Coruscant felt colder now.
The once vibrant capital of the Republic seemed dimmed beneath the weight of galactic war. In hidden chambers beneath the Senate tower, Padmé Amidala sat across from Bail Organa, the glow of a private holomap painting grim shadows across their faces. Systems marked in red blinked faster with each passing day—losses mounting.
"This isn't a war we can win," Bail said at last. "Not like this. Kuat's yards are overrun. Their ship output has dropped by thirty percent, and what they're producing is obsolete within weeks."
Padmé nodded, her voice weary. "And the Republic Senate is too busy arguing over security amendments and emergency powers to see the cracks forming."
"They want Cassian back," Bail said. "They've sent envoys, promised immunity, control, incentives—anything to reestablish the supply lines. But he's not responding."
"He won't," she whispered. "Not after what they did. Not after the Jedi tried to arrest him."
Bail leaned forward. "We need a solution, Padmé. Something off the books. A third path."
Padmé's eyes hardened with resolve. "Then we make one. Quietly. Carefully. A shadow alliance—neutral systems, industrial worlds, senators who still believe in the Republic's ideals. And we do it without the Jedi or the Chancellor."
Bail didn't speak, but slowly nodded.
Meanwhile, in orbit over Balmorra, the Republic's latest counteroffensive collapsed in real-time. Clone squads were butchered by droids equipped with Cassian's plasma-joint rifles and adaptive armor. The battle was over in hours. Another world gone.
On Coruscant, inside the Jedi Temple's high towers, Anakin Skywalker stood alone in a meditation chamber—his robe soaked with sweat, face pale.
He had lost.
The battle on Jabiim was supposed to be a win. It had been anything but. Dozens of his men dead. His starfighter damaged. The Separatists had predicted every move—like they were already inside his head.
He found Padmé later that night.
"I wasn't strong enough," he said, his voice hoarse. "I couldn't stop it. I keep seeing their faces."
Padmé pulled him into her arms. "You can't win every battle, Anakin. That's not what makes you a Jedi."
He pulled back. "Then what does? Because right now… it just feels like we're all losing."
In the distance, the Senate was in emergency session. Holo-placards blinked overhead—"Cassian Damaris: Reconciliation or Rejection?"
The room was filled with divided voices. Some screamed for his arrest, others demanded his reinstatement. Palpatine sat calmly above them all, letting the chaos unfold. He needed the Republic to fracture further—only then would they welcome the Empire.
An envoy was dispatched—again—to Zereth Prime, where Cassian now presided over the most advanced weapons labs in the galaxy. The message was clear: return, rebuild trust, rejoin the Republic.
Cassian's reply was just as clear:
"I am not interested."
He stood now in a chamber lit by the hum of new prototypes—weapons unlike anything the galaxy had seen. Orbital disruptor cannons, stealth-embedded warships, droid cores with decentralized AI swarms. Beside him, Requam reviewed battle simulations, and HK-47 quipped about annihilation percentages.
Behind them, Serion nodded with approval.
Cassian's gaze turned toward the next world on the CIS campaign. His voice was quiet, determined.
"They thought I was a tool. Now they'll see what happens when the tool becomes the architect."
The Republic's cries were nothing more than background noise now.
He had already chosen a side.