I blink, eyes gritty as if dusted with Ossus sand. The holo-vid sharpens, pulling me into Saria's birth, 15 ABY. Tionne's silver hair spills across the frame, catching light like a comet's tail, her eyes alive with a joy that cuts through the decades. Saria's cry—sharp, fierce, a blade of sound—slices the quiet, etching itself into my marrow. My hands, younger then, tremble in the vid, reaching for her tiny form, fingers clumsy with awe. The excitement, mine and Tionne's, burns bright, a shared fire that warms my chest now, here in the dark of the lounge. I must've fallen asleep chasing that moment, when the galaxy wasn't so heavy, when family was enough. As the memory fades, the lounge's shadows creep back, and my thoughts drift to Tionne now, in this moment. On Ossus, she's likely standing vigil beside Korrin's bacta pod, her silver hair aglow in the kyber-lit medical chamber, her hands deftly adjusting the monitors that track his fragile pulse. EV-9T9 would be there too, his rune-etched frame humming as he fine-tunes the bacta flow, a mechanical echo to her steady resolve. Korrin—his life hanging by the thread of Tionne's skill and will. She's been at it for months, battling his Chiss metabolism and the neural scars left by carbonite, her healing trances weaving hope into every flicker of green on the screen. I can almost hear her voice, calm as a saber's hum, whispering that he'll pull through, that she won't let go. It's who she is—the heart of our Order, the anchor for our family, holding us steady through every storm. Here light-years away from her side, that strength reaches me still, a quiet fire that steadies my grip on the saber at my hip. Korrin's fight, Tionne's fight, is why I'm here, facing the dark—for them, for Saria and Kalia, for the future we've sworn to protect.
The couch's patched synthweave bites into my hip, a rough reminder of my folly. Sixty-three years old, and I'm still daft enough to doze off sprawled like a Padawan after a long spar. My neck's locked at an angle that screams regret, joints creaking like the Starfield Roamer's old landing gear. The lounge is dim, shadows pooling in the corners, save for the holo-vid projector's blue flicker, its hum a soft drone weaving through the ship's deeper thrum, like a pulse through durasteel bones. My grey braid snags on the cushion's frayed seam as I shift, the tug sharp enough to make me wince. The air carries Tionne's herbs, dried korva leaves, their scent earthy, drifting from crates tucked in the cargo hold, a ghost of her presence.
My fingers graze the projector, its durasteel casing cool and worn, edges smoothed from years of use. I click it off, the blue glow snuffed out, leaving the lounge in near-darkness. The silence is thick, broken only by the ship's hum, a steady rhythm through the hull, like the breath of a sleeping bantha. I sit up, slow, my spine protesting, a dull ache spreading from neck to shoulders. Old bones don't forgive a night twisted on a couch, not at my age. The table before me, carved from Yavin 4 timber, bears the marks of our life—Kalia's knife scratches from a game turned rough, Saria's careful etchings of Ossus's kyber-lit dome, lines precise as her diplomacy. Tionne's musical runes glow faintly on the walls, silver threads curling like the notes she'd sing, each one a stitch in the fabric of this ship, our home.
Saria's a Jedi Knight now at twenty-seven, her path carved clear, her strength a quiet fire. But Kalia, my youngest, my Padawan, sits on Ossus, her spark dimmed for safety. Thirteen, bold as a blaster's crack, her green training saber should be humming in the Roamer's hold, not idling under another master's watch. I chose to shield her from this mission, from whispers of Sith on Chandrila. Her training stalls because of it, and the guilt heavier than the lightsaber at my thigh. Saria's knighthood proves what a Jedi can become; Kalia's still only an ember I'm starving of air. I shake my head, shoving the thought down like a crate in the hold. Duty calls, sharp as a vibroblade. Chandrila looms, a noble there—Seraphine, a council ally—reporting dark figures, artifacts, a chill in the Force. My lightsaber hangs heavy, its matte black hilt scratched from decades, a familiar anchor. I adjust my council robes, the Noghri leather trim frayed but solid, the fabric catching on my calloused fingers. Standing, my boots scuff the deck, the durasteel cool and worn, marked by years of our steps. The Starfield Roamer's crew, Varn Kessar at the helm and Sylar Voon on nav, keeps the ship steady, their work a quiet hum from the cockpit.
The lounge's air shifts as I move, cooler near the bulkhead where Tionne's runes pulse, their glow a faint silver, like starlight trapped in durasteel. My hand lingers on one, a curling glyph, smooth under my thumb, its curve echoing her songs. The wall's scratched, a faint score from Kalia's training remote gone rogue, a spark of her fire. This ship's no polished SoroSuub yacht, not anymore. I found it derelict in Yavin's orbit, a broken shell of luxury, and spent years welding it back to life, Tionne at my side, EV-9T9's servos whirring. Every panel, every bolt carries our story, a lifeline forged from ruin, like me. I step toward the corridor, the deck plates cold, their edges worn smooth. The lounge's hatch hisses open, revealing a narrow passage, its walls a patchwork of original durasteel and my salvaged plates, welded in Yavin's humid hangars. Recessed lumas cast a soft glow, their light catching the training hold's open hatch. I pause, drawn to it. The hold's padded mats, scavenged from a Rebel gym, are scorched from Kalia's Soresu drills, black marks curling like her defiance. A rack of wooden practice sabers, my carvings, their grain smoothed by her hands, lines the wall, each one a lesson I should be teaching. A training remote sits in its cradle, repulsors silent, its hull dented from her strikes.
I move on, the corridor curving past the medical bay. Its hatch is sealed, but I see it in my mind's eye, bacta tanks bubbling, EV-9T9's runes etched into shelves, Tionne's herbs stacked neat. The air shifts, carrying a faint tang of solder from the workshop nearby. A maintenance panel hangs open, wires spilling like vines, my tools scattered across a workbench bolted to the deck. I forged half this ship's systems there, hyperdrive, shields, cannons, piecing together scraps to make it ours. The deck slopes upward, the engine's hum louder, the twin J-77 ion engines a steady pulse, their exhausts muffled for stealth. I pass the meditation chamber, its small transparisteel pane dark, a kyber shard inside casting a blue whisper. The corridor tightens, durasteel giving way to reinforced plates, their weld lines rough under my fingers, each seam a memory of nights spent rebuilding. A concealed hatch, cut for the V-65 Landspeeder's deployment, its servos primed. Kalia's scorch marks dot its frame, her low-power saber leaving trails I can't unsee. The cockpit's glow spills ahead, its transparisteel viewport a blur of starlines fading to Chandrila's curve. I pause, hand on my lightsaber, its scratched hilt a weight that steadies me. Seraphine's call, Sith rumors, artifacts, a shadow in the Force, burns like a beacon.
The cockpit door hisses open, smooth as a saber's ignition as I step through, boots firm on the polished durasteel deck. The Starfield Roamer's cockpit gleams, its SoroSuub roots refined by Jedi engineers into something precise, purposeful. The narrow transparisteel viewport stretches before me, hyperspace's starlines streaking blue-white, their glow casting soft shadows across sleek durasteel walls. Two synthweave seats, smooth and taut, hold Varn Kessar and Sylar Voon. Varn's broad shoulders hunch over the yoke, his hands steady, eyes locked on the starlines with a terse focus that cuts through the blur. Sylar's fingers dance across the navicomputer, her Twi'lek lekku twitching faintly, her analytical gaze sharp as a vibroblade. The console, a seamless blend of SoroSuub controls and my upgrades, pulses with Jedi astrogation charts, holographic lines crisp against the screens. The Class 1.0 hyperdrive thrums, a warm rhythm vibrating through my boots. A metallic scent, clean and precise, fills the air, and the kyber shard in my pocket pulses faintly, a subtle weight against my thigh.
"ETA, Sylar?" I ask, voice gravel-rough, slicing through the hyperdrive's thrum. I lean against the console, its durasteel edge cool under my palm, my council robes shifting, Noghri leather trim brushing against my frame. "We should be coming up on her soon, Master," Sylar replies, her tone clipped, analytical, like a droid parsing data. Her lekku curl slightly, eyes flicking to the navicomputer's glowing keys. I nod, adjusting my lightsaber, its matte black hilt scratched but solid, a familiar anchor. The scar from a Vjun duel catches my thumb, a faint ridge under calloused skin. "Systems check," I say, voice low, steady. "Keep it tight." Varn grunts, terse as ever, his hands unwavering on the yoke. "All green, Master." His focus is a wall, unyielding, the kind that holds a ship steady through hyperspace's chaos. Sylar's fingers fly, screens flickering with diagnostics, her precision a quiet hum of its own. The cockpit's polish mirrors my resolve, a Jedi's clarity before the shadow waiting on Chandrila.
I unclasp my datapad from my belt, its duraplast casing worn smooth from years of missions, and tap the screen. Seraphine's report loads in Aurebesh, the words stark against the glow: Sith-like figures ambushed a Hanna City patrol near her estate, three dead, their blasters cold, locals gripped by fear. The text cuts like a vibroblade, each syllable a weight. I study the words, grey eyes narrowing, the names "Sith" and "killings" sharp as durasteel. Seraphine's estate, marble and transparisteel, looms in my mind, a council ally now tangled in something dark. "Anything on diagnostics?" I ask Sylar, my voice a low growl, steady but edged. She glances at her screen, lekku still, her analytical mind sifting data. "All green, Master," she says, voice sharp. "Console's clean, systems nominal." Her fingers pause, hovering over the keys, as if expecting the data to shift. Varn adjusts the yoke, his grunt clipped. "Steady on course." His terse focus anchors the Roamer, the starlines' blur softening as hyperspace thins.
I tap the comms panel, its surface smooth, wired by Jedi engineers for precision. The Jedi-specific scrambler hums, static crackling then clearing, a secure line to Ossus if trouble calls. My hand rests on my lightsaber, its heft a promise against the unknown. The cockpit's air is cool, the metallic tang clean, but the rumors' weight settles like dust on my shoulders. I lean harder against the console, its edge biting my palm, grounding me. The navicomputer pings, its chime sharp, slicing through the cockpit's hum like a blaster's snap. The viewport shifts, starlines fading to Chandrila's blue-green curve, its misty valleys and forests glinting under a pale sun. Seraphine's estate spaceport, a marble-and-transparisteel courtyard, glows in the distance as we continue to descend, spires catching light like polished blades. The console's screens flicker, displaying landing vectors, holographic lines tracing the approach. The hyperdrive quiets, its thrum fading to a murmur, and the J-77 ion engines kick in, their pulse smooth through the deck. A faint floral scent drifts from the air recyclers, Chandrila's atmosphere creeping in, softening the metallic tang.
"Hail the spaceport," I tell Varn, voice edged, like a saber drawn slow. He keys the comms, his terse focus unwavering. "Starfield Roamer, Jedi vessel, ID tag SR-4471, requesting clearance, Seraphine estate," Varn says, his voice clipped, steady as durasteel. The Chandrilan control responds, voice crisp through the comms. "Roamer, transmit Jedi credentials. Confirmed ID tag SR-4471." Varn taps the console, sending the encrypted codes. "Credentials sent." A pause, then control crackles back. "Roamer, ID verified, Jedi credentials confirmed. Clearance granted, vector 3-7, pad 4. Stay on approach." "Copy, vector 3-7," Varn replies, fingers precise on the yoke, banking the ship. The estate's spires rise, marble gleaming through the viewport, misty valleys a soft blur below. Sylar locks coordinates, her analytical gaze fixed on the screens, holographic vectors glowing steady. "Pad 4 locked, Master," she says, lekku still, her tone sharp but calm. The Roamer descends, landing gear extending with a soft whine, the deck vibrating faintly. Chandrila fills the viewport, its beauty masking the shadow of Seraphine's report. My hand tightens on my lightsaber, the scratched hilt anchoring me, a promise against the danger waiting below.
The Roamer touches down, landing gear settling on polished stone with a gentle thud. The engines' hum fades, leaving the cockpit quiet, the air thick with Chandrila's floral scent. I stand straighter, robes settling, Noghri leather creaking, my grey eyes scanning the viewport one last time. The estate's spires gleam, a deceptive calm. I turn to the door, boots scuffing the deck, and move toward the dorsal hatch. Aurelia waits there, her blue-green lightsaber at her side, her nod calm, steady. "Ready, Master," she says, voice low, a quiet anchor. The dorsal hatch seals behind me with a low hiss, its durasteel clang sharp as a snapped bone in the quiet of Seraphine's estate spaceport. My boots grind against obsidian tiles, their star etchings catching Chandrila's pale sun like the cracked plains of Dantooine under my feet decades ago, when I was a boy running from shadows. The courtyard stretches wide, a reflective sea of black stone, fringed with jasmine-like trees, their petals drifting like ash, their scent sharp and floral, cutting through the damp air like a memory I can't afford to chase. Aurelia strides beside me, her lightsaber a steady weight at her hip, its kyber crystal dormant but ready, her calm a stone in a storm. My council robes, Noghri leather creaking like old barn wood, shift against my frame, the fabric catching on calloused fingers weathered by years of welding this ship and wielding a blade.
The administrative rep, a Chandrilan in crisp silks, adjusts her glasses with a quick flick, her bow curt as a blaster's snap. "Master Solusar, Lady Seraphine awaits," she says, voice smooth as a Dantooine stream, but her glasses catch the light again as she adjusts them, a nervous tic cloaked in professionalism. My hand rests on my lightsaber, its matte black hilt of scratched durasteel, a Vjun scar rough under my thumb, a reminder of darker days. Aurelia's steps are silent, her calm unshaken, her saber's hilt gleaming faintly in the courtyard's glow. The rep gestures toward the entrance hall, her silks swishing, glasses adjusted once more, and I follow, my grey eyes scanning the obsidian tiles, their star patterns reflecting my shadow like a ghost from the plains. We cross the courtyard, the tiles cool and unyielding under my boots, the jasmine scent cloying, like the dust of Dantooine's fields after a storm. The entrance hall opens, its ceiling soaring with cascading chandeliers, their crystals scattering light like stars over a prairie night. Holo-sculptures of Chandrilan flora, vines curling, blooms pulsing in soft blues, float along the walls, their glow casting patterns on the polished durasteel floor. The air hums with a faint acoustic buzz, hidden comms whispering surveillance, a sound that pricks my senses like a blade's edge. My robes creak, the leather stiff as I move, and my hand tightens on my lightsaber, its heft grounding me, a weight that's carried me through wars and redemption.
The rep leads us through a curving corridor, its floor a mosaic of ancient Chandrilan trade routes, blue and gold swirls flashing under recessed lumas, like the paths I walked as a boy before the galaxy broke. Transparisteel skylights span the ceiling, revealing a clouded sky, the light dappled and shifting, casting shadows across the mosaics that dance like ghosts. The rep's glasses flash as she adjusts them, her pace steady, but the nervous flick of her fingers betrays a tension I can't place. My boots scuff the mosaics, their texture faint underfoot, and Aurelia keeps pace, her calm a quiet pulse, her eyes flicking to the skylights, the clouds' haze a warning. The conference hall's durasteel doors loom, etched with swirling vines that catch the lumas' glow like a Dantooine sunset gone cold. The rep pauses, glasses adjusted, and presses a control panel, the doors hissing open with a low hum, revealing a chamber of opulence and lies. The conference hall stretches vast. A polished durasteel table gleams at the center, reflecting the golden glow of chandeliers overhead, their crystals shimmering like stars I once watched from Dantooine's fields. High-backed synthweave chairs line the table, their cushions stiff, unyielding as the tension in my gut. Transparisteel skylights cast clouded light, softening the room's edges, battling the chandeliers' warmth. Wall panels shimmer with abstract Chandrilan starbursts, their metallic sheen cold despite the glow, like the eyes of the six guards in ceremonial armor lining the walls. Their vibrospears glint, visors hiding gazes that track me like a kath hound on the hunt. Seraphine stands at the table's head, her silver robes flowing like water over Dantooine's streams, her smile forced, hands overly steady in polite gestures, a slow pour of Chandrilan wine, a tilt of her head, too calm, like a snake charmer before the strike, Sollozzo's charm dressed in silk.
The rep adjusts her glasses and gestures to the chairs, her voice clipped as a blaster's click. "Please, Master Solusar, be seated." I stand, unmoving, my hand near my lightsaber, its kyber crystal ready to ignite, its hum waiting in the scratched hilt. Aurelia mirrors me, her blue-green saber poised, her calm a rock against the tide. The rep steps back, glasses adjusted again, her silks fading against the wall panels. Seraphine's smile widens, her hands offering a glass of wine, the crimson liquid catching the chandelier's glow, her fingers lingering too long, too steady, like a Dantooine wind gone still before a storm. "Master Solusar, a toast to our alliance," she says, her voice smooth as polished durasteel, her gestures deliberate, a slow pour, a nod. "The Sith-like figures troubling Hanna City are mere bandits, stirring unrest among my people." A holotable at the center glows, its holographic display flickering with patrol logs, patrols moving through Hanna City, bandit sightings scattered, no mention of the ambush that left three dead, their blasters cold on the ground. My Force senses flare, sharp as a vibroblade's edge, her lie cutting through the air like a cracked kyber's hum. The floral warmth turns cloying, the chandelier's glow dimming in my vision, the skylights' clouded light pressing down like a weight. Her polite gestures, another pour, a smile stretched thin, ring false. I lean forward, palm pressing the durasteel table, its coolness biting like Dantooine's frost, my grey eyes boring into hers. "Bandits don't attack with precision," I growl, voice rough as gravel, thick with the dust of my homeworld. "Seraphine. What game are you playing at?"
Her smile tightens, a flicker in her eyes, a crack like a Dantooine rock splitting under heat. The Force surges, danger flooding my senses. Aurelia shifts, her hand on her saber, her calm now a coiled spring, ready to snap. The guards' vibrospears glint, their armor clanking faintly, the air thick with deceit. Seraphine's hands pause, wine glass hovering, her voice still smooth but edged like a blade. "You misunderstand, Master Solusar. My people need protection, not suspicion." The Force screams, a pulse like a shattered kyber, and I step closer, lightsaber's hilt tight in my grip, its scar catching my thumb. "The light binds, not breaks," I say, voice cutting low. "There is deceit behind your words, Seraphine." Her eyes flash, the mask slipping, and the danger spikes, sharp as a blaster's crack.
Her smile twists to venom, teeth bared like a kath hound's snarl. "You walk around perverting what it means to be the galaxy's protector," she spits, her wrist flicking sharp as a whip. The guards surge before I can move, six vibrospears thrusting, stun blasters crackling in a brutal, chaotic ambush, fast and ruthless like a Dantooine dust storm swallowing the plains. My hand scrabbles for my lightsaber, Aurelia's fingers claw for hers, but the guards are too fast, their armor rattling like falling rocks. A ysalamiri's null field then chokes the Force, its silence crushing, a void like a Dantooine night gone black, stripping my reflexes to raw flesh and bone. I duck a stun bolt, its acrid crack singeing my robes, the chandelier's glow dimming to a haze. Aurelia twists, dodging a staff but a stun bolt slams her chest, the impact a dull thud, her body crumpling silently to the durasteel floor, her saber clattering as it rolls out of her hand, unignited, a dead weight.
I lunge, deflecting a vibrostaff with my forearm. The guards press, their visors cold, each hit a hammer to my ribs from the butt of their blasters. Seraphine steps close, her eyes blazing like a syndicate boss delivering the killing blow, and slams a blaster pistol hilt into my temple, the impact a sharp crack. "Traitor, you're no Jedi," she snarls, voice cutting through with hatred. "The true Order is who I serve." Blackness floods in for a brief moment, the skylights' clouded light swallowed. My vision blurs, Aurelia's fallen form—her hand still twitching—the last thing I see as I slump to the durasteel, its cold bite like Dantooine's frost against my cheek. Then another sharp sensation, a black silence claims the world around me.