The galaxy trembles, shaken by an ancient force stirring beneath the stars. Three times more, a wail has ripped through the Force, shattering ice moons—some teeming with life, others desolate—like Yavin 8's broken husk. Each cry leaves a piercing dread, hearts stuttering in Force-sensitive souls, a shadow tying the frozen graves to an unseen storm.
In an old medical facility's control center, buried in a neon-choked undercity, a Rakata teleporter's alien red, then green light flares. Commander Shepard's N7 armor gleams, omni-tool casting an orange glow as it scans the artifact's runes. Galen Marek, scarred face taut, clenches fists beneath his tattered shroud, hands twitching toward sheathed sabers. Vicrul charges through the rusted door, dented mask glinting, vibro-scythe raised, catching only the teleporter's dying pulse. The light collapses, leaving scorched duracrete and a fading hum. Galen's eyes hollow, fingers frozen near his hilts. Vicrul's scythe tilts, suspicion sharpening his stance. The consoles flicker, swallowing the moment's weight.
On Mustafar, lava rivers sear the night, their glow bathing a growing settlement where Fortress Vader's obsidian spire looms, reborn as the Je'daii's heart. Shuttles hum above durasteel dojos, ferrying recruits to new outposts amid volcanic ash. Grey-robed hopefuls—exiles, rogues, seekers from distant stars—clash sabers in violet arcs, training under a Knight of Revan, his armor etched with crimson runes. Revan stands atop a scorched ridge, red and silver-grey mask catching firelight, lightsabers clipped to his belt, a silent sentinel of balance. The air hums with ambition, a tide of Force-users forging a new order. Revan's gaze turns skyward, where Vicrul and Zeht hunt ancient relics off-world, their mission to cement the order's glory and chase the wail's elusive source.
These months past have now bled into winter on Ossus, snow veiling the Jedi Healing Medical Center's arched windows, frost tracing durasteel seams like cracks in hope. Tionne Solusar studies a data pad in a sterile chamber, a blue crystal holocron glowing softly on a table, its runes whispering healing lore. EV-9T9 adjusts a monitor with a bacta injector's click. Korrin lies in a bacta pod, Chiss skin pale, a cheek rune stark under sterile light. His chest rises faintly, monitors tracing a fragile pulse, the coma's hold unyielding since the carbonite's release. The air, sharp with antiseptic, carries winter's chill, a mirror to the galaxy's fragile hope.
In the Jedi Council chambers, kyber lanterns warm a stone hall, their light battling snow beyond. Rey Skywalker stands at a holotable, hands firm as Mustafar's red glow pulses in projection. Ezra Bridger paces, ambassador robes snow-dusted, hands slashing the air, scarred cheek taut as he jabs at the holotable. Cal Kestis leans forward, nodding measuredly, eyes calm but keen. Their mouths move in rapid, contentious debate, words muffled as if veiled from the stars. Rey's stance holds resolve, Ezra's motions flare with doubt, Cal's poise seeks balance. The holotable's light flickers, and winter's breath haunts the silence beyond their unheard storm.
The Council chamber's kyber lanterns glowed, but the air was thick, like breathing through a busted rebreather. Ezra's hands carved the air, his voice a muffled growl, while Rey stood rooted, staring at the holotable's red smear—Mustafar, crawling with Revan's Je'daii. Cal nodded, playing peacemaker, but it was just noise. Friend? Foe? Another empire in a fancy mask? Months of Ezra's datachips, intel swapped like sabacc cards, and we're still spinning like a broken holodisc. The Force wail's scream burned in my skull—three more ice moons gone, shattered into frozen dust. I clenched my white lightsaber hilts, their silver grips cold against my palms. My montrals buzzed, the chamber's heat clawing my skin. I'd had it with talk.
I spun on my heel, nomad robes whipping, and stormed through the arched doors. Snow stung my lekku, catching in the stripes as I stomped down the temple steps. Ossus's Jedi capital stretched out, a wild sprawl of durasteel spires and kyber-lit towers, the Great Library's domes glinting at its heart. Seven years since Exegol, and it was massive, our New Jedi Order's stubborn hope. The old Order's mantra—"There is no emotion, there is peace"—rattled in my head, but we'd torn it apart, rebuilt it. I'd walked away from their dogma, framed and ditched by their Council. Rey's fire, Kam's scars, my stubborn streak—we made this, a light-side fortress where love isn't a curse.
The hover train platform thrummed, snow piling on kyber rails. I ducked into a carriage, its rumble swallowing the Council's noise. Frosted windows framed the city—younglings dueling in snowy fields, their training sabers slashing through flurries. Parents watched, not droids, their eyes sharp with pride. Our Code's new heart beat here: families, not cloisters. Kids grew up tight, born younglings snagging prime archive spots, like initiates handpicked for Council trials, while kids like Tayra scrapped for their shot. It wasn't perfect—whispers in the Order, too faint to pin, questioning our path. But I saw strength. Parents led, the village backed them. Cal and I, bound by a trust we'd never name, held Korrin and Tayra as our own, no old-Order rules to chain us. Courting pavilions glowed, grand as Coruscanti galas, families pitching their kids like diplomats sealing pacts, the Council's always sealing the final word, even in matrimony. Married Masters raised younglings; single ones grew the Order to focus on duty, holiday feasts keeping us all anchored. Non-Force kin—spouses, kids—found their place, lawyers or clerks keeping our gears turning. This was us, light-side pure, champions of the Jedi legacy.
Revan's Je'daii wouldn't leave me alone, nagging like a burr in my robes. Ezra's reports were never clear—some group on Mustafar, growing fast, preaching a "duality" in the Force. Balance. It stirred memories of my rogue years, no temple to bind me, just my blades and the fight. I'd guided rebels, buried friends, held steady without falling. Ezra claimed their leader had walked a dark path and come back, his intel keeping us sharp. Respectable, if true. But their artifact hunts, chasing ancient tech, pricked my montrals—too close to those scaled Covenant creeps from Lehon, their schemes I believe being tied to the wail that shattered three more ice moons. I pressed my forehead to the carriage window, snow blurring past, the cold seeping in. The Council was frozen, picking over Ezra's scraps like Jawas over a wrecked speeder—ally or foe? I'd seen bright ideals turn sour, Anakin's smile twisting to rage. Power, even with a noble face, carried a stench. Should we hunt those artifacts ourselves, beat them to the wail's source? If the next moon's a living world, millions strong, we're out of time. My sabers weighed heavy, urging action.
The train sighed to a halt, and I stepped into the snow, the Jedi Healing Medical Center soaring before me, its white durasteel spires slicing through the grey sky like blades of light. The Outer Rim hailed it as a sanctuary, and it earned the name—healing wounds, unraveling mysteries of the body and Force, pulling lives from the galaxy's edge. Snow piled against a courtyard fountain, its kyber heart glowing soft blue, runes carved in its base humming a melody that tugged at my chest, a whisper of hope against the cold. My breath fogged the air, lekku tingling as the fountain's light danced across their stripes. The Center's arched gates stood ahead, durasteel etched with healing sigils, their kyber inlays pulsing like distant stars. Winter's bite clung to the stones, a reminder of how fragile hope could be, even here.
I crossed the threshold, the lobby opening wide, a cathedral of light and purpose. Rune-covered walls shimmered, casting golden patterns on polished floors, while healers in silver robes moved like specters through a tide of patients—Jedi knights, grizzled spacers, Outer Rim families, all chasing second chances. I wove through the crowd, the air thick with antiseptic and the faint ozone hum of kyber, hope and desperation tangled like a battlefield's edge. More silver-robed healers glided past—Jedi, spacers, Outer Rim families, all seeking the Center's miracles. A Zabrak healer's horns glinted as she tuned a bacta drip for a scarred pilot. A non-Force scholar scribbled beside a holocron, its blue glyphs whispering healing lore. The air hummed with antiseptic and kyber's faint ozone, but winter's chill slipped through, a quiet warning. I pushed forward, boots tapping the polished floor, the weight of Korrin's fading pulse pulling me toward the main lift.
Its durasteel doors gleamed under kyber lanterns, their soft hum a beacon in the chaos. I stepped closer, each stride heavier, the galaxy's scars pressing in—moons shattered, Korrin trapped in bacta. The doors parted with a sigh, revealing a sleek interior, walls traced with kyber veins pulsing blue. The control panel glowed, runes marking floors: research labs, surgical bays, the Master's ward at the top. I pressed the highest rune, the lift humming as it climbed, a fleeting sanctuary. Tionne was up there, her silver hair a guiding light, pouring her soul into Korrin's fight. Gratitude swelled, sharp and steady. She wasn't just a healer—she ran this fortress, not only chaperoning but planning the Order's grand courting galas, and led multiple outreach missions, she and Kam's girls, Saria and Kalia, carrying her spark to worlds craving hope. Yet she never faltered, her historian's heart binding Korrin's care to our Order's future. I owed her everything.
The lift chimed, doors sliding open to the Master's ward, a corridor of quiet splendor. Kyber-lit walls glowed soft white, ancient healing sigils etched in their surface, the air still and clean, scented with faint kolto. Crystal panels pulsed with Force diagnostics, holographic vitals shimmering like stars. Healers moved with purpose, their silver robes whispering, while med-droids passed by, delivering bacta vials to sealed rooms. The ward was a temple, its serenity a shield against the galaxy's storm, yet the wail's echo lingered in my montrals. I followed the corridor, passing transparisteel doors, each guarding a life the Center fought to save. Korrin's room waited at the end, its door etched with kyber runes, glowing faintly.
Inside, Tionne stood by a bacta pod, her voice a low, steady murmur, calibrating a monitor with a healer's precision. EV-9T9 hovered beside her, his rune-etched chassis clicking, injector arm adjusting the pod's flow. Korrin floated within, his blue skin pale, a Chiss rune stark on his cheek, his pulse a fragile green flicker on the screen. My heart clenched, gratitude for Tionne burning deeper—her hands, her will, anchoring him to life. The pod's hum filled the room, a drone that stirred something raw, pulling me back.
The bacta pod's hum filled Korrin's room, a low drone that clawed at my edges. Tionne turned from the pod, her silver hair catching the kyber-lit glow, her face softening as she met my eyes. "Ahsoka," she said, voice steady as a saber's hum, "he's holding on." She stepped closer, her silver robes whispering against the polished floor, and gestured to the monitors, their green lines tracing Korrin's fragile pulse. "The bacta's stabilizing his vitals, and my healing trances are easing the neural strain. His Chiss biology's the challenge—metabolism's too fast, neural pathways too sensitive. It's why the carbonite hit him so hard, locked him in this coma. But the signs are good, stronger each day. He'll pull through, though I can't say when. We're watching for any backslide."
Her words landed like a lifeline, hope tempered by the weight of years. Korrin floated in the pod, his blue skin pale, the Chiss rune on his cheek stark under the sterile light. I'd seen too many fall—Anakin, friends, worlds—but Tionne's resolve held me steady. "You're a miracle, Tionne," I said, my voice rougher than I meant. "Running this place, chaperoning those Corellian-style courting galas, leading outreaches to distant planets, and still fighting for him. I don't know how you do it." She smiled, faint but real, her historian's eyes glinting with fire. "It's the Order's heart," she said. "Korrin's family—We don't let go."
EV-9T9's chassis clicked, his rune-etched frame gliding to the pod. "Mistress Tionne," he intoned, injector arm whirring as he scanned the monitors, "the bacta flow is optimized, but I recommend a neural stim adjustment to counter his Chiss synaptic variance." Tionne nodded, her fingers brushing a rune on the pod's controls. "Do it, EV. Keep the levels steady." Her voice stayed calm, but I caught the strain—nights spent here, weaving Force and tech to pull Korrin back. The room's kyber walls glowed soft white, ancient sigils etched deep, their hum a quiet pulse in my montrals. Crystal panels flickered with Force diagnostics, holographic vitals dancing like stars, a testament to the Master's ward—built for us Jedi Masters and their kin, where Korrin belonged. Rolling med-droids scooted past the transparisteel door, their bacta vials glinting, tending other rooms in this temple of healing. The air held kolto's faint scent, clean and sharp, but the galaxy's scars lingered, Korrin's stillness a knife in my gut.
The pod's hum deepened, and my eyes locked on Korrin's face, pulling me back—thirteen years ago, 29 ABY, the Unknown Regions' void swallowing my shuttle's light. The Empire's ashes still smoked, but the First Order's shadow loomed, and I was hunting Force-sensitive kids, ripping them from slaver dens. My sensors caught a Chiss ship, its hull shredded by plasma, drifting in ruin. I boarded alone, white blades igniting, their buzz slicing the dark. The deck groaned, sparks spitting from gutted consoles, the air choking with smoke, blood, and scorched metal's sting. I braced for slavers or First Order stragglers, boots crunching debris, heart pounding with defiance. Instead, a Chiss woman lay broken in the hold, her blue skin ashen, blood pooling beneath her, a boy—Korrin, barely three—clutched in her arms. His red eyes blazed, fierce despite trembling limbs, a spark that cut through the chaos. Her chest heaved, breaths jagged as shattered durasteel, words fighting pain: "Keep… safe… Thrawn… can never know… bastard…" I knelt, the Force thick with her desperation, a blade twisting my soul. Her hand trembled, brushing Korrin's cheek, then fell limp, eyes fading to empty voids. The ship's silence crushed me, broken only by Korrin's shallow breaths. I lifted him, his small frame shivering against my chest, swearing to shield his secret. My shuttle's ramp clanged shut, her plea searing my heart, a vow I'd carry through decades of loss.
The door hissed open, and I snapped back, amber eyes blinking in the ward's glow. Tayra and Kalia stood there, shoulders brushing, their faces a mix of worry and warmth. They'd been together, probably swapping stories or sparring, before coming to see Korrin. Tayra's purple saberstaff hung at her hip, her Togruta lekku striped with resolve, while Kalia's green training saber glinted, her young eyes bright with Tionne's fire. My makeshift family, bound by trust and loss, pulled me from the past's weight. I straightened, heart lifting, ready to face whatever came next.
Dusk draped Ossus in a silver veil, the Jedi city shimmering beneath a cascade of falling snow. The Jedi Healing Medical Center's spires pierced the fading light, durasteel gates etched with healing sigils, their kyber inlays glowing like distant stars. A hover train hummed to life at the platform beyond, its polished rails slicing through the flurries. Ahsoka and Tayra stepped aboard, snow dusting their robes, the Togruta's lekku swaying, Tayra's purple saberstaff catching the platform's glow-lamps. Hope clung to them, fragile yet fierce, kindled by Tionne's prognosis—a spark of Korrin's promised return, shadowed by the galaxy's weight. The train surged forward, gliding into the city's heart, snow swirling in its wake, as the sky deepened to indigo, stars piercing the winter haze.
Ossus exhaled, its beauty unfurling beneath night's embrace, a radiant tapestry of light and life. The Great Library's domes loomed, their kyber veins casting a silver sheen across the snowy plaza, where younglings' footsteps faded, their training sabers stowed for the evening. The market district softened, artisans shuttering stalls, a Twi'lek baker sealing her oven, her lekku swaying as she hummed a Ryloth tune, her glow-lamp flickering. Families gathered in stone-hewn homes, braziers casting warmth across tables set with nerf stew, children's laughter mingling with the wind. In the archive quarter, a non-Force scholar pored over datacrons under lantern light, her fingers tracing ancient glyphs, while a human clerk sealed a data vault, his breath fogging in the chill. Jedi patrols glided through on sleek speeders, their robes billowing, sabers unlit but vigilant, eyes scanning the star-streaked sky.
The spaceport thrummed at the city's edge, shuttles rising like fireflies, their engines a soft roar against the night. A Corellian freighter docked, its crew unloading bacta crates for the Center, crates stamped with Thyferran seals glinting under floodlights. A Wookiee pilot bartered with a droid merchant, her growls echoing, while a Zabrak spacer checked her navicomputer, plotting a run to Balmorra. Ossus pulsed, a tapestry of lives woven tight—Jedi and civilian, Force and flesh—bound by the New Order's heart. Snow fell thicker, cloaking streets in silence, as hover trains carved glowing paths through the dark, their trails fading into the city's sprawl.
The Great Library stood sentinel, its shadow stretching toward a residence of grand splendor, nestled in its embrace. Polished durasteel arches gleamed, kyber runes shimmering with intricate patterns, expansive windows spilling golden light onto a courtyard where a training circle lay dusted with snow, its stone worn smooth from countless duels. Inside, the air warmed with the scent of deep-fried Nuna Legs, a table set for three, one chair empty, a silent ache for Korrin's absence. Ahsoka stood at the table's head, her council robes shed, amber eyes tracing the kyber-lit walls, their glow softening the weight of her vow. Cal's steady presence and Tayra's restless energy filled the space, their voices a low murmur, the clink of plates a fragile promise of peace. Night cloaked Ossus, stars unyielding above, yet the city's beauty held fast—a beacon against the shadows, where hope endured.
The dining hall's kyber runes flickered, their soft glow dancing across polished durasteel, the scent of deep-fried Nuna Legs sharp with spice, curling through the air like a fleeting truce. Outside, snow pressed against the residence's expansive windows, stars glinting beyond the courtyard's training circle, its stones dusted white, silent without Korrin's saber hum. Cal's voice cut through, steady but edged, a vibroblade grazing my patience. "We're stretched thin without Kam and Quinlan, Ahsoka. You bailing on the Council meeting doesn't help." His green eyes locked on mine, unyielding, the weight of duty in every line of his face. Korrin's empty chair sat beside me, a void that burned, its absence louder than the clink of plates.
I leaned forward, lekku twitching, amber eyes narrowing as the Nuna's warmth soured in my throat. "Help what, Cal? Ezra's ramblings about this Revan, Rey spinning diplomacy's bottom line, same wail theories we've chewed for months? Ice moons, still—no answers." My voice bit, sharper than intended, months of stagnant debates fraying my edges. "I went to Korrin. He's our son, not a holopad note. Tionne says he's holding on, and that's worth more than a meeting I could recite in my sleep." Tayra sat across, her plate untouched, Togruta lekku still, her eyes darting between us, a quiet storm in her gaze. The residence's durasteel arches looming like silent judges.
Cal's jaw tightened, but a wry glint flickered in his eyes, his voice firm yet laced with that familiar grit. "Duty's not a choice, Ahsoka. You're a Council member. Walking out leaves us without a quorum, not a weakness we can afford, especially now." His words struck, duty his creed, his cage, and anger roared through me, a wildfire I'd buried for years. Duty—his chain, binding him from me, from us. I wanted to scream that I was his, he was mine, that his damn duty drowned the truth we both felt. My heart pounded, the kyber's pulse mocking me, as the reality seared: speaking it would ruin us. The Council would strip our seats, maybe exile us, their family rules—progressive but fragile—no shield for us. We were the exception, our makeshift family—Ahsoka, Cal, Tayra, Korrin—tolerated, never named. Tionne's sly grins, Ezra's knowing nudges, they saw it, teased we played mother and father for duty, not love. But it was there, a wound I carried in silence, my fists clenching under the table, jaw locked, eyes burning into his.
Cal's voice softened, shifting before the silence broke us. "Tayra," he said, turning to her, his tone warm, a father's care threading every word, "Lehon was brutal—those lives you took, they linger, heavy as stone. How's Master Ysmeine Vex helping you carry it?" Tayra's eyes, bright with steel, met his, her lekku easing, Ysmeine's tattooed calm a lifeline since Lehon's escape, her empathic trances soothing scars no bacta could touch.
"I'm holding steady," Tayra said, voice firm, my defiance echoing in her spark. "Ysmeine's trances help me see it clear—those kills, they saved lives, protected us, protected Korrin. They'll be with me for a long time, but they've made me stronger. I want to be like you, Ahsoka, carrying the pain and standing tall." Her words struck, pride surging, but it burned—my girl, forged in fire, scarred with a burden I'd never wish on her. Lehon's blood, not one life but several, stained her hands, and more would come, the Jedi's curse. I nodded, a smile breaking, shadowed by grief for the path she'd tread, her strength a mirror to my own wounds.
The dining hall's kyber runes flickered, casting shadows that danced across the polished durasteel table, the fading spice of deep-fried Nuna Legs mingling with the snow's chill seeping through expansive windows. Stars glinted beyond the courtyard's training circle, its stones dusted white, silent without Korrin's defiant spark. Cal leaned back, his gray-flecked hair catching the kyber's glow, a hand rubbing his neck—a tic I'd clocked since that night on Kashyyyk. "Ahsoka," he said, voice soft, a crack in his armor, "I've had my share of sleepless nights next to Korrin too. What's Tionne saying about our boy, or am I the last to know?" His green eyes, warm but heavy with paternal ache, hit me like a pulse in the Force, Korrin's empty chair a gaping wound, its silence louder than the wind's howl outside.
I exhaled, Tionne's words anchoring me, her silver hair a beacon, her steady hands weaving hope. "She's optimistic," I said, voice low, fingers tracing the table's cool edge. "The bacta's stabilizing his vitals, her trances easing the neural strain. His Chiss biology is the challenge—metabolism running too hot, neural paths too sharp. It's why the carbonite sank him so deep. But he's stronger, Cal, signs better each day. Tionne can't pin when he'll wake up, but she's watching for any backslide." My lekku shifted, the memory of her calm fueling me. Tayra leaned forward, her Togruta lekku twitching, eyes bright with fragile hope, the alcove's sabers—my white blades, Cal's bronze-black, her purple staff—gleaming faintly, relics of a fight we'd left behind for this fleeting peace.
Cal's lips curved, a faint smile breaking through his weathered face, youthful despite his elder years. "Tionne's a damn sage, pouring her heart into him like he's her own." His voice warmed. Their family, Kam's grit and Tionne's fire, help drive this order in ways we'd had only hoped for in the beginning. The kyber's hum throbbed, syncing with my pulse, snow's icy breath pressing the glass, and a long, heavy pause swallowed the room, silence thick as Hoth's frost.
The kyber runes pulsed, a faint heartbeat weaving shadows across the durasteel table, the spice of deep-fried Nuna Legs now a ghost in the air, swallowed by the snow's relentless chill against the residence's windows. Stars pierced the night beyond the courtyard's training circle, its stones dusted white, mute without Korrin's fire. A long, heavy pause gripped the dining hall, silence thick as the void, the kyber's hum syncing with my racing pulse, snow's weight pressing the glass like a warning. Guilt surged, a black tide swallowing stars, Korrin's origins tearing at me like shattered moons. Thirteen years ago, a Chiss woman's dying plea—her blood's iron tang, her broken voice begging me to hide her son from his father—had forged my vow, a secret I'd carried to shield him. Lehon's logs, those cursed Rakata whispers, broke that lie—Thrawn lived, hunting him, Korrin's life a fragile thread in bacta's glow. It wasn't for his good anymore; it was a betrayal, a danger threatening us all. Cal's love, raw in his green eyes, Tayra's hope, her steady gaze—they cracked my resolve, their trust a blade in my chest. This was the moment, raw, unscripted, the truth clawing free.
"Cal, Tayra," I said, voice splintering, my weathered lekku tips trembling, heart pounding against the kyber's cold pulse, "I've kept a secret. Korrin's mother, the Chiss woman I found, dying in a wrecked ship. She begged me to hide him from his father, Thrawn. I thought he was gone, but Lehon's logs… he's alive, after Korrin." The words burned, each one a stone lifted from my soul, the dining hall's arches looming like silent sentinels, their runes dimming as if in judgment.
Tayra's eyes flared, sharp as a star's edge, her mind racing, a storm behind her gaze. She paused, lekku twitching, breath catching, before her voice cut through, taut but measured. "The Rakata star map on Lehon," she said, "My rescue the same year—Was I on that ship with Korrin, but… no, I see Ryloth's dust, a slaver's hold, your blades flashing. Was I tied to him too?" Her words sliced, her intelligence unearthing truths I'd buried, her hazy memories from age two—Ryloth's red grit, the clang of chains—churning doubt, her hope faltering under the truth's weight. She leaned forward, hands gripping the table, eyes searching mine, a Padawan's mind too quick for her own good.
Cal's face froze, his hands tightening on the table's edge, knuckles whitening, shoulders tensing as if bracing for a blow. His green eyes darkened, a storm brewing over Jedha, shock carving lines into his youthful, gray-flecked features, the weight of Thrawn's name—a 101-year-old specter, mind sharper than kyber—sinking deep. His silence roared, louder than any words, the air thick with the threat of a century-old hunter. The kyber's glow wavered, snow falling thicker, cloaking Ossus in a shroud.
Tayra's hands trembled, her untouched plate a testament to the truth's crush, her lekku quivering like leaves in a gale. She paused, breath uneven, eyes darting to Korrin's empty chair, then back to me, her voice fracturing. "I need… to be alone," she whispered, rising, her robes whispering against the floor. "May I be excused?" Answered with my subtle nod to her urgency. Her footsteps faded down the residence's hall, soft as snow falling, each step a fading pulse echoing through the durasteel arches. Cal and I rose, clearing plates in silence, his hand lingering as he passed me a dish, a fleeting warmth in the cold glow of the winter outside. I avoided his gaze, scraping leftovers, the clink of plates a hollow rhythm, snow piling against the windows, Korrin's chair a silent accusation. My vow, a heavier chain than ever, bound our family's hope, a fragile flicker against the stars.
The dining hall's kyber runes had faded, their glow snuffed out by the silence Tayra left behind. I slid the last plate into the cleaner, the durasteel sink biting my fingers with its chill, and moved from the kitchen, drawn to the balcony overlooking the courtyard. My boots crunched through fresh snow, the night's bite stinging my lekku, their weathered tips prickling as I stepped onto the balcony's polished stone, its railing etched with kyber veins that pulsed like a dying star. Below, the gardens unfurled, a wintery hymn to Ossus's soul—petals like Alderaan's shaak blooms, pink-white and trembling under snow's weight, swaying in the frost-laced breeze; moss thick as Kashyyyk's wroshyr roots, frozen in time, clinging to stones sculpted into gentle curves, their edges softened by frost. The training circle lay beyond the open gardens, a ring of stone scarred by sabers, now cloaked in snow, a silent echo of Korrin's absence.
I gripped the railing, breath fogging in the starlight, and tilted my gaze skyward. Stars burned, unyielding knives cutting through the galaxy's veil—Thrawn's shadow stalking Korrin, the wail's scream shattering moons, my vow a chain forged thirteen years ago, its links tightening with every choice. In these elder years, the Force kept me sharp, my body unbowed, lekku still fluid despite their weathered tips, but the scars of decades weighed heavy, each a story etched in my soul. I closed my eyes, just for a moment, the kyber's distant hum throbbing in my chest, snow's soft whispers brushing the stone like a lover's sigh. A presence flared, warm and steady, pulling me from the stars' cold judgment. Cal leaned against the railing, facing me, his red and gray-flecked hair silvered by starlight, green eyes blazing with a resolve that broke his duty's cage. Even as an old man, he stood youthful, lines barely touching his face, yet his gaze carried every battle we'd fought. "Say it, Ahsoka," he said, voice low, resolute, a fire I'd rarely seen, "you, me, Tayra, Korrin—we'll vanish into the Unknown Regions, gone forever. Not Thrawn, not the Council—no one will find us, and I don't think they'd try."
His words pierced, a vibroblade through my heart, his love raw, unshackled, offering to burn it all down. My gaze fell from the stars to his, amber sinking into green, and his hand closed over mine, warm against the railing's icy bite, a silent pact to defy the galaxy. The Force sang between us, a spark I'd known on Kashyyyk in 36 ABY, that reunion under wroshyr branches, starlight painting his skin, our one night when the galaxy hadn't yet chained us. We'd been younger, fifty-something, hearts reckless before the Council's formation forged us into mother and father, not lovers. His touch now, steady yet trembling, woke that wroshyr's whisper, but I saw the truth. Running would shatter Tayra, Korrin—their sabers were meant to blaze with the Jedi, their futures bound to the Order's light. Cal would unravel without his duty, stir-crazy in the void's endless dark, his soul tethered to the fight. At our age, we weren't the kids who'd crossed paths decades ago, nor the lovers who'd stolen starlight. We were Council, anchored to a galaxy that still bled.
"Cal," I said, voice grounded, squeezing his hand, my lekku still as I held his stare, snowflakes catching in my lashes. "We're not young anymore, not like that first clash, or Kashyyyk's night, when wroshyr whispers and starlight promised we could outrun it all. The Council's formation bound us, shaped us. But when Tayra and Korrin are Masters, when the Order stands without us, we'll step down. We'll be free, you and me, to be us." The words settled, a vow carved in frost and starlight, heavy with hope. Cal's eyes softened, a storm easing, and he stepped closer, his silence louder than the galaxy's roar. He pulled me into an embrace, his arms strong around my shoulders, our foreheads touching, a breath shy of a kiss, restrained yet fierce, snow falling like a shroud. The balcony was ours, no eyes to judge, only the stars bearing witness, our love a fragile flame against the galaxy's weight.