belonging.

She exhaled softly, letting her head rest against Kia’s throat, feeling the slow rhythm of her pulse. Every mark, every pressure point, grounded her like nothing else could.

Zela shifted next, brushing her nose against Dia’s shoulder, her breath warm and steady. Then, without a word, she sank her fangs into Dia’s shoulder—not to hurt, not to possess, but to tether. To remind both of them of their place—here, alive, together. It was a gesture as old as their bond, a primal comfort, a silent prayer. We made it. I’m with you.

Dia didn’t flinch. She sighed, her eyes fluttering half-shut, her body relaxing into the bite like it was an embrace. Her legs untensed, her fingers flexed. Her muscles uncoiled as a tremor passed through her—not fear, not pain, but something between surrender and serenity. She felt Zela’s heartbeat through her back.

Kia stirred next, her amber eyes watching the way Dia leaned into Zela’s fangs with trust so complete it made her chest ache. Her head lifted, muzzle brushing slowly over Dia’s collarbone. She hesitated—eyes full of longing, need, a vulnerable softness she rarely showed.

Her mouth parted.

"Can I..." she whispered. The words stuck. Her throat closed. She blinked, frustrated with herself.

But Dia understood.

She turned her head slightly, voice hushed, breathless with the intimacy of it all. "You can."

Kia’s expression cracked into something fragile and open. She leaned in, brushing her nose against Dia’s neck, then parted her jaws and bit down—slow, careful, sure. Her teeth sank into Dia’s opposite shoulder, pressing deep but without harm, practiced without cruelty. Her breath came fast afterward, nose pressed to Dia’s skin.

Dia gasped, her entire body shuddering. She bit her lip, stifling the sound that wanted to break free. A flush spread over her cheeks, and her eyes slipped shut. She was wrapped in heat, in teeth, in the firm grounding of claws and breath and love.

There was something indescribably whole in being between them—Zela’s bite, Kia’s fur and fangs, the press of two bodies that had carried her through fire and fear. They held her like she mattered. Like she was sacred.

She was pierced. She was known. She was theirs .

Zela’s teeth remained in her skin. Kia’s breath was a soft hum against her throat.

And Dia let herself go completely, cradled in the intimacy and unspoken devotion of the two people who had become her entire world.

~

The next few days passed in a steady rhythm—slow, purposeful steps through muddy trails and winding paths as they advanced toward the fortified city. The Republic force was back in motion, reinforced and reorganized, with the trio of Dia, Zela, and Kia once again at the heart of the movement.

But something had changed.

There was a new closeness between them—not just in their formations or the way they covered one another during patrols, but in the way their eyes lingered when they thought no one else saw. The way Zela’s hand would find Dia’s without needing to say a word, or the way Kia’s shoulder would brush theirs in passing, a silent affirmation: I’m still here. They shared rations without asking. Helped each other with gear and bindings without needing explanation. At night, they rested closer. In the rare moments of privacy, they would curl together with quiet reverence, every touch a balm, every breath shared between them a reminder of what they had found.

They spoke more now. Not often. Not loudly. But when they did, the words carried weight. There was no place for platitudes between them anymore—only truths. Even when those truths were hard.

It was on one such morning, under the dull haze of overcast skies, that they walked ahead of the main line, silence stretching comfortable between them until Kia finally broke it.

"I didn’t think I’d ever have this," she said, her voice low, like she didn’t trust it not to break. "Not just a squad. Not comrades. But you two ."

Zela glanced at her, quiet. Dia looked up, waiting.

Kia continued, eyes on the horizon. "I’ve always been good alone. Learned early how to be. Death Watch didn’t exactly reward connection. And after that... I didn’t let myself hope there could be more than the next job. The next target. But then there was you. And you didn’t ask me to be anything I wasn’t. You didn’t expect me to pretend I didn’t care."

She paused, breath hitching. Her voice softened more.

"And now I wake up and I’m not alone. I see your faces first thing in the morning, feel your arms around me at night. I don’t know what that makes me—what kind of person I am—but I know I don’t want to go back to being just me. You two… you make the world feel less sharp. Less empty. I didn’t realize how much I needed that until it was already part of me."

Dia’s eyes burned as she listened, her throat tight. She looked down, trying to breathe, but everything she wanted to say tangled in her chest.

Zela stepped closer, her hand brushing Dia’s again, then taking it fully, lacing their fingers. Her grip was steady. Quietly reassuring.

Dia drew in a breath, eyes fixed on the fog ahead. She spoke slowly, each word edged with grief and vulnerability. "I keep thinking about the barracks. About what I did. About how it could happen again. How I might not think, or move too fast, and next time it won’t just be civilians. It could be one of ours. One of the troopers who trusts me. Who follows my orders."

Her voice cracked.

"What if I lose control again? What if I make the wrong call, and they die because of me? I don’t know if I’m strong enough to keep going if that happens. If I fail again."

Zela’s fingers tightened around hers. Not too tight. Just enough to say I hear you. I’m here. Her presence in the Force opened gently, brushing against Dia’s frayed edges without pressing in, soothing her without smothering. Zela didn’t say anything yet, just stood with her, breathing with her.

Kia didn’t offer words either. Instead, she reached across Dia’s other side, her hand resting lightly on her back, a steady warmth that radiated through the layers of cloth and armor. Her claws gently pressed against the small of Dia’s back—just enough to be felt. Not to restrain, but to remind.

They walked in silence for a while, the murmur of the marching troops behind them fading into the background.

Eventually, Zela spoke, her voice barely above the whisper of the wind. "You're not alone, Dia. You never were. And you don’t have to carry it all yourself. We can carry it together."

Dia didn’t answer right away. But her steps steadied. Her shoulders lifted slightly. Her fingers squeezed Zela’s hand in return.

They didn’t pretend it would be okay.

They didn’t promise it wouldn’t happen again.

But they were there . Fully. Completely. A breath, a heartbeat, a shared space in the storm.

And in that simple, unwavering truth, Dia found the strength to take the next step forward.

One more step. And then another.

Together.

~~

The night was still, but Dia's mind was anything but.

As the others slept curled against her, the Force pulled at her—not harshly, but insistently, like a hand gripping the hem of her robe and guiding her elsewhere. Her breath hitched in her sleep, lekku twitching slightly, and then her awareness slipped away from the present.

She opened her eyes into another world.

Smoke. Ash. The metallic tang of blood in the air. The town around her was abandoned, buildings cracked and crumbling, the streets littered with debris. A storm rolled above, casting long shadows that felt wrong. Heavy. Cloaked in darkness that reeked of the Dark Side. She wasn’t in her armor from the present—she wore something heavier, dark and trimmed in silver and red, plates of Mandalorian beskar molded perfectly to her form. It felt well-worn. Familiar. Twin lightsabers hung from her hips, balanced by blasters holstered at her thighs.

Blaster fire echoed ahead.

She turned and saw them.

Zela, moving with fierce elegance even in the weight of her own full beskar armor, marked with a deep violet trim that gleamed in the dim light. Her double-bladed lightsaber spun and flashed as she cut through an enemy line, but her movements had grown heavier. Her left side was dented, the armor scorched, blood trickling from beneath her right gauntlet. Every blow she landed was bought with effort.

Kia—helmet off for the moment, her fur streaked with soot and ash, her muzzle bared in a low snarl—moved with blistering speed, blasters firing in sweeping arcs. Her armor was scorched across the chest, and one leg showed signs of a limp, her gait altered. A fresh blaster graze smoked at her ribs where the beskar had absorbed the worst of the shot but not the force behind it.

And around them, fighting, scrambling, defending… four children.

A Miraluka girl, face covered by a patterned cloth wrap, moving with surprising precision for someone so young. Her shoulder was scorched, her sleeve burned away to reveal reddened skin—Ailyn.

Two girls with lekku and montrals, both younger, both fighting with blasters too big for their frames. Kava’s arm shook slightly from a close impact; Nera’s leg was bleeding where shrapnel had bitten through the softer sections of her armor. But they stood firm.

And a fourth—a young Vharu’kel girl, Shin, tail flicking with barely concealed fear, but her teeth bared and her stance low and determined. She had a shallow cut above her eye, blood streaking one side of her muzzle, but she didn’t falter.

They moved together. Protected one another. They weren’t just a family.

They were hers .

"Sinni, behind you!" Kava shouted.

Dia turned on instinct, both lightsabers igniting in a brilliant snap-hiss, intercepting a red blade inches from her side. The impact jolted her arms, and she staggered, feeling the force of the blow rattle down her bones. The one attacking her wore black and red armor, face obscured by a helmet with a mask sculpted like a predator. The blade hummed with dark energy. An Inquisitor.

More surrounded them. Flashes of crimson everywhere. And behind the lines—figures in jet-black armor with red visors, blaster rifles at the ready. They moved like clones—but they weren’t. The Force around them was cold and controlled. Purge Troopers —Dia didn’t know the name, but the wrongness of them soaked into her bones.

The trap had been perfect.

They were surrounded, pressed into the center of the ruined town. Zela’s lightsaber carved a path through the enemy ranks, her movements more labored now, defensive. Bruises were forming across her ribs. One side of her face had a cut trailing from temple to cheek, dried blood staining the edge of her helmet.

Kia shouted orders, voice hoarse, chest rising in shallow gasps between volleys. Her shoulder jerked from another close shot. Explosions rattled the walls around them, and every blast drew them closer together. The children were pulling back, desperate but determined.

They were already losing.

And then—

The air changed.

It wasn't just suffocating. It was crushing . The atmosphere turned viscous, heavy like thick tar in the lungs. The Force recoiled, the light retreating as if afraid to touch what had just arrived.

Out of the smoke, slow and deliberate, came a figure clad in obsidian black. Not armor— judgment . His presence alone screamed of finality. The red blade ignited with a sound that felt like the end of all things. Dia didn’t recognize the figure, but the Force did . And it cowered.

A dark mask, expressionless, eternal. A walking void.

His very existence was agony to the senses. The Force twisted around him—not absent, but corrupted . Dominated . He radiated raw, brutal power—like a star turned inward, collapsing upon itself. A black hole in humanoid form.

Dia felt her knees weaken, her grip on her sabers falter. Her breath caught in her throat. Her soul shrieked in instinctual terror.

Darth Vader had arrived.

Dia froze. Something in her soul screamed —not in surprise, but in primal recognition. A cry as old as the Force itself.

Every instinct told her to run, to protect the children, to do something , but her limbs refused to move. The sheer gravity of his presence had sunk into her bones, anchoring her in place like stone.

Zela stepped in front of the children, blades igniting anew with a snap-hiss, stance wide and protective despite the tremble in her muscles. Kia snarled low and sharp, her blasters raised and steady even though her eyes betrayed the fear churning inside.

Dia’s heart thundered in her chest like it might tear itself apart.

The dark figure didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The Force bent around him like a storm spiral around its eye. He was not rage—he was the void after rage, the silence after screams. Not fury, but execution. Cold, efficient. Final.

The family— her family —closed ranks, pressing shoulder to shoulder, armor scraped and scorched, hearts pounding in synchronicity as they faced something none of them were prepared for.

Dia’s vision blurred, but it wasn’t from the smoke. The pressure behind her eyes, behind her mind , was mounting.

The vision pulsed—cold, vivid, cruel.

And she couldn’t wake up.

She was trapped in this future, heart in her throat, watching everything she loved stand against death incarnate. And in her bones, she feared it would not be enough.

The darkness collapsed in on itself.

For a breathless moment, Dia felt the crushing weight of the battlefield vanish—as if someone had pulled her through the eye of a storm and out into sunlight.

When she opened her eyes again, everything had changed.

Gone was the ruined town. Gone were the screams, the clash of lightsabers, and the shadow of death that had loomed over them. In their place was a ship’s interior—familiar and warm. The hum of engines. The subtle vibration beneath her boots. The lighting was soft, golden with age and comfort.

It smelled like home.

The family moved around her, alive and unbroken.

Kia leaned against the wall in the galley, laughing quietly at something Shin had said. Zela was standing by the central table, arm wrapped around Dia’s waist, datapad in her free hand as she double-checked a mission briefing. The girls were sprawled out nearby—Ailyn guiding Kava and Nera through a tactical simulation, while Shin sat perched on the edge of a chair, tail flicking with quiet interest.

They were all dressed in light armor—personalized, clearly theirs. Not ready for battle, just prepared. Comfortable. Safe.

The mission they were prepping for was simple—support for a Fulcrum cell. Ahsoka’s name scrolled across the header of the report.

No tension. No dread. Just the quiet routine of family life in the stars.

Dia's heart ached.

She knew this wasn’t real. The Force pulsed with that surreal clarity that visions always had. A layer of unreality painted over the details. Everything was too warm, too perfect, too still. And yet… the weight in her chest swelled, pressing harder with every passing second, until it became unbearable.

Zela turned toward her, smiling softly. "You okay?"

Dia opened her mouth—and broke.

Her knees gave out, and she crumpled into Zela’s arms, her sobs tearing free in loud, ragged gasps. Her whole frame trembled as if coming apart, as if the grief she’d carried for years had finally found a place to shatter. Zela caught her instinctively, arms around her, heart thudding in confusion and sudden fear.

Kia dropped down beside them in a heartbeat, one hand reaching out to gently cup Dia’s face, the other rubbing soothing circles along her back, her eyes wide and shining with worry.

"Dia—hey—hey, breathe—what’s going on? What’s wrong?" she asked, voice trembling.

The children stood nearby, frozen in a tableau of silent heartbreak. They weren’t frightened—just sad. Familiar. Knowing.

Dia gasped for breath, words choking out between sobs. "I—I can’t—I can’t stay. This isn’t real. It feels real, but it’s not. I’m not here—I’m still… I’m still on Kabal. Still in the war. I’m going to wake up there. I always do."

She covered her face with her hand. "And I don’t want to go. Please. I don’t want to leave this. Leave you ."

Zela's expression crumpled, her arms tightening. "Mesh'la..."

Kia leaned her forehead against Dia’s. "We’re here. You’re not alone—not now, not ever."

Dia looked at them both, her eyes red and full of longing. "I don’t think I deserve this. Any of you. It’s too good. It’s too much."

"You're ours," Kia said, fierce and unshaking. "Even when it hurts. Even when it feels impossible. You are ours."

Zela nodded, voice raw. "You don’t have to earn love, Dia. You just have to let yourself feel it."

The children came forward, surrounding them. Nera slipped her small hand into Dia’s, squeezing tightly. Kava leaned against her arm. Ailyn stood protectively nearby, while Shin nestled quietly against her side, her breath warm and steady.

"You’ll find us," Kava said.

"You always do," Ailyn added, soft and certain.

Dia clung to them like a drowning woman.

As the light shifted and the stars outside the viewport bent in slow, quiet arcs, the vision pulling at its seams, she held tighter.

"We love you," Zela whispered.

"Always," Kia echoed.

Dia wept harder. Because part of her believed them.

And the other part feared she never would.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XXVI

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

The city loomed in the distance like a wound carved into the mountainside, its walls scorched, smoke curling from shattered towers. Thunder cracked through the sky—not from a storm, but from the endless exchange of artillery fire. Republic guns on the ridge to the north belched fire and fury with metronomic rhythm, answered by Separatist shells from deep within the city’s defenses. The earth shuddered with every hit, each blast another reminder of how long they'd been fighting, how deep the cost had already become.

In the husk of a ruined factory overlooking the city’s outer district, the Republic’s forward command post had been carved from broken ferrocrete and scavenged durasteel plating. Burn marks stained the walls, and half of the roof had collapsed under previous bombardments, leaving only a jagged skeletal frame above their heads. The smell of dust, smoke, and ozone clung to everything—an unrelenting mixture of war.

Dia stood near one of the jagged windows, watching the flashes of distant fire reflect in her eyes. Her lekku twitched with every distant impact, her face unreadable, jaw set tight beneath the tension in her shoulders. She wore her armor still, though the plates were dulled with grime, scorched in several places, and carrying faint gouges from close encounters. Her lightsabers hung at her hips, untouched but ever present, like a weight she couldn’t let go of.

Zela stood just behind her, not close enough to touch but within reach, as always. Her eyes were locked on the tactical display mounted against the far wall, the faint hum of its power core the only constant tone amid the chaos outside. Her arms were crossed, though one hand occasionally drifted toward her saber unconsciously. Her montrals twitched with every shift in the ambient noise, the sounds of artillery like distant thunder rolling through her skull.

Kia leaned against a cracked support beam, helmet off and tucked under one arm, the other wiping dirt from her face with a rag. Her fur was matted in places with ash and sweat, her eyes rimmed with fatigue that no amount of sleep could fix. She was quiet, observing everything, her gaze flicking between her two Jedi and the ever-changing map projected across the command table. The deep blues and purples of her armor were dulled, streaked with soot.

Captain Zell, of Hunter Company, paced just off to the side, conferring with Captain Rook of Gizka Company over a datapad. Both wore the grime of weeks in the field, armor marked by wear but still holding strong. Their helmets sat on a nearby crate, scuffed and dented. Clones moved with practiced efficiency around them, some relaying comm chatter, others delivering updated intel on droid formations. There was a constant undercurrent of motion in the room, a rhythm of survival and preparation, but everything felt slowed—muted by exhaustion and the weight of what they all knew was coming.

"They’ve reinforced the western gate again," Zell was saying, voice clipped with fatigue. "Our scouts confirm at least two AATs dug into entrenched positions, plus a minefield laid through the old transport corridor. We might be able to breach with a double artillery volley and a two-prong push through the supply quarter, but the droids are dug in deeper than expected."

"It’s going to be close-quarters. Brutal," Rook added, his tone grim. "But the men are ready. We’ve been preparing for this since we landed on Kabal. Just say the word."

Dia didn’t turn from the window. Her voice, when it came, was low and steady. "How many civilians left in the city?"

Zell hesitated, shifting his weight, the datapad lowering just slightly in his hand.

"Not many. Most were evacuated months ago when the front shifted, but some stayed behind. Refugees, too scared to leave. Families with nowhere to go. Some didn’t believe the Republic would ever reach this far."

Zela’s jaw tensed visibly. She turned to the display again, her hands tightening into fists. The idea of more civilians caught in another siege, caught between the Republic and Separatists, was too familiar, too painful.

Kia didn’t speak. But her grip on her helmet tightened until her claws creaked softly against the metal.

The war was marching forward. And so were they.

Whether they were ready or not.

And behind each of their silence lay something deeper—guilt, fear, determination. Dia could feel it in Zela, in Kia, in the men around them. This was no longer about victories or tactics. It was about survival. About making sure the people behind them had a future worth surviving for. And every inch they took would be another step into the fire.

~~

Blaster fire lit up the shattered streets like a hellish sunrise, casting flickering shadows against the ruins of the outer city.

The second assault on the city had begun.

Dia moved low and fast through the broken terrain of the district, leading a wedge of Hunter Company forward through narrow, rubble-choked streets. Smoke hung thick in the air, curling like poisonous mist around collapsed walls and the skeletal frames of shattered buildings. The scent of ozone, scorched durasteel, and burning plastoid clung to every breath, the stench of war saturating her lungs. Her lightsaber stayed unlit for the moment—there was too much cover, too many places for ambushes, to risk giving away her position with the telltale glow. But it was in her hand, humming softly, ready to strike.

Captain Zell crouched beside her behind the twisted wreckage of a civilian transport, his command squad fanned out along the edge of the lane. His armor bore new scorches and the residue of near-misses, but his expression was steady. He wasn’t just a commander—he was a soldier in the trenches with his men, and his presence here meant something. His voice crackled softly in Dia’s comm, low and focused.

“Gizka Company is beginning their push. Rook and Zela are hitting the southern barricade. We need to take this corridor and reach the power junction to disable the shield grid.”

Dia gave a slow nod, her lekku twitching slightly with the tension in her muscles. "Copy. We’ll breach on my mark. Tell the artillery crews to hold fire—we're going to be in tight."

Behind them, ARF Sergeant Rose gestured to her section with precise hand signals. The members of her squad moved forward, fanning out in twos across the shattered roadway. Their scout armor, marked with new green stripes in quiet tribute to Solar, was scuffed and patched. They had returned to the field after recovering from their injuries, but the absence of their fallen comrade lingered in their silence, in the sharpness of their focus. There was a resolve in their movements that spoke not of vengeance, but duty.

Rose herself remained quiet, her helmet’s visor catching the dim light as she glanced toward Dia. She offered a curt nod, no words needed. They would follow. They always did.

Kia crouched just over Dia’s shoulder, her lean frame tense and ready, both WESTAR-35s gripped in her hands. Her armor—deep blue and dark violet, streaked with soot—was battered but whole, the polished metal dulled by the fire and ash of days of fighting. Her tail flicked once, restrained beneath her armor, her ears twitching beneath her helmet as she focused on the subtle sound of distant battle. The whine of repulsorlifts. The heavy thump of a nearby explosion. Another AAT spinning up somewhere further in.

She leaned in close, her voice rasping over the squad channel. “We need to move fast. That gunship’s on standby for a strafing run, but only if we can clear the zone in the next few minutes. If we don’t, we’re going to be the ones getting lit up.”

Dia looked at her, their eyes meeting for just a second. A shared breath. Then Dia turned back toward the alley.

“On my lead.”

She raised her lightsaber, thumb brushing the activation plate. The emerald blade snapped to life with a defiant hiss, casting a green glow across the broken pavement.

And then she surged forward.

Hunter Company followed without hesitation. Zell moved with his squad to cover the left flank, while Rose and her scouts spread right, hugging the shattered storefronts and alleys. Kia kept pace at Dia’s side, blasters raised, tracking motion ahead.

Blaster fire erupted from the far end of the corridor, red bolts screaming toward them through the haze. The air turned electric, the noise deafening. One of the troopers took a hit and dropped with a cry, armor scorched black across the shoulder. His brother hauled him into cover, barking for a medic.

Dia’s lightsaber moved in wide arcs, reflecting bolt after bolt with precision and calm focus. She ducked and spun, stepping over debris and slicing through a pair of B1s as they emerged from a storefront. Her movements were clean, efficient—a dancer in war.

Kia fired in controlled pairs, dropping droids with merciless speed. A commando droid tried to flank them, but Kia wheeled and put two shots into its chestplate before it could raise its weapon. She reloaded without looking, moving like a shadow alongside Dia.

“More coming up on the left!” Zell shouted. “They’re trying to funnel us into the side alley!”

Dia didn’t pause. “Rose, flank and sweep that alley. We’ll draw the main fire!”

Rose gave a sharp, “Copy!” and signaled her scouts forward.

The fighting thickened, the resistance growing fiercer as they pressed deeper toward the junction. The Separatists were throwing everything they had into holding this sector. But Dia didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Not with Zela on the other front. Not with everything riding on this push.

They were going to break through.

Or burn trying.

~

Zela moved like a silent storm.

Her emerald lightsaber flashed in tight, efficient arcs as she led Gizka Company through the shattered husks of city buildings. The assault from the southern flank was already underway, and every inch they gained was met with a hail of blaster fire, crumbling duracrete, and the acrid tang of smoke and ionized air. The city fought back with every corner, every collapsed rooftop, every alleyway rigged with mines or programmed sentries.

The street ahead had once been a residential zone—now it was a warzone. Homes were torn open, walls caved in, furniture blasted into splinters. Above them, clotheslines still flapped in the breeze through shattered windows. The ghosts of civilian life were everywhere. Toys scattered in doorways. A broken holoframe flickering beside the remains of a staircase. The echoes of a life lived now drowned beneath the drumbeat of war.

Captain Rook was close behind her, issuing orders to his squads as they leapfrogged from cover to cover. His tone was steady, but even through the comms the weight of exhaustion pressed against every word. The clones moved with precision, trained instinct pushing them forward, but their steps were heavier now. Shoulders slumped more than they should. Movements just a breath slower. They had been fighting too long.

Zela took point, the humming green blade of her weapon casting strange shadows across the walls. She felt the Force flowing through her like a river—no, like a storm held barely in check. It surged with the adrenaline of battle, but deeper, she felt the weight of all those following her. The lives behind her saber. The cost of every decision. Every inch gained.

A pair of B2 droids burst from an alley ahead, their cannons charging. Zela pivoted on instinct, saber twirling to intercept the first salvo. One bolt sizzled past her ear, searing a black line across the wall behind her. She lunged forward, robes flaring as she bounded over a collapsed support beam, her saber arcing in a green blur. The first droid fell in two smoking halves.

Rook’s squad opened fire on the second before it could adjust. Their shots were clean, coordinated, merciless. The machine buckled under the volley, metal clattering to the rubble-choked street.

"We’re halfway to the secondary barricade," Rook called over the comm. "Holding formation. They’re digging in tighter than expected."

Zela’s voice came back low but firm. "We push through. We break them before they can regroup."

She pressed forward, ignoring the ache in her shoulders, the sweat trickling down her back beneath her robes and armor. Her legs burned, muscles tight from constant movement, but she didn’t falter. Not while others followed her lead.

A sharp cry cut through the comms—a clone wounded ahead. Zela veered, vaulting a fallen durasteel beam, and reached him just as the next wave of droids spilled from a nearby doorway. Her saber spun into a defensive wall, deflecting blaster bolts as medics pulled the trooper into cover. Another inch. Another step.

She could feel Dia's presence—faint, but steady. Burning bright like a steady flame in the cold wind of the Force. Somewhere not far now, her other half moved through the chaos, carving her own path toward the heart of the city.

Zela exhaled slowly, centering herself for just a moment.

They would meet in the center. They would take the city.

Together.

And after that? Zela didn’t know. She couldn’t think beyond this moment, this battlefield. But she clung to the bond that pulsed between her and Dia like a lifeline—constant, unbreakable. Even through the darkness, it endured.

And so would she.

~

The roar of war echoed around them—blasterfire ricocheting off stone and durasteel, shouted orders, the hum of speeders roaring past barricades. Gizka and Hunter Companies had made significant progress, pushing deep into the city's southern districts. Smoke rose in curling plumes across the skyline, and still, the Republic soldiers advanced, step by agonizing step.

Dia moved through the narrow streets, emerald lightsaber dancing through the haze, deflecting bolts and cutting down droids with each step. Her jaw was tight, face focused and hard, but every movement was sharp—precise. Purposeful. The weight of command bore down on her shoulders like her armor, familiar and unrelenting.

Kia flanked her right, blasters in hand, firing tight pairs of shots that dropped Separatist infantry as they tried to regroup. Her movements were fluid, natural, born from instinct and endless training. Her breath came in steady bursts through her helmet's rebreather, ears twitching beneath her helm as comms crackled in her ear. She could feel the tension radiating from Dia, but neither of them broke stride. They worked like extensions of one another.

Then—

A quiet chime.

Not over the comm. Not battle chatter.

Her personal tracker. A bounty signal. Flickering red and insistent on her gauntlet display, pulsing with proximity and urgency. It was unmistakable.

Kia froze for just a second. She tapped the display, confirming the signal. It wasn’t just a misfire. Her mark—the one she'd been hunting before Kabal, the one that had slipped through her fingers again and again—was here. Not just on the planet. Nearby. Moving west, away from Dia’s front.

She turned slightly, tension winding through her body like coiled wire.

Dia noticed instantly, eyes flicking over. Her voice came soft but clear, despite the noise of combat around them. "It’s your mark."

Kia nodded once, silent.

For a heartbeat, they didn’t speak. The battlefield buzzed with chaos, but between them, it was quiet. Still. The space between them felt heavier than any shell blast.

"Go," Dia said at last, masking the crack in her voice with effort. "I’ve got this front."

Kia’s helmet tilted, just slightly. "You sure?"

"They need me here," Dia answered, gesturing to the line, to the clones regrouping behind them. Her voice was resolute, but her heart was already aching with the absence she knew was coming. "But take backup. Rose—"

The ARF sergeant stepped up immediately, visor gleaming beneath her scorched scout helm. "Yes, Commander."

"Go with her," Dia ordered. "Take your section. Flank and support."

Rose hesitated, eyes flicking between the Jedi and the Mandalorian. There was a question in her silence, a moment of doubt—but then she nodded. "Understood."

Kia turned toward Rose, blasters reloaded and ready. "You good to keep up?"

"We’ve been keeping up with Jedi," Rose deadpanned. "You’re fast, but not that fast."

They shared a grin beneath their helmets, an acknowledgment of mutual respect forged in battle.

And then they were off.

Kia surged ahead, fast and low, the ARFs gliding behind her in practiced formation. Their armor was streaked with ash and dust, but they moved like shadows through the shattered streets.

They wove through rubble-strewn corridors, ducking between broken walls and alleys scorched by fire and cratered from artillery blasts. The destruction was total. Shattered buildings loomed over them like silent witnesses to the battle. Each step forward brought the tracker’s signal closer.

After several minutes, they paused behind the remains of a vendor stall, half its roof collapsed, a rusted food sign dangling at an angle. Kia adjusted her gauntlet, checking direction and distance.

Rose broke the silence.

"Thank you," she said, quietly.

Kia blinked behind her visor. "For what?"

"For being there. When Commander Dia lost her arm. You got her to safety. You were the one who stayed."

Kia looked away, the memory flashing through her—Dia screaming, blood everywhere, clutching her saber like it was the only thing keeping her alive. Kia lifting her, running through fire. She swallowed. "I was just—"

"And here. On Kabal. You’ve been at her side through all this. You’ve helped her keep fighting, even when it was hard to. You might not wear our armor, but the Legion remembers. And we don’t forget." Rose’s voice softened. "Thank you. From all of us."

Kia was quiet for a long moment. Her ears flicked slightly, tail still behind her. She exhaled slowly.

"I’m glad she has you. All of you. She and Zela... they deserve people like that. Loyal. Steady. I haven’t... always had that."

"Maybe now you do," Rose said simply, her voice low but full of conviction.

Kia gave a small, genuine smile beneath her helmet, one no one could see—but it was there. Real. "Maybe."

Then she nodded to the alley ahead, the bounty's signal pulsing in the shadows. "Come on. Let’s go catch a ghost."

The ARFs fell in beside her, weapons ready.

They moved swiftly across the rooftops, the ruined city spread out beneath them in shades of smoke and shadow. The signal from Kia's tracker pulsed steadily on her gauntlet display, narrowing with every step. Rose and her ARF troopers moved with practiced grace, barely making a sound as they ducked and slid across the debris-strewn surface.

Ahead, the target structure loomed—a low, windowless warehouse wedged between the broken husks of former apartment blocks. Its roof was reinforced, but not enough to hold against a determined assault. The tracker pinged one final time.

"He's in there," Kia muttered into her comm, her voice tight with focus.

Rose signaled her team. They spread out, laying breaching charges across the roof. The countdown blinked on each charge in tandem with the soft hissing beep.

Kia adjusted the controls on her gauntlet, flexing her fingers, blasters already in hand. Her jetpack hissed softly, primed and ready. The familiar tension settled in her bones—the clarity before a drop.

The charges detonated in synchronized flashes.

The reinforced duracrete roof buckled with a low, cracking roar, chunks of rubble and dust plummeting into the warehouse below in a thunderous cascade. The entire upper structure groaned under the force of the breaching charges, sending fractured beams and jagged slabs tumbling into the gloom. A thick cloud of dust erupted in the interior, swallowing the floor in swirling gray.

Through that cloud, the ARFs descended like ghosts. Their quick lines hissed as they dropped, their dark armor silhouettes emerging through the debris-choked air. Dust still rained around them as their boots hit the floor in synchronized motion, rifles raised and scanning without hesitation. It was as if they'd fallen with the rubble itself, rising from the haze with lethal intent.

Kia followed an instant later, jetpack flaring in a burst of blue fire that scattered dust and ash in all directions. She descended through the breach like a meteor, landing in a crouch atop a shipping crate with a heavy thud just as the last rubble crashed down. Her blasters were already up, trained dead center.

The arms dealer stood surrounded by stacked containers of weapons—old Republic and Separatist crates alike. The tall, pale-skinned Rattataki's tattooed head turned sharply at the intrusion, eyes narrowing. He stood in mid-negotiation with two senior Separatist officials—a Neimoidian in elaborate robes and a scarred Quarren officer, both frozen mid-gesture, cloaked in the half-settled dust.

Kia’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and cold, echoing with the weight of certainty forged by countless hunts.

"End of the line, Krayven," she growled, calling the arms dealer by name. "You're boxed in. Surrounded. You run, you die. You fight, you die. You move the wrong way, and I drop you where you stand."

She raised one blaster slightly, the hum of her jetpack still lingering in the air. Her visor locked onto his every breath.

"This doesn’t have to be messy. I get paid either way. So make it easy. I can bring you in warm... or I can bring you in cold. Your choice. But I promise you, I don’t miss."

The ARFs fanned out across the floor, taking cover behind crates, rifles fixed on the targets.

No one moved.

The moment stretched.

And then the dealer’s hand twitched toward his belt.

Kia’s fingers tightened on the triggers.

The room exploded into motion.

The arms dealer didn't hesitate.

As Kia finished her ultimatum, Krayven dove sideways, throwing himself behind a tall stack of crates. Kia's shot fired an instant later, the bolt slicing through the air and catching him in the shoulder. He let out a harsh grunt, the scent of scorched flesh mixing with the dust-filled air as he vanished from sight.

The two Separatist officers shouted in their native tongues, voices shrill and panicked as they scrambled for cover behind a reinforced console station. Their guards—mostly hardened mercenaries in piecemeal armor, many of them former bounty hunters or private enforcers—reacted with lethal precision. Only a handful were droids, scattered among the biological troops, and even those hung back in favor of the quicker, more aggressive sentient soldiers.

"Open fire!" the Quarren barked, ducking behind a crate as he drew a sidearm.

The warehouse exploded into chaos.

Blaster fire lit up the gloom in crimson and blue, bolts tearing across the floor and slamming into the crates, shattering wood and metal. The ARFs, already in motion, ducked into cover and returned fire with practiced efficiency. Several dropped to a knee, their carbines barking in sharp bursts as they picked off exposed shooters with ruthless accuracy.

Kia launched herself from the crate she’d landed on, jetpack flaring in a lateral burst as she strafed across the warehouse in midair. Her blasters roared in her hands, cutting down two mercenaries trying to flank the ARFs. She landed behind a shipping container just as a barrage of shots lit up her former position.

“Push them back! Don’t let them regroup!” Rose shouted over the comms, leading her section around the left flank. One of her troopers lobbed a flash charge into the center of the enemy formation, disorienting several of the mercenaries long enough for a clean volley to drop them.

A pair of guards rushed forward, trying to cover Krayven’s retreat toward a side entrance. Kia’s HUD tracked their heat signatures through the smoke. She didn’t hesitate. Her blasters snapped upward and fired in perfect tandem, dropping both.

Krayven staggered into view again, clutching his shoulder, blood smearing down his sleeve. He was moving slower now, desperation in every motion.

Kia clenched her jaw, narrowing her eyes behind her visor.

"You’re not slipping away again, Krayven. Not this time."

She surged forward, vaulting over debris and crates, blasters up and fire in her wake.

The chase was on.

Kia broke into a sprint, weaving through the wreckage of shattered crates and weapon cases, the warehouse echoing with blaster fire and shouted orders. Ahead, Krayven darted through a side passage, limping but fast, blood trailing behind him.

She needed to end this. Now.

With a flick of her wrist, she activated her jetpack. The sudden burst of propulsion launched her forward in a burst of speed, and she dropped to one knee mid-stride, turning her charge into a sliding maneuver across the warehouse floor.

Dust and debris scattered in her wake, and as she slid beneath a half-collapsed scaffold, her left gauntlet snapped up.

Her HUD lit up with a flurry of red target reticles.

Whistling Birds: Online.

The launcher hissed.

A soft, eerie whistling filled the air, barely audible over the chaos of battle. The tiny metallic projectiles launched from concealed slots along her vambrace and scattered in all directions, their melodic, high-pitched trails hauntingly beautiful and terrifying all at once. Each found its mark with pinpoint precision.

One curved low, slipping beneath the chin guard of a helmeted merc and embedding itself in his neck. Another spiraled through the shattered eye lens of a retreating guard, dropping him instantly. Two more slammed through exposed joints in combat armor, bypassing plating entirely. A final bird arced high before diving straight into the torso of a fleeing Separatist officer, detonating in a small, concussive burst.

Screams and crashes filled the space as guards crumpled to the ground, smoke and sparks rising from bodies and crates. The precision barrage threw the remaining defenders into disarray.

Kia didn’t stop.

She came out of the slide in one smooth motion, rolling to her feet and vaulting over a pile of broken crates. Her HUD locked onto Krayven’s fleeing form again, now limping faster, panicked.

Her voice crackled over the comm.

"Your backup’s down, Krayven. You’re mine."

And she took off after him, the faint whistle of the birds still ringing in the back of her ears.

The sound of blaster fire behind her faded as the ARFs locked down the warehouse, sweeping through the remnants of the skirmish. Kia didn’t slow. Her boots pounded across the steel floor, her HUD locked on Krayven’s rapidly failing attempt to escape.

She reached a blast door just as it slammed shut.

With a grunt, she hit the control panel with her gauntlet. Sparks flew, and the door groaned before grinding open just enough for her to force it the rest of the way.

She burst through into a smaller, dimly lit loading room. The space was empty save for a few scattered crates and the Rattataki arms dealer, now cornered against a wall. Blood soaked the front of his armor from the wound in his shoulder, and his breathing was shallow, erratic. His pale skin glistened with sweat, and wild eyes stared out at her.

In his hand was a thermal detonator.

"Don't be stupid, Krayven," Kia said, her voice low and sharp, blasters raised and unwavering.

He let out a bitter laugh, teeth streaked red. "I’d rather die on my feet than in a Hutt’s cell. They’d flay me slowly. Sell what’s left."

His thumb moved toward the activator.

Kia’s stance didn’t shift. "Put it down. You’re not walking out of here, but you don’t need to go out like this."

Krayven’s eyes flicked to the door, then back to her. His mouth twisted into something like a grim smile.

"You’ll never get the bounty."

His thumb reached the final inch.

Kia fired.

Twin blaster bolts cracked through the air. One hit him center mass, driving into his chest. The second slammed into his head.

Krayven’s body jerked once, then collapsed. The detonator clattered from his limp fingers, rolling a few feet before coming to rest in silence.

Kia didn’t move for a moment, her breathing steady, her blasters still trained on the corpse.

Then she stepped forward, kicked the detonator further away, and holstered one of her blasters.

"I said you were mine."

The job was done.

~~

The night settled heavily over the ruined city, a tapestry of smoke, firelight, and lingering violence that clung to the broken streets like a second skin.

Fires flickered across the shattered skyline, the once-proud towers reduced to skeletal remains. The flashes of blaster fire from distant holdouts painted the scorched streets in fleeting bursts of light and shadow. From the broad steps of the central government building—now a battered, makeshift Republic command center—the city looked like a dying starfield, burning itself out against the blackness.

Inside, Dia, Zela, and Kia stood in a side chamber that had once hosted grand councils and celebrations. Now, the walls bore the deep scorch marks of breaching charges, and the elegant floors were littered with cracked marble and shattered furniture hastily pushed aside to make room for tactical gear and communications equipment. Despite everything, it was quiet here—a fragile, almost reverent stillness after weeks of relentless, grinding war.

Exhaustion hung over the three of them like another layer of armor. Dia’s lekku drooped low, her crimson skin dulled by fatigue, though her sharp eyes remained alert beneath heavy lids. Zela’s montrals twitched faintly, catching every distant sound even through her exhaustion, the slight tremor in her stance betraying just how little energy she had left. Kia stood slightly behind them, her armor battered and scorched, the blue and purple paint dimmed beneath a coating of dust and soot. She carried herself with a casual ease, but the way her hands flexed at her sides betrayed the same bone-deep tiredness.

They faced a battered holoprojector perched precariously on a half-collapsed table, its blue light flickering to life as the figures of Master Emmari and Master Runi coalesced into being. The two Jedi Masters looked equally worn, dark circles under their eyes, their expressions carrying the heavy burden of the planetary campaign's overall command.

Dia straightened unconsciously, pulling on her reserves of discipline the way she'd been taught since she was a child. Zela mirrored her instantly, her bond with Dia pulling her upright even as her body protested. Kia simply crossed her arms behind her back, standing steady and silent, a reassuring presence between them and the chaos.

"Report," Emmari said, his voice cutting through the heavy air like a blade.

Dia launched into the account, outlining the capture of the mountain base, the breakthrough into the city, and the final seizure of the command center. Her words were clipped, clinical, methodical—a Jedi's report, stripped of feeling. Each syllable, however, pressed harder against the exhaustion gnawing at her edges. Zela supplemented when needed, offering logistical details, and Kia chimed in with a few terse updates regarding the capture and elimination of high-value Separatist targets.

When they finished, silence stretched across the connection, oppressive and long.

"Well done," Master Runi said at last, offering a rare nod. "Your efforts have turned the tide. The fall of this city will cripple the Separatist operations on Kabal."

Dia allowed herself the smallest breath of relief, a tiny loosening in her chest—until Emmari spoke again, his voice low and measured.

"Padawan Dia. A new assignment has come in. Due to your proximity and skill set, the Council has selected you for a Shadow mission."

Dia's heart skipped a beat. Her hands tightened at her sides. She blinked once, hard, forcing her voice steady. "What is the mission?"

Emmari's hologram shifted slightly, his expression growing darker, more grave.

"Infiltration. A Separatist-affiliated slaver operation. They’re using forced labor for their mining and production efforts. We need someone inside to uncover their network and disrupt their supply lines."

For a moment, Dia couldn't breathe.

The world seemed to contract around her, the flickering light of the ruined hall pressing in like a noose. She could feel it—the old scars she'd buried so deep resurfacing with violent force. Her hand twitched instinctively toward her neck, toward a scar hidden for years beneath her high collar. She could feel it burning, phantom pain and phantom memories.

The faintest memories flickered—not clear images, but flashes of sensation. Chains. The cold bite of durasteel restraints. The constant gnawing fear of being seen, of being punished, of being owned.

Across their bond, Zela felt it all—the wave of panic, the raw, splintering terror. Without hesitation, without needing to think, Zela stepped forward, her voice sharp and commanding.

"She’s not going alone."

The Masters exchanged a glance, a silent conversation flowing between them, weighing possibilities and risks.

Finally, Emmari inclined his head, his voice slightly softer. "Very well. Zela will accompany you. It will provide additional support and increase your chances of success."

Dia could barely summon words. She turned slightly, locking eyes with Zela—steady, fierce, resolute Zela, who met her gaze with unwavering strength. A silent promise passed between them, one stronger than any oath spoken aloud.

And no matter what shadows awaited them, they would face them together.

~

That night, in the dimly lit remnants of the governor's palace, the air hung thick with exhaustion, grief, and the heavy weight of unspoken fears.

The three young women gathered in one of the few intact rooms—a guest chamber once designed for visiting dignitaries, now stripped bare of its opulence by the ravages of war. Only a battered dresser, a cracked mirror, and a single, large bed remained. The sheets, once luxurious, were faded and thin from years of neglect, but none of them cared. They weren't here for comfort. They were here because they couldn't bear to be apart.

Their movements were slow, almost ritualistic, as they shed their armor and clothes. Scorched plates and dented gauntlets clattered softly onto the cracked floor. Flight suits and robes, stained with the dust and blood of the siege, were folded with care and set aside. Left in simple underclothes, they moved wordlessly, the trust between them so absolute that it required no words.

Dia slid into the bed first, curling onto her side, feeling the chill of the night air against her skin. Zela followed, wrapping an arm around Dia's waist, her montrals brushing gently against Dia's lekku. Kia came last, squeezing in on the other side, draping an arm protectively over Dia's ribs, her body pressing close with a quiet sigh. Their limbs tangled together naturally, the kind of closeness born of countless nights spent seeking solace in the midst of battle.

For a long while, there was only the sound of their breathing—steady, fragile, rhythmic.

Then, Dia’s control crumbled.

A soft, broken sob escaped her, muffled as she buried her face into Kia’s shoulder. Her lekku twitched and shivered against Zela’s chest, every part of her trembling. The dam she had built within herself cracked open under the crushing fear of what lay ahead.

"I…" she tried to speak, voice shaking. "I’m scared. I’m so scared of going back… of being a slave again. And I hate it. I hate that Zela’s going to have to… to go through that too. It’s not fair. None of it is…"

Her words broke apart into another sob, her body shuddering.

Zela tightened her grip, pressing a kiss against Dia’s shoulder, her montrals brushing against her tenderly. She spoke fiercely, voice low and certain. "I'd hate it even more to know you were suffering alone. If you’re going to carry this burden, Sinni, then let me carry it with you. You are not—you will never be—alone again."

Kia’s voice followed, softer but no less steady. She pressed her forehead to Dia’s temple. "I hate not being there. I hate not protecting you both. But we each have our roles, and I trust you. I trust you more than anyone else. I'll be here when you come back. I swear it."

The sincerity in their voices broke something inside Dia—something brittle and hollow that she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding onto. She wept harder, her sobs wracking her small frame, but she didn’t pull away. She let herself be held.

Zela’s thoughts drifted, unbidden, to years ago. She remembered the day clearly—the day a terrified little Twi’lek girl had been brought into the Temple, clinging to a filthy scrap of cloth, unable to speak a word of Galactic Basic. Zela remembered watching her across the creche, seeing the raw terror in her eyes—and the spark of fierce defiance that even then refused to be extinguished.

Dia had survived so much. She had carved her place in the galaxy with blood, fire, and stubborn hope.

She would survive this too.

Slowly, Dia's sobs quieted. Her trembling eased, the warmth and steady heartbeats of Zela and Kia anchoring her, grounding her. The weight of fear and dread didn’t vanish—but it became bearable, shared between the three of them.

Kia stroked Dia's side in slow, soothing motions, her sharp claws careful and gentle. Zela nuzzled into the back of Dia’s neck, her breaths steady and grounding. They didn’t offer empty promises or hollow reassurances. They offered what they could—the strength of their presence, the truth of their bond.

Together, tangled in each other’s arms, they drifted into restless, fragile sleep, holding onto one another against the darkness that tomorrow would bring.

Whatever came next, they would face it.

Together.

~

Morning came too quickly.

The gray light of dawn filtered through the broken windows of the governor’s palace, dim and cold against the cracked stone floors. Outside, the city was still smoldering, but for the first time in weeks, the gunfire had faded to distant echoes. A battered Republic shuttle rested in the courtyard, its engines humming softly, waiting for its passengers.

The three of them stood together at the foot of the palace steps, armor once more donned, weapons once more strapped in place. The brief peace of the night before felt a lifetime away.

Dia and Zela were bound for the shuttle, tasked with infiltrating the Separatist slaver network. Kia was headed for the outskirts of the city, where her ship—scarred but intact—awaited her next hunt.

The goodbye hung heavy between them.

Kia shifted slightly, her helmet tucked under her arm, her fur ruffled slightly by the cold breeze. Her golden eyes lingered on Dia and Zela, unwilling to look away.

"You come back," Kia said finally, her voice gruff but shaking slightly. "Both of you. You’re not allowed to… not come back."

Dia gave her a shaky smile, her heart twisting painfully. "We will. I promise."

Zela stepped forward first, reaching out to squeeze Kia’s shoulder—a rare, open show of affection from the stoic Togruta. "We’ll find our way back to you. No matter what."

Kia chuckled quietly, though there was no humor in it. "I’m holding you to that."

Dia hesitated, then stepped into Kia’s space, pressing their foreheads together gently—a silent, instinctive gesture of closeness and trust. Kia leaned into it, her eyes slipping closed for a moment, savoring the contact.

Zela laid her hand lightly on Dia's back, grounding her, supporting her.

When they finally pulled away, none of them spoke. They didn't need to.

Dia and Zela turned toward the shuttle, walking side by side up the ramp. Kia stood there for a long moment, watching until the hatch sealed behind them.

Only then did she turn, fitting her helmet back over her head, and head toward her ship.

Each step away from the others felt like tearing a piece of herself free—but she kept moving.

They all had their missions.

They would all find their way back.

Together.

~~

The stars outside the viewport shifted as the shuttle came out of hyperspace, revealing the hidden station tucked into the orbit of a barren moon. It wasn't large—a repurposed ore platform—but it hummed with activity. Their new staging ground.

Dia and Zela gathered their gear, silent but steady, as the shuttle shuddered into the docking bay. When the ramp lowered, they stepped into the organized chaos of the station.

The corridors were narrow and utilitarian, filled with the low murmur of soldiers and agents moving with precise purpose. Clone Commandos, ARC Troopers, black-armored Shadow Troopers, and members of Republic Spec Ops squads wove between one another, their armor marked only by discreet symbols and muted colors. Clone Intelligence operatives moved among them—sometimes indistinguishable from the others, sometimes not—all working with grim efficiency.

The air was thick with tension, the scent of oil, metal, and faint ozone clinging to everything.

Dia’s lekku twitched slightly, sensing the undercurrent of urgency beneath the surface. Zela walked beside her, her steps light but purposeful, her presence in the Force a steady beacon against the backdrop of shadows.

They made their way to a briefing room tucked away near the center of the station. Inside, it was dimly lit, a holotable in the center projecting a rotating map of the region where the slaver network operated.

Waiting for them were two figures Dia recognized instantly.

Quinlan Vos leaned casually against the holotable, his dark hair tied back, a mischievous smirk playing at the corners of his mouth despite the gravity of the mission. His sharp yellow eyes took them in with a quick, assessing glance.

Beside him stood Siri Tachi, arms folded over her chest, her blonde hair pulled into a tight braid. Her blue eyes were sharp and steady, exuding the no-nonsense demeanor she was known for. There was a slight nod of acknowledgment to the two Padawans as they entered.

Dia felt a momentary tightening in her chest—not fear, but the weight of expectation. These two weren’t just skilled Shadows. They were legends among those who knew.

"Welcome," Quinlan said, pushing off the table with easy grace. "You’ve both been briefed on the basics, but we’re going to go over your insertion in more detail."

He flashed a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. For a moment, something more genuine slipped through—a flicker of regret, of protectiveness.

"If I had any say," he said, voice softer, "it wouldn't be you two going. You're both too damn young for this. But the Council made their decision... and I know you're strong enough to handle it."

He let the grin return, though it was more for their sake than his. "Siri and I will be helping you with the first stage—getting you into position. After that..." He shrugged, the motion heavy. "You’re on your own."

Siri shot him a look, her mouth twitching into a faint smirk before she refocused on Dia and Zela, a glint of pride and worry mingling in her gaze.

Dia swallowed thickly but nodded. Beside her, Zela straightened, her montrals high.

Whatever fear still gnawed at them, they buried it deep.

The mission had begun.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

XXVII

~~~~ Conflict of Force ~~~~

The stars outside the shuttle stretched into static points of light as the vessel reverted to realspace, the pale sphere of Mandalore looming in the viewport ahead.

Ahsoka Tano sat quietly in the co-pilot seat, her fingers curled tightly around the armrests, her mind turning over Anakin's words again and again.

"Mandalore is rife with corruption," Anakin had said before they boarded. "Duchess Satine may be trying to hold the planet together, but the cracks are everywhere. You have to be careful, Ahsoka. Trust no one you don't already know."

She had seen the tension in his stance, the way his hand hovered near his lightsaber more than once during the briefing. It wasn't just a mission to him. It was the fear of sending her somewhere he couldn't protect her.

"I don't like leaving you without backup," Anakin said, glancing at her from the pilot seat now as they descended. "If anything goes wrong—"

"I'll be fine, Master," Ahsoka said with a small, reassuring smile. "I reached out to someone. A friend of Dia and Zela's. Someone we can trust."

Anakin's frown deepened, but he said nothing more as the shuttle touched down on one of the discreet landing pads on the outskirts of Sundari, the domed capital city.

The landing ramp lowered with a hiss of hydraulics. The warm, dusty air of Mandalore rushed into the cabin.

Ahsoka rose, adjusting her montrals and grabbing her small pack. She glanced once at Anakin, sharing a look filled with unspoken words and promises to be careful.

Stepping down the ramp, she immediately caught sight of another ship parked nearby—a Lancer-class pursuit craft, battered but clearly well-maintained. As the dust stirred around it, a figure emerged from the shadow of the ship.

She walked with an easy, predatory grace—a presence like a coiled spring. Full beskar armor clad her form, the plates dark with blues and purples, highlighted by streaks of lighter colors that shimmered subtly under the Mandalorian sun. A utility belt bristling with weapons and equipment hung at her hips, and a pair of WESTAR-35 blasters rested at her sides.

Kia removed her helmet as she approached, tucking it under her arm. Her golden eyes fixed on Ahsoka, a sharp, confident smile curving her lips.

"You must be Ahsoka," Kia said, her voice smooth, carrying a casual warmth that didn't mask the deadly awareness in every line of her body. "Name's Kia. Dia and Zela speak highly of you."

Ahsoka smiled back, feeling a rush of relief she hadn't realized she needed.

"Good to meet you, Kia," she said, her shoulders easing a little. "Looks like we're going to be working together."

Behind her, Anakin lingered for a few heartbeats longer than necessary, watching Kia with wary eyes—then Ahsoka—before he turned back toward the shuttle.

Duty called him elsewhere.

Ahsoka tightened the strap of her pack and turned toward Kia, ready to face whatever shadows waited for them on Mandalore.

The landing pad at the outskirts of Sundari bustled with quiet activity, the city dome towering in the distance like a gleaming shell over civilization. The sun was beginning to rise, casting long golden beams across the permacrete.

Anakin Skywalker, Ahsoka Tano, and Kia walked together across the landing pad at the outskirts of Sundari, the city dome rising high ahead of them like a great metallic horizon. The morning sun cast long shadows across the permacrete, bathing everything in golden light. The three stood out—Anakin in his Jedi robes, Ahsoka in her travel tunic, and Kia, imposing in her full beskar’gam.

Ahead, Duchess Satine Kryze awaited them, regal as ever in her flowing blue robes, flanked by a pair of her personal guards in blue and silver. At her side stood Prime Minister Almec, his posture stiff, his smile tight and unreadable. Behind them stood three cadets in formal academy uniforms, looking freshly pressed and curious.

As they approached, Kia's presence immediately drew the attention of the guards. Her armor shimmered in hues of deep blue and violet, streaked with lighter accents that caught the light as she moved. Their eyes followed her warily—no one wore armor like that on Mandalore anymore, not since the pacifist reforms. The discomfort was visible, but Kia ignored it completely.

Anakin stepped forward, inclining his head respectfully. "Duchess Satine, Prime Minister Almec."

"Master Skywalker," Satine greeted with a gentle smile, though her gaze lingered warmly on Ahsoka. "We are grateful the Jedi could spare two of their own to assist with our academy. The cadets have much to learn from your order."

Anakin returned the smile, then shook his head slightly. "I'm afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. Only Ahsoka will remain. I'm needed back on the front."

Satine’s expression flickered briefly with disappointment. "I see."

"Padawan Tano has the full confidence of the Jedi Council," Anakin said. "She's more than capable."

Ahsoka stepped forward with poise, offering a formal bow. Almec's expression soured.

"She is still a child," he muttered. "Barely older than the cadets she is meant to teach."

Before Anakin could reply, Almec gestured to the three teenagers.

"These are Cadet Korkie Kryze, Amis, and Lagos."

Korkie stepped forward eagerly. "You're a Jedi? Can I see your lightsaber?"

Ahsoka hesitated, hand moving to her belt, but Almec immediately intervened.

"That won't be necessary. After the... incidents involving Master Kenobi, no off-worlder may carry weapons within Sundari."

Ahsoka looked to Anakin, who gave a reluctant nod. She unclipped her lightsaber and handed it to him, her movements stiff.

Then Almec turned to Kia.

She hadn’t moved.

His eyes narrowed. "And you, miss..."

"Kia," she answered flatly.

"Your weapons."

Kia looked over at Ahsoka standing next to Anakin, a hidden look of 'I told you so' behind her buy’ce. With a small sigh, she signaled for a hover-table to exit her ship, the repulsorlifts humming softly as it glided toward her.

She began the ritual of disarming. Reluctantly. Slowly.

She pulled her WESTAR-35 blaster pistols from their holsters, one at a time, and placed them on the table, each landing with a soft clink that echoed louder than it should have in the tense stillness. The guards watching her didn’t even try to hide their curiosity now, heads tilting, eyes tracking each movement. Kia could practically hear the gears turning in their heads as they recalculated just how dangerous she truly was.

Next, she unbuckled her utility belt, the heavy pouches thudding and clattering onto the surface—medkits, slicing tools, det-charges, and more, each arranged into a disturbingly efficient pile. She followed it with a set of sheathed blades, the hilts catching the morning sunlight in sharp gleams. With a slight shrug, she rolled her shoulders, the absence of weight around her hips making her silhouette deceptively leaner, looser.

Then came the gauntlets. She raised her arms slowly, methodically disengaging the clasps. A sharp metallic snap rang out as she ejected the fuel cell from her flamethrower with practiced ease, flipping it in the air once before letting it land squarely on the table. From her other arm, she removed her whistling birds—the small, sleek micro-missiles glinted ominously as she laid them down as if they were sacred relics.

The Kom'rkale and Gad'ikale the gauntlet and wrist blades were next, withdrawn from hidden slots in her vambraces and set with careful precision beside the rest. Even thinner throwing knives followed—nearly invisible to the eye, their slender forms only catching notice once she aligned them in a neat line.

She paused, let the weight of the moment settle in.

Then, with theatrical timing, she crouched and drew a long blade from each boot, setting them down. The sharp-eyed guard near Almec stiffened as Kia, still not finished, reached behind her back and retrieved two more throwing knives from under overlapping armor plates. She deposited them with a smirk curling under her visor, letting the slight clang echo in the silent courtyard.

The guard's composure faltered. Kia caught the way his fingers twitched toward his weapon and offered him the faintest tilt of her head—a quiet, wordless challenge. Amusement flickered in her golden eyes.

And still, they hadn’t seen everything.

Finally, she stepped beside Ahsoka again, her stance calm, casual. Despite the pile she had left behind, her presence remained commanding. The tension in the courtyard, thick moments ago, began to dissipate.

"So," Ahsoka whispered, not looking directly at her, "how many weapons do you still have?"

"Holdout blasters. Knives under my arm plates and thighs. Mircin'kale on my ribs. Garrote in my kut’ika," Kia replied, her tone light with mischief.

Ahsoka stifled a laugh, grinning sideways at her. "They did say to disarm."

"And I did," Kia said smoothly. "Just not completely. Let’s call it a respectful compromise."

Ahsoka shook her head in amused disbelief.

~~

CW: SLAVE ARC

~~

While Kia and Ahsoka were navigating Mandalore's uneasy balance of peace and hidden corruption, far from the polished domes and political ceremony, Dia and Zela were already deep into a mission that threatened to rip open old scars.

Their transport rocked gently as it descended toward the outer rim moon where the exchange would take place. The slaver contact—a Devaronian named Taviss—was known for brutality and discretion, both traits that made him valuable to the Separatists' covert infrastructure of forced labor. Mining operations. Factory lines. Places the Republic wouldn't see. Taviss supplied the workers—chattel—by the hundreds.

Zela sat beside Dia in the shuttle’s rear hold, the two of them stripped of armor, gear, and identifiers. Their tunics were worn and stained to match the appearance of captured laborers. Even their presence in the Force was veiled, softened by focused effort and mental shielding.

Beneath their skin, subdermal tracking chips had been injected just hours before boarding. The subtle foreign pressure still pulsed at the edge of Dia's awareness—a reminder that someone, somewhere, was watching. Supposedly, it would ensure the Republic could trace their movements once they were taken, but it felt more like a leash.

Dia stared down at her hands. Red skin, clean for now, but it wouldn’t be for long. Her lekku twitched with the phantom echo of remembered pain. She couldn't recall specifics—not names, not faces—but she remembered the sensation. The fear. The weight of being owned.

The collar had been replaced with Jedi robes. The chip removed only years later. But the memory of being less still clung to the walls of her mind like damp rot.

"You okay?" Zela's voice was soft, grounding.

Dia nodded slowly, but the motion was hollow.

Zela reached out, not with words, but with the Force. Their bond pulsed, not brightly, but steadily. A thread through the dark. A reminder that Dia wasn’t alone.

"We do this together," Zela murmured.

Dia blinked, and the fog lifted just a fraction.

"Together," she echoed, though her voice cracked.

The shuttle touched down with a hiss of venting gas.

Their chains waited at the bottom of the ramp.

Dia took one last breath of freedom, then stepped forward.

Dia and Zela weren’t told much about how they would be sold. That part of the mission remained purposefully vague—the fewer details, the less chance something would be given away under duress. All they knew was that they were to appear as any other captives, faceless among the forgotten. There was a certain strategy to the lack of information, but it didn't make the situation any easier.

They had been sitting on a durasteel bench in a dimly lit corridor for hours. The walls were stained with years of neglect, grime embedded in the grooves between durasteel panels. The harsh flicker of overhead fluorescents cast long, jittering shadows across the floor, and the electric buzz was an unrelenting companion. Occasionally, a voice would call a number. Not theirs. Always someone else. A breath held, then released.

Around them, others waited in silence. Twi’leks, Zabraks, Humans, Rodians—the crowd was a patchwork of despair, with only a few flickers of resistance. Some sat with heads bowed, others stared blankly ahead. All marked by exhaustion, bruises, malnutrition. Each person had a story, a life that had been reduced to a number on a manifest. The sense of quiet suffering was suffocating.

Dia sat with her shoulders rigid, eyes half-lidded, lekku curling protectively. She didn't speak. Couldn't. Memories she couldn’t fully remember pressed against the back of her skull like pressure behind her eyes. Born into slavery, rescued by the Jedi, trained into a weapon. Yet here she was, back in chains. The metal cuffs weren’t tight, not truly, but they may as well have been welded into her skin.

Zela sat close beside her, posture upright, calm only in appearance. She radiated strength, a quiet storm just beneath the surface, her montrals twitching at every sound. They had shielded their Force signatures, weaving their presence into the noise and emptiness around them, trying to vanish without moving. Even so, Zela had kept one of her knees pressed lightly against Dia’s, a silent anchor to hold them both steady.

Eventually, a door at the far end of the corridor opened with a sharp mechanical hiss.

"You two. On your feet."

Two Trandoshan guards entered, their armor dented and smeared with something uncomfortably organic. One gestured roughly with the muzzle of his blaster. Dia and Zela exchanged a glance—wordless, sharp, resolute.

They rose together.

The processing room was worse. Colder. Harsher.

Fluorescent lights beat down on rows of scanners, durasteel cages, medical units, and inspection stations. The entire facility smelled of antiseptic and sweat, a cloying mixture of sterility and suffering. Slavers moved with clinical efficiency, tapping notes into datapads as they marked values next to species, age, fitness, and compliance. There was no illusion of mercy here. No effort to preserve dignity.

Dia clenched her fists behind her back, chains biting into her skin. She kept her head down, but her crimson eyes scanned constantly. Zela stood tall beside her, face unreadable. Their physical assessments began immediately—scanners running over their bodies, neural inhibitors being secured around their necks. Force inhibitors. The touch of the Force was there, but distant, like a voice underwater. Still, their bond flickered between them, a thread that neither collar nor fear could sever.

Their movements were catalogued. Limbs prodded, eyes checked, lekku and montrals examined. Neither of them flinched, not outwardly, but each rough grip, each dismissive order scraped at something raw. The slavers didn’t speak to them like sentients—only to bark instructions, to evaluate them like cargo.

They weren’t people here. Not in the eyes of their captors.

But everything seemed to be going to plan.

According to intelligence, they were to be held here for a few days before being transferred to one of the Separatist mining installations. There, Republic forces would strike, extract them, and dismantle the operation. Dia clung to that idea. The thought that someone was coming. That someone knew where she was.

What neither of them knew was that the plan had already begun to fail.

Behind them, two guards stepped forward silently, the sound of their approach muffled against the clamor of the room. Too quiet. Too intentional.

Dia's instincts flared a heartbeat too late. She started to turn, eyes narrowing, but felt the sharp sting of an injector press against her neck. A cold burn flooded her veins. Zela let out a sharp cry, her knees buckling as another injector found its mark between her shoulder blades.

Dia tried to reach for her, but her vision blurred.

The lights fractured into stabbing lines. Her knees hit the ground. Her world narrowed. The last thing she saw was Zela reaching toward her, her fingers trembling, her eyes filled with alarm—

Then everything went black.

~

The next thing Dia knew was cold.

Her body lay against rough durasteel flooring, her skin prickling with the chill of it. A dull, heavy ache throbbed behind her eyes, and as she blinked them open, the dim lighting above flickered erratically. Her head spun. Her limbs felt sluggish, like they belonged to someone else.

And then she noticed the weight.

Her fingers twitched toward her throat. The metal band there was thick, unrelenting, pressing tightly against her skin. The slave collar. Its locking mechanism dug into the nape of her neck like a cruel brand. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She reached, instinctively, for the Force.

Nothing.

A black void.

The familiar warmth of the current, the comforting presence of Zela’s Force signature, even the faint background hum of life around her—all of it was gone. It was like going deaf and blind all at once. Her breath hitched, panic clawing up her throat.

But then she heard movement beside her.

Zela stirred with a groan, shifting against the ground. Her montrals twitched, eyes blinking open slowly. She looked as disoriented as Dia felt. Her hand moved to her own collar, face tightening with recognition and anger. She reached inward too, searching for the Force.

Her expression turned grim. Nothing.

The bond was there—distant, veiled, a faint echo. But their ability to use the Force, to call upon its strength, had been cut off completely.

Dia barely had time to steady her breathing before a loud clang rattled through the space.

A Zygerrian male, tall and broad-shouldered, stood outside the cage. He banged a staff against the bars, his grin wide with teeth and cruelty.

"Ah, awake at last," he purred, voice oily. "Jedi, no less. What a rare prize."

Dia and Zela both sat up, their backs straightening instinctively despite the pain and disorientation.

"You know," he continued, swaggering closer, his long tail twitching behind him, "I always wanted one of your kind. The Jedi thought themselves untouchable when they shattered the Zygerrian Empire. But look at you now."

He tapped the bars with his claws. "Chained. Powerless. Caged like the animals you are."

Dia didn’t speak. Her mouth was dry, and she didn’t trust her voice not to tremble.

Zela met his gaze with steely silence, her fists clenched.

The slaver chuckled, pleased with their silence.

"Don’t bother waiting for rescue. Those handy little trackers they gave you? Removed. Burned. No one is coming."

He leaned in, face twisting in a cruel sneer. "You're ours now."

He turned and walked away, his laughter echoing through the corridor.

Dia exhaled slowly, her whole body trembling.

No Force. No backup. No hope.

Zela shifted beside her, pressing their shoulders together.

"We're not done," she whispered.

Dia closed her eyes, clinging to that voice. That bond. That promise.

Even caged, they weren’t broken.

Not yet.

~

Unlike the other slaves, Dia and Zela were treated with a pointed cruelty—not just as commodities to be broken, but as trophies the slavers wanted to shatter utterly. Jedi. The ones who had defied empires, broken chains, and crushed slaving rings across the galaxy. Their captors didn’t just crave submission. They wanted annihilation of identity. To take something once powerful and bend it until it begged.

The days since their collars were clasped had passed in a haze of pain, exhaustion, and humiliation. Sleep came in fractured, haunted moments. Food was sparse and served without dignity, often dumped at their feet like scraps for animals. Their captors beat them with impunity, taunted them with twisted glee, and dragged them from their cell to labor and back again with mechanical efficiency. Even the smallest rebellion was met with public punishment. And through it all, the Force remained silent. Absent. As if it, too, had turned its back.

For Dia, the agony came layered. Physical abuse was one thing. But the worst was what the experience woke within her. Repressed memories—of chains, of being nothing but a number, of whimpers in the dark—all came clawing back. She found herself moving in patterns she had spent years training out of herself: flinching when addressed, avoiding eye contact, hunching her shoulders protectively. Old survival instincts rising like bile. The child she once was, born into slavery and sold like goods, had never really vanished. She had only been buried. And now, with every degrading moment, she clawed her way to the surface.

Zela saw it. Felt it. Every tremor through their bond, every shiver Dia tried to hide. And she hated that she couldn't stop it. That no matter how strong she was, how many battles she had fought, here, like this, she was helpless.

When the guards came that cycle, they didn’t speak. They never did. Just opened the cell and pointed.

Dia and Zela were yanked forward, wrists bound harshly behind them. The collars around their necks tightened until their vision darkened momentarily, herding them like livestock through dimly lit corridors toward one of the sterile reconditioning chambers. The air inside was sharp and cold, heavy with the sterile stench of antiseptic and burnt metal. The floor was smeared with the residue of past occupants. Blood. Sweat. Oil.

The walls hummed with hidden circuitry, and rows of grotesque machines lined the room: restraint tables with leather straps worn dark with use, neural scanners glowing in predatory red, injector racks with syringes of every shape and purpose. Electroshock beds built for endurance, not death.

"You're overdue for progress," the lead technician sneered, his voice oozing satisfaction. "Let’s make today productive."

They strapped Dia down first. She didn’t fight at first. She knew it was useless. But when the restraints tightened too far, pinning her lekku in a way that burned, she thrashed once—more instinct than defiance. It earned her a cruel grin.

Her eyes darted to Zela, who was forced to kneel and watch. Her collar flared as soon as she twitched, tightening until her breath caught. The guards held her in place by her montrals, claws digging into the sensitive edges. Her eyes locked with Dia’s.

They were afraid. But they were still together.

"She resists," the technician noted, almost gleefully. "Good. That makes the breaking so much more complete."

Zela's voice cracked. "Touch her again, and I swear—"

A sharp jolt from her collar silenced her, cutting her scream short. She collapsed, panting, as the guards laughed.

The technician held up a syringe filled with a glowing violet serum. "Let’s see what hides in those Jedi minds."

Dia flinched as the needle pierced the side of her neck.

Zela screamed her name.

But nothing could stop what came next.

The world twisted.

Dia's vision tunneled, colors blooming like bruises in the air. She saw the Temple burning, the bodies of younglings scattered. She saw herself holding a lightsaber, hands slick with blood, clones crying out for help as she struck them down. She turned—and Zela was there, eyes cold, standing over the corpse of a clone child.

"You failed me," Zela said, her voice distant and sharp. "You always fail. I should have let them kill you."

"No," Dia sobbed. "No, no, I didn’t—Zela, please—"

She was back in chains, back in darkness. No Jedi, no name. Just a slave again.

Outside the hallucination, Zela could only watch, forced to listen as the person she loved was torn apart from the inside out. Dia writhed against her bonds, sobbing, choking, muttering broken apologies and half-screamed denials.

Zela strained against her collar until the skin broke beneath it, blood trickling down her collarbone.

"Please!" she shouted. "Let me take her place! You want to hurt someone? Hurt me! Let her go!"

The technician didn’t even glance her way.

The guards only chuckled. One leaned down beside her and whispered, "That’s the fun of it. Watching you fall apart for her."

Zela shook with rage.

Dia didn’t wake.

Not yet.

~

They were thrown back into their cell like refuse, bodies bruised, clothes torn, skin streaked with dried blood and sweat. The door clanged shut behind them with a finality that echoed through the silence.

Dia landed hard on her side, groaning as the impact jolted through her ribs. Zela slumped to the ground nearby, barely catching herself with her forearms before collapsing entirely. The cold metal floor bit into their skin, but neither had the strength to move far. The reconditioning session had left their bodies trembling, nerves fried, and their connection to the Force still smothered beneath the inhibitors locked around their necks.

Dia blinked through the blur of pain and exhaustion, dragging herself slowly toward Zela. Her breath came in shallow bursts, each one laced with quiet sobs that she couldn’t contain.

Zela turned her head, eyes searching. The moment they locked gazes, something within both of them cracked wide open.

Their hands reached for each other, desperate and clumsy. Dia’s fingers curled tightly around Zela’s. Zela squeezed back with all the strength she had left, her grip trembling.

The Force was silent. Their bond barely a whisper, muffled beneath the weight of the collar. But the physical contact grounded them. Replaced, if only briefly, the vast, aching void left by their severed connection.

Dia let out a strangled cry and collapsed fully into Zela’s arms, her face burying against her shoulder. Her sobs came raw and unguarded, tremors shaking her frame as the pain, the terror, the guilt of the day spilled out all at once.

"I'm sorry," she choked out. "I… I should be stronger than this. I was trained for this. I shouldn't be breaking."

Zela held her tighter, her voice low and rough against Dia’s temple. "You don't have to be stronger. Not for me. Not now. Just hold on. I'm still here."

They stayed that way in the dark, tangled together on the cold floor, bodies broken but hearts still clinging to each other. No Force. No rescue.

But together.

Still together.

~~

CW END

~~

Back on Mandalore, the contrast could not have been more stark.

Kia stood at the back of the lecture hall, arms crossed over her chestplate, her helmet clipped to her belt. Her posture was casual, but her gaze was sharp and unyielding, taking in every detail. The gleam of youth in the cadets' eyes, the polished marble floors underfoot, and the subdued elegance of the academy halls—it all felt so distant from the reality she knew. From the horrors she had seen. From the suffering she knew her Jedi were enduring somewhere out there in the dark, alone. The pristine air, clean and carefully regulated, was almost offensive in its serenity. Kia hated that she was here while Dia and Zela were there , buried in the shadows, unreachable.

Still, she watched.

Ahsoka stood confidently at the head of the hall, her voice steady, her tone firm yet approachable as she addressed the young cadets. She wore her experience like a mantle, not arrogant, but earned. For someone barely into her teens, she had the weight of battles in her voice, of lessons learned the hard way. She didn’t preach from a podium—she walked among them, pacing slowly, arms loose at her sides, head held high.

"Corruption isn’t always easy to spot," Ahsoka said, turning slightly as she paced the length of the room. "It can be hidden under good intentions, masked by tradition, or disguised by the weight of authority. But we as future leaders—you, as citizens of Mandalore—must be willing to question, to investigate, and to speak up when something feels wrong."

Kia tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful. It was a message she'd heard a hundred times. From Jedi, from soldiers, from rebels. And yet, hearing it from Ahsoka—so young, so composed—gave it a new kind of weight. Rebellion didn’t always begin with weapons. Sometimes, it began with one brave voice.

The cadets, who had been stiff and skeptical at first, now leaned forward, their earlier doubts tempered by curiosity. Even Korkie Kryze, who had worn an expression of adolescent disdain at the beginning, was now paying close attention. A boy named Lagos raised his hand, his tone uncertain but brave.

"But what if the person in authority is the corrupt one? Aren’t we supposed to follow them? Isn’t questioning them… treason?"

There was a ripple of agreement through the classroom. The fear was palpable—fear of doing the wrong thing, of standing against power.

Ahsoka paused, then nodded.

"It can feel like that," she said. "But there's a difference between disobedience and accountability. If someone abuses their power, it’s not disloyal to question them. It’s your duty to do so. The Jedi taught me that loyalty without thought leads to tyranny. You must always think. Always question."

Kia arched a brow, impressed despite herself. There was more fire in the Togruta than many full generals she’d met.

Another cadet, Amis, raised his hand. "But how can we tell who’s corrupt and who isn’t? People lie. They can pretend to be good."

"That’s true," Ahsoka replied. "And that’s why it takes more than one moment. You look deeper. You watch how people treat those beneath them. You see if their actions match their words when no one's watching. You talk to others. You pay attention to what your gut tells you. It takes work. But it’s worth it."

There was a thoughtful silence, one that lingered. Even the guards near the exits seemed to be paying attention now.

Kia let her gaze drift across the room. These students weren’t warriors. Not yet. They were still sheltered. Still untested. But under Ahsoka’s guidance, maybe they wouldn’t grow up blind. Maybe they wouldn’t become the kind of officials that people feared. Maybe they’d become something better.

But even as that small hope flickered to life, her mind slipped again to other things. To darker worries. To the tracker data she hadn’t received in over forty hours. To the encoded message that hadn’t arrived at all. To the sick pull in her gut that told her something was wrong. Dia and Zela were capable—strong, smart, resilient. But if something had gone sideways, and they were out of reach?

Kia clenched her jaw. She didn’t trust the Jedi Council to act quickly enough. She didn’t trust their masters to feel the urgency. But she trusted herself .

She looked toward Ahsoka as the young Jedi finished her talk, accepting the polite applause of the cadets with a humble nod. Kia’s thoughts, however, were far from the Mandalorian Academy.

Because something was wrong.

And she felt it deep in her bones.

And if no one else moved soon, she would.

~

It was a few days later when everything began to shift.

Kia had returned from her own errand through the city when she found the academy in a subtle kind of chaos. Not the loud, explosive kind she was used to, but the tense sort that whispered of missteps and youth-fueled recklessness.

Ahsoka stood at the head of the classroom again, her arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line as four of the cadets stood before her, including Cadet Korkie Kryze—Duchess Satine's nephew. His friends, Amis, Lagos, and Soniee, stood behind him, looking defensive but excited, energized by their own daring.

"You did what ?" Ahsoka asked, voice tight with disbelief.

Korkie straightened his posture. "We broke into Warehouse E-17 in the shipping district. Government-controlled. We saw crates being exchanged under the table. Unmarked. Definitely black market. And we have a holorecording."

Ahsoka blinked. "You broke into a government facility? Korkie, that is not how you investigate corruption."

Korkie didn't flinch. "We had to know. And it was the only way to see the truth. We told my aunt—she told us to stay out of it. But we couldn’t."

Soniee stepped forward, holding up a holopad. "We have a meeting with Prime Minister Almec tonight. We’re going to show him this."

Ahsoka ran a hand over her face, exasperated. "You think you’re ready to accuse someone of corruption on a single recording? Without context? Without backup or protection? You might be right, but if you are, that makes this even more dangerous."

The cadets looked unconvinced, fired up by their perceived success.

"You taught us to look deeper, to question," Korkie said. "That's what we're doing."

"I taught you to think," Ahsoka replied sharply. "Not to run headfirst into something this serious without a plan. You don't know how far this could reach."

The bell chimed softly, marking the end of the lecture block. The cadets gathered their things and filed out, still energized by the sense of rebellion and idealism. Ahsoka watched them go, her arms folded, concern etched across her features.

Kia, who had watched from the side of the room with an amused smirk for most of the exchange, finally stepped forward.

"You know," she said, casually swinging her helmet into the crook of her arm, "I really thought this job was going to be boring. Babysitting pacifist cadets, smiling at politicians, playing nice. Turns out it’s like herding akk dogs with jetpacks."

Ahsoka let out a tired huff of a laugh. "They’re brave. But they’re still kids. They don’t understand the stakes."

Kia nodded, expression sobering. "We should be ready tonight. If they’re right—and Almec is involved—it won’t end quietly. Someone’s going to cover their tracks."

Ahsoka met her eyes, her voice quiet but resolute. "That was my plan."

They stood in silence for a beat longer, the weight of what might come hanging between them.

Kia finally said, "I’ll prep my gear."

Ahsoka nodded. "I’ll keep the cadets close. Just in case."

And with that, they turned from the now-empty classroom, knowing the calm was over—and the real danger had only just begun.

~

That night, the city felt too quiet.

Kia crouched on the rooftop ledge of the Mandalore Academy, her helmet back on, visor scanning the academy courtyard below. Ahsoka stood beside her, arms folded, focused but tense. The glow from the twin moons cast long shadows across the durasteel and stone architecture, bathing the courtyard in pale silver light. The quiet hum of distant speeders was the only sound.

They watched as Cadet Korkie Kryze and his three friends stepped cautiously out the front entrance, their school uniforms clearly out of place in the cool darkness. The four cadets glanced around as if unsure of their decision, clutching the holopad with the supposed recording tightly.

And then the trap was sprung.

From the shadows beneath the columns, a squad of Mandalorian Secret Service guards in sleek, dark armor emerged, tonfa batons crackling with energy in hand, heavy riot shields raised.

"Halt! By order of the Mandalorian government, you are under arrest for conspiracy and treason against the Prime Minister!"

The cadets froze, stunned. Korkie stepped forward, indignant. "We were trying to expose corruption!"

"Which makes you the corrupt ones," the squad leader snarled. "You will come quietly, or force will be used."

The guards didn’t wait for a response.

The cadets barely had time to react before the guards surged forward. Lagos and Amis tried to resist, but their training was no match for the brutal efficiency of the armored soldiers. Soniee was thrown to the ground, her cry of pain cutting through the air as the butt of a shield struck her shoulder. Korkie tried to help her but was knocked flat by a baton to the chest.

"Now," Ahsoka said, and leapt.

She dropped from the ledge like a blur, landing in the center of the fight with a shockwave of energy and momentum. One of the guards spun toward her just in time to catch her foot in his helmet, crumpling with a groan.

Kia didn’t wait. She slid down the side of the building, sparks trailing behind her boots before she kicked off the wall and launched into the nearest pair of guards, sending them crashing into one another with a thud of metal on metal.

The fight erupted in full.

The Secret Service were trained, yes—but trained for protocol, for intimidation, for the occasional riot. They weren’t trained to take on a Mandalorian in full armor or a Jedi trained by Skywalker himself.

Ahsoka moved like fire, ducking beneath shields and disabling guards with precise strikes. Kia was raw force, her fists slamming into armor plates, her boot finding weak points between shield edges. The guards fell one by one, disarmed or unconscious. A few fled when it was clear they were outmatched.

In under two minutes, the courtyard was quiet again, littered with groaning bodies and shattered shields.

Ahsoka turned to the cadets, breathing hard but controlled.

"This was a setup. Almec never intended to meet you tonight. He wanted you silenced."

Korkie looked stunned. "That’s not possible. He’s the Prime Minister. He serves Mandalore."

"Power doesn’t care who it serves when it thinks it won’t be challenged," Kia muttered, removing her helmet. Her face was shadowed and stern. "You just became a liability."

Soniee shakily pulled out the holopad. "We still have the recording. Maybe there’s something in it."

Ahsoka took it, activated the holo.

The image projected a cloaked figure speaking in hushed tones with another man, the recording blurry, the shadows obscuring their faces. The cloaked one spoke of "tightening control," of "eliminating the weak links."

"It’s not enough," Korkie whispered. "We can’t see his face."

"Maybe we can," Ahsoka said. She pulled out a small Jedi-issue data tool—slender, silver, and compact. She activated the scanning module and held it up to the holopad.

"What is that?" Soniee asked.

"Information retrieval algorithm. Watch."

A light passed over the holorecording, and slowly, a facial structure began to render itself over the hooded figure. Gradually, piece by piece, the face came into focus.

Korkie took a step back, his face pale.

"It's him," Ahsoka confirmed. "Almec."

The air felt colder.

The truth was undeniable now.

The corruption came from the top.

~

They didn’t waste time.

With the holorecording of Almec exposed, Ahsoka and Kia moved quickly, ushering the cadets through back alleys and unguarded corridors as they made their way toward the palace. The streets were quiet—too quiet. Mandalore’s evening curfews were normally enforced with restraint, but now, the silence was thick with tension. The looming presence of government patrols had vanished, replaced with shadows that watched but did not act.

By the time they reached the palace gates, the chill of unease had turned into something heavier. Kia raised her hand, signaling for a halt. She scanned the outer corridors and narrowed her eyes behind her visor.

"Something’s off," she muttered. Her voice was flat, but the way she reached into the folds of her armor and pulled out one of her concealed holdout blasters said everything.

Ahsoka felt it too. Her connection to the Force prickled with warning.

They crept through the palace halls, Kia taking point. Her footsteps were silent, calculated. They made their way toward the Duchess’s personal quarters—the one place they hoped Satine might still be safe.

But they were too late.

Just outside the antechamber, they found two of the Duchess’s personal guards. Both were dead. Their armor was scorched in places, weapons still at their sides—no signs of a struggle. It had been fast.

Kia crouched beside one, eyes scanning the wound patterns.

"Blaster at close range. Professional. Not a random strike."

Ahsoka nodded grimly, kneeling beside the other. "No sign of Satine. They didn’t kill her here. They took her."

Korkie stared, frozen, his mouth slightly open. "This was supposed to be safe... she was supposed to be safe."

"Almec made his move already," Kia said, standing and slipping the holdout blaster back into its sheath. "He moved fast. We spooked him. He knows you were digging. He knew you were coming."

Ahsoka straightened, her expression tense but focused. "Then we do what Jedi do. We adapt."

She turned to the cadets. "You four need to go back to the academy. Hide. Stay together and don’t talk to anyone. No comms. Not until I contact you."