Surviving Order 66

[CosmixExponent]

Chapter 2

The ship trembled as it breached the upper atmosphere of Lasan, its battered hull groaning with each shudder of turbulence. Smoke curled from the scorched right engine, a constant reminder of how close they'd come to dying in the void. Aelom gripped the controls tighter than necessary, his jaw clenched, eyes flickering across flickering readouts and sputtering monitors. The clouds outside the viewport rolled like a grey sea beneath them, flashes of violet lightning dancing between their folds, illuminating the broken wings of their once-proud vessel. Behind him, the hum of the ship's systems had shifted into a low, erratic whine — the kind of sound a starship made when it was holding itself together out of sheer spite. Master Eldrel stood silently beside him, bracing herself against the co-pilot's seat, saying nothing. There was nothing left to say — both of them knew this landing would be rough, and that survival was a matter of inches and instinct now. Below, Lasan revealed itself: craggy mountain ridges, wide amber plains veined with winding rivers, and stone structures that looked ancient even from this height. "Looks like we're not dead yet," Aelom muttered under his breath, his voice a quiet rasp. His fingers danced across the nav controls, rerouting minimal power to the maneuvering thrusters. "But if I misjudge this entry by half a degree, we might still make the day's casualty report." Eldrel didn't respond. She simply placed a hand on his shoulder. A gesture of trust. Of faith. He swallowed hard, staring forward.


Altitude warnings screamed across the console as the ship dipped lower. Wind slammed against the hull in furious bursts. Below them now was a narrow valley framed by rocky cliffs, with only a sparse scattering of trees and dry grass swaying under the pressure of their descent. No cities. No landing platforms. Just dirt and dust and rock. "Brace," Aelom said through gritted teeth, one hand instinctively reaching for the stabilizer lever as the ship jolted again. The landing gear was fried, the inertial dampeners overloaded. They'd hit hard. The medical droid squawked somewhere behind them, warning of organ failure probabilities — as if that helped. Aelom ignored it. At the last second, he pulled the ship's nose up, skimming the edge of the ridge before slamming down into the valley floor. The ship skipped once, metal screaming against rock, then skidded hard before collapsing in a heap against the base of a stone outcrop. Sparks flew. Panels burst open. A silence followed — too thick, too sudden. Then came the ticking — the metallic echo of heat bleeding out of the engines.


Aelom coughed, his head spinning. Dust filled the cockpit, stinging his eyes. "We're alive," he rasped, surprised. Eldrel stirred beside him, gripping his arm as she stood. "For now," she replied softly. Outside the viewport, Lasan waited — alien, ancient, indifferent. Their war was over, but something else had just begun.

The ramp of the ship hissed open with a reluctant groan, grinding against the dirt as it lowered onto the cracked surface of the valley floor. The smell of scorched metal and coolant gave way to the dry, mineral scent of Lasan's wilderness — a bitter wind carrying dust and unfamiliar pollen across the broken hull. Aelom stepped out first, boots crunching into the coarse earth, hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his lightsaber. His body still ached from the crash and his wounds were far from healed, but the adrenaline masked most of it. He squinted into the afternoon sun, casting long shadows against the canyon walls. Everything was still. No birds, no beasts, just the sound of wind scraping rock. It made his skin crawl. "If this is where we die, at least the view's decent," he muttered.


Master Eldrel followed behind him slowly, her robe tattered at the hem and stained with dried blood. Her movements were more cautious than his — deliberate, watchful. "Don't speak of death just yet," she said quietly, scanning the horizon. "We've cheated it once already. I'd prefer to not test our luck again so soon."


Together they moved along the side of the ship, checking the damage. It wasn't good. The starboard engine was totaled — torn open like a wound. One of the rear stabilizers was crumpled, and the outer hull bore deep scorches from blaster fire and atmospheric re-entry. The medical droid was miraculously still functioning, hobbling down the ramp with a bag of salvaged supplies in its grip. "I have recovered what medical resources remain, sirs," it beeped. "Minimal bacta, moderate stim stock, one full medpac. Hull integrity compromised. Ship will not achieve orbit."


Aelom sighed, dragging a crate from the wreckage and flipping it open. Inside were ration packs, a few thermal blankets, and an old flare launcher. "We're grounded," he said flatly. "If the clones track us here, we won't be able to run again."


"We won't," Eldrel agreed. "But if we're careful, we may not have to."


As they gathered what they could carry, a sound broke the stillness — a faint crunch of rock underfoot, deliberate, slow. Both Jedi froze. Aelom's hand went to his saber. Eldrel turned toward the source, eyes narrowed. From behind a cluster of jagged stone formations, a figure emerged. Tall. Muscular. Purple-grey fur rippling in the wind. A Lasat. He wore rough leathers and a long cloak fashioned from hide, and in one hand he carried a long staff capped with carved bone. His golden eyes locked onto them, unreadable.


"Your kind brings only war," the Lasat growled in accented Basic. "Republic fire burned our skies once. If you've come to finish what they started…" He pointed the staff toward them, "Then turn back, or be buried where you stand."


Aelom stepped forward slightly, raising both hands in peace. "We're not your enemy," he said carefully.


The Lasat's gaze flicked to Eldrel. "We'll see."

 

[CosmixExponent]

Chapter 3

The Lasat didn't lower his staff. Dust swirled lazily between them as the canyon wind blew past, quiet but biting. Aelom stood firm, arms open in peace, though his jaw was set.

"We're not here to start a fight," he said. "Our ship was hit. We crashed. We just need help — shelter, or maybe directions to someone who can."

Master Eldrel stepped forward, carefully. "We have no quarrel with you or your people. We're Jedi."

The Lasat's eyes narrowed. His voice was low. "You shouldn't say that out loud."

Aelom blinked. "What?"

The Lasat's gaze swept the cliffs around them before he stepped closer, still keeping his weapon at the ready. "You're fugitives. Don't you know that?"

Eldrel's breath caught. "Fugitives?"

The Lasat gave a single, humorless laugh. "The whole Outer Rim's buzzing. Broadcasts on every frequency — Jedi tried to assassinate the Chancellor. The clones turned on you. You didn't hear?"

"We were in hyperspace," Eldrel murmured, more to herself than him. Her eyes darkened. "When we escaped the cruiser, we thought it was a betrayal. A single command gone wrong. But this…"

She looked at Aelom. Her voice was colder now, detached. "This was the plan all along."

Aelom turned toward her. "Master—"

"Think, Aelom." Her voice hardened. "The Clone Wars. A thousand systems at war. Jedi spread thin across every front. Trusted generals in every sector. And when the time was right… an order."

She looked back at the Lasat, a weight falling across her shoulders. "They used us. Every battle, every negotiation. It was all preparation — not to bring peace, but to scatter us, isolate us. And then… wipe us out."

The Lasat didn't speak. He didn't have to.

Aelom's fists clenched. "That can't be. We fought for the Republic—"

"The Republic's gone," the Lasat said. "Replaced by an Empire before your ship even hit my sky."

Eldrel turned, face drawn with disbelief — and something darker beneath it. "They played us. From the first day."

The Lasat lowered his staff slightly but did not step closer. "You're lucky I'm the one who found you. Most wouldn't ask questions. They'd report your position and move on. Jedi mean trouble now — bring Imperials with them."

"We didn't ask for this," Aelom said, his voice sharp.

"No one does," the Lasat replied. "But here we are."

There was a long silence.

Finally, the Lasat gestured back toward the trail that led deeper into the rocks. "You have one night. Use it well. Leave Lasan by morning. If you're still here... others will come."

Then he turned and walked away.

Aelom watched him disappear into the canyon, his heart pounding. He looked to Eldrel. "So it's true?"

Her eyes were distant. "Yes."

"So what do we do now?"

Eldrel didn't answer immediately. She stared toward the clouds on the horizon, the wind tugging at the torn edges of her cloak.

"…Now," she said softly, "we survive."

The fire burned low, but neither of them moved to feed it. Sleep didn't come — not for Eldrel, not for Aelom. The sky above Lasan stretched wide and cold, blanketed in stars that neither of them could bear to look at for long. Too many dead shone in that sky now.

Aelom sat hunched forward, elbows on knees, head bowed. His lightsaber sat beside him in the dirt, its polished casing dulled by dust. He hadn't touched it since earlier — since he'd nearly drawn it on a man who wasn't an enemy. Not really. Just afraid. Just like them.

"I keep thinking about Master Vayra," he muttered, voice hoarse. "She was teaching three younglings last time I saw her. Laughing. They were so small."

Eldrel didn't answer. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn't meditating. Just listening. Breathing. Trying to hold the center of a world that had split apart.

"What if they were still in the Temple?" he asked. "When it happened?"

Eldrel opened her eyes slowly. "Then we honor them by surviving."

Aelom laughed, bitter and hollow. "You think that's enough?"

"It has to be."

They sat in silence again, broken only by the wind and the soft, rhythmic creak of the ship's ruined hull shifting with the night air. Somewhere far off in the canyons, a creature howled — long and low, like mourning.

By the time the first light crept over the ridge, both Jedi were already moving. Wordless. Robes wrapped tight against the cold. They scavenged what little they could — ration packs, one half-functioning commlink, a strip of wiring that might be bartered or traded. The medical droid, too damaged to walk, was left behind, power core already flickering its last. It didn't protest.

Aelom stood near the ramp, surveying the wreck one last time. "Feels wrong leaving it. Like we're leaving a grave."

Eldrel placed a hand on his shoulder. "It is a grave. But we're not the ones staying in it."

They turned toward the treeline — the dense, twisting forest that blanketed the horizon. Whatever lay beyond it was unknown. But so was everything now.

A rustle of stone behind them made Aelom turn.

The Lasat stood on a ridge above, half-silhouetted in the dawn light, staff planted at his side like a marker. He said nothing. Just watched. His eyes were softer now. Not forgiving — not yet — but curious. As if part of him had expected them to run, to lash out, to fall apart.

Instead, he saw two figures burdened but unbroken, disappearing into the trees.

Aelom met his gaze for a moment longer, then turned away.

They stepped into the forest. The light behind them grew stronger. And the shadows ahead stretched long.


The forest wrapped around them like a living wall.

Lasan's wildlands were dense but dry, the air warm beneath the canopy of tall, narrow trees. Sunlight filtered through layers of golden leaves, casting shifting shadows across the forest floor. Thorny brush slowed their progress, but Aelom welcomed the quiet resistance — it kept his mind occupied.

Neither he nor Eldrel spoke much. There was too much sitting in their chests. Every snapped twig or distant animal cry reminded them they were fugitives now, though no one had said it aloud since the Lasat had.

As they climbed a narrow slope, the trees began to thin. Roots jutted from the soil like skeletal fingers, and above them, the sky opened wide. Aelom reached the ridge first, and the moment his eyes hit the horizon, he froze.

"Master," he called, softly.

Eldrel joined him at the crest, her breath catching as she followed his gaze.

Across the sky, crawling slow and silent like a predator, a Venator-class cruiser drifted just above the cloud line. Its red markings caught the morning sun, a harsh contrast against its war-worn hull. The once-familiar symbol of the Galactic Republic was still visible — proud, righteous, clean.

But now, it felt hollow.

"They're here," Aelom murmured.

Eldrel's eyes narrowed. "They never left."

Smaller LAAT gunships buzzed beneath the cruiser's belly like flies circling a corpse, scouting the land below. There were no lights, no alarms — just that eerie, methodical movement. A patrol. A claim. A warning.

"It's still Republic," Aelom said, almost to convince himself.

"No," Eldrel replied quietly. "Not anymore. Look."

He followed her gesture. Near the tail fin, where there should have been a unit number, was a new mark — black, angular, unfamiliar.

"The crest is changing," she said. "Even if the ships haven't."

Aelom clenched his fists. "It's only been days."

"That's all it takes."

They stood there for a long moment, staring up at the sky like it had betrayed them.

"I used to feel safe when I saw those cruisers," Aelom said. "Like we weren't alone out there."

Eldrel didn't look away. "Now they're just hammers. Waiting for a nail."

He turned his eyes back to the treeline behind them. "Think they're looking for us?"

"They don't need to be," she replied. "Eventually, they'll look for everyone."

He said nothing. The idea that the very machines they had once fought alongside were now hunting them — it made his skin crawl. The difference between order and oppression was suddenly as thin as breath.

"I hate this," he whispered.

"So do I," she said. "But hating it doesn't make it stop."

They didn't linger. As the cruiser crawled out of view behind a bank of clouds, the Jedi turned and descended the ridge. The forest closed around them again, shadows trailing long in the golden light.

The Republic was dead. But its bones still patrolled the sky.


The interior of the Venator-class cruiser was dim, sterile — its halls no longer humming with the steady rhythm of Republic command. Since the transmission of Order 66, everything aboard had changed, even if the colors and corridors remained the same. The war banners were gone. The laughter, too.

CT-9423 — callsign "Strake" — stood at attention on the forward observation deck, helmet tucked beneath one arm, the other clenched behind his back. Below the viewport, Lasan's rugged landscape stretched endlessly into haze and canyon. On the raised platform above, Admiral Harven Drel observed in silence, flanked by two clone officers.

The Admiral was not like the generals they once followed. He wore the new grey Imperial officer's uniform — crisp, minimal, bone-colored trim — and his expression carried the weight of someone born to give orders, not earn them. He hadn't fought in the Clone Wars. But now, he commanded its veterans.

"We've confirmed the trajectory of the Jedi vessel," Strake reported, voice steady. "They jumped from a compromised medical frigate and crash-landed in sector J-43. Wreckage still hot."

"Any local interference?" Drel asked, hands clasped neatly behind him.

Strake hesitated. "Scattered settlements. Indigenous, loosely organized. The Lasat have no military infrastructure."

"Then proceed." The Admiral's tone was flat. "Find the Jedi. Eliminate them."

Strake nodded. "Yes, sir."

He turned and walked off the deck, boots striking cleanly against the metal floor. The order didn't surprise him. What did surprise him — still — was how easily they all followed it. None of them questioned the purge. Not even the ones who'd once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Jedi generals.

Maybe that was the chip. Maybe it was something else.

---

The hangar roared to life as LAAT gunships prepped for launch. Clone troopers moved with practiced speed, armor worn from battles on Ryloth, Umbara, Geonosis. Veterans, every last one of them — forged in the fire of the Republic's greatest war. Now repurposed.

Strake walked between them in silence. No one joked. No one laughed. The camaraderie that once warmed the barracks had cooled to precision. Duty. Purpose.

And something beneath that — something unspoken.

The Jedi had turned traitor. That's what the briefing said. That's what they were told.

But part of Strake remembered.

He remembered Master Urla shielding his squad from an ambush on Kintan. He remembered her dying in the snow with his name on her lips.

He pushed the memory aside.

---

Hours later, the gunships glided low over Lasan's treetops, their shadows long in the fading light. Two squads were deployed on foot near the wreckage, white armor ghosting through the underbrush, scanning with silent efficiency.

Strake knelt near the torn hull of the downed shuttle, fingers brushing ash and soil. Heat trace was fresh. Two humanoids, headed northeast. The terrain would slow them — but not forever.

Behind him, CT-8805 approached, rifle at his side. "Same type of shuttle we used during Felucia evac. Still can't believe they got out."

"They always get out," Strake muttered.

"Feels wrong, hunting them like this."

Strake rose slowly. "They made their choice."

"Did they?" 8805 asked. "Or did someone make it for them?"

Strake didn't answer.

---

Back on the ridge, Admiral Drel watched the movement from a hovering command platform, expression unmoving. Below, the clone troopers fanned out in disciplined waves — trackers, spotters, sharpshooters.

"They won't get far," he said quietly.

One of the bridge officers looked up. "And if the locals shelter them?"

The Admiral clasped his hands again.

"Then we burn the forest."

 

[CosmixExponent]

Chapter 4

The forest deepened, and the light thinned.

They moved without speaking, feet muffled by the thick mat of dried needles and curling leaves that coated the forest floor. The golden hues of early morning dimmed beneath the rising trees, where knotted branches wove into a jagged canopy that filtered sunlight into thin, broken shafts. Aelom's cloak snagged on a bramble, but he didn't stop. He just pulled forward, letting the thorn tear the fabric as he pushed deeper into Lasan's wilderness.

Every part of him ached. His thighs burned from the climb. His shoulders throbbed beneath the weight of his pack. A shallow cut just below his ribs throbbed in rhythm with his breath — not fatal, but enough to remind him with every movement that he wasn't at full strength. Still, he didn't complain. Neither of them did. Pain had become the rhythm of their days now. Grief the melody.

They were too exposed by the crash site, and they both knew it. Staying there meant being pinned. Sheltering meant being found. And fighting — here, with no high ground, no cover, and no backup — would be suicide. They had no allies on Lasan. No guarantees. Only a planet full of strangers and an Empire that was no longer interested in justice.

Fallah walked ahead, her movements slower than before but deliberate. Her cloak was torn, her right arm still bandaged beneath the fabric, though she hadn't mentioned it since the escape. Her saber swung loosely at her belt — not a threat, just a weight. Like memory.

Aelom watched her footing and matched it, forcing his breathing into silence. He was younger, stronger — but even he could feel the toll. The crash, the hike, the fear. It carved lines into your body, left your nerves frayed. But what truly unsettled him wasn't the pain. It was the silence. The galaxy had changed, and now it was quiet — in the wrong ways. No Temple guidance. No transmissions from other Jedi outposts. No war councils or field briefings. Only static, and the haunting sense that the stars above them now belonged to someone else.

Aelom's hand brushed the hilt of his saber once, reflexively. He didn't draw it. He hadn't since the canyon.

They passed through a narrow defile in the rock, where gnarled roots split stone and soil alike, like claws trying to grip something long buried. Every few steps, Fallah paused — listening, watching — before moving on. She didn't need to say it aloud. They were being hunted. And the longer they remained close to the wreckage, the sooner that hunt would end.

Somewhere behind them, among the upper winds above the treetops, the Venator was still drifting. Silent. Watching. Waiting.

So they went on, deeper and deeper, into the forest that seemed to close behind them like a gate.







The trees gave way to stone.

After nearly an hour of slow, punishing travel, the forest thinned into a rocky highland — jagged ridges and sun-split outcrops where moss clung in stubborn veins and the air grew dry and sharp. Fallah slowed as they reached the edge of an overlook, one gloved hand rising to signal a halt. Aelom came up beside her, sweat streaking his temple, cloak clinging damply to his back.

Before them, the land dropped away.

A vast canyon split the forest like a scar — steep-walled and deep, its base lost to mist. The opposite side was no more than thirty meters away, maybe less, but the wind that howled between the cliffs made the gap feel infinite.

Aelom stared, chest rising and falling. "We can't go around?"

Fallah's eyes were still scanning the cliff line. "Too exposed. Too long. The longer we stay near open air, the more likely they'll spot us."

"You want to jump it?"

She didn't answer. She just backed up a few paces, calculating, then nodded once. "We won't get a better chance."

He swallowed, throat dry. They'd done worse in training. But not like this. Not with bruised ribs, no rest, and the cold press of death hunting them from above.

Fallah stepped forward again, tested her footing, then closed her eyes. Her breath slowed.

Then she ran.

Aelom's breath caught as her boots thudded against the stone, each step more urgent than the last. She pushed off just before the edge, cloak whipping around her as she arced across the void. For a second, she hung in the air — and then landed hard on the far side, stumbling to a knee, sliding a few feet before catching herself.

She rose slowly, turned, and waved.

Aelom backed up, heart hammering. His legs felt like they were made of molten metal. He hadn't rested. He hadn't even eaten. And now, his master was on the other side of a death chasm, waiting for him to jump a distance even healthy Jedi would hesitate to try.

He ran.

His muscles screamed with each stride, boots slapping too loud, breath tearing ragged in his throat. He reached the edge and pushed off — but too late. Too slow. The arc was wrong. He felt it before he even reached the midpoint.

"Master—!"

Gravity took him.

He hit the cliff wall below the edge hard — pain exploded across his left side. He tumbled, twisting midair, trying to focus through the panic. He reached for the Force, flung it downward like a crashing wave.

His fall slowed — not stopped, but dulled enough to spare his life. He slammed into a ledge a dozen meters down and rolled, crying out as something gave way in his leg with a sickening pop.

Silence.

The canyon swallowed the sound. He lay still, blinking up at the sunlight above. His lightsaber was a few meters away, sparking faintly, its hilt cracked and half-buried in dust. His leg burned, wrong beneath him. Aelom groaned and pulled himself upright on his elbows, biting back another shout.

He looked up.

Far above, the ledge he'd missed was just out of reach. Fallah wasn't there.

"Master?" he called, voice hoarse. "Master!"

No answer.

He was alone.


The wreckage still smoked.

Blackened metal jutted from the ground like ribs, warped by heat and impact. CT-9423 — Strake — stepped through the remains with quiet precision, his boots crunching over scorched debris and fractured plating. The Jedi vessel had broken apart across a shallow ridge, its nose half-buried in earth, its engines gutted by fire. But Strake saw no corpses. No bodies fused to the flight chairs. No armor fragments. No signs of a kill.

"Cockpit's empty," CT-3057 reported from the forward section. "No casualties. No blood."

Strake gave a brief nod. He moved along the ruined hull, scanning. Something in the pattern of the debris caught his eye — fragments too clean, too recent. Someone had scavenged. Quickly. A medical pack was missing. Tool compartments opened and stripped. He knelt by the ramp, fingers brushing a line of impressions in the dirt.

"Two sets of prints," he said flatly. "Boots. Standard Jedi pattern. Departed on foot."

CT-9824 joined him. "Heading northwest, looks like. Up into the forest."

Strake rose, scanning the tree line. The Lasan wildlands loomed just beyond the clearing — dense, high-canopy terrain with uneven elevation. Good for cover. Good for fleeing. But not good enough.

He activated his comm. "Unit Delta, this is 9423. Confirmed contact. Two fugitives. Abandoned transport at coordinates marked. Proceeding on foot. Begin tracking sweep."

A burst of static, then a crisp voice replied. "Copy. Delta moving to intercept."

The other troopers fanned out around the crash site, collecting readings and confirming the trail. Burned ferns where a repulsorlift pack had ignited. A cracked power cell left behind in haste. A faint signature on the ground — a short-range commlink still transmitting periodic pulses. No message. Just an echo. A mistake.

"They were in a hurry," CT-8805 said.

Strake said nothing. His eyes followed the direction of the tracks until the trees swallowed them. Judging by the pace and spread, one of the fugitives was injured — slower gait, heavier on the left side. The prints deviated occasionally, staggered, before rejoining. He'd seen it before. Wounded Jedi still trying to move like ghosts.

It wouldn't save them.

He keyed another command into his HUD, syncing local topography and orbital reconnaissance feeds. The canyon range ahead offered limited exits — a natural choke point. If they reached it, they'd have fewer routes left to run.

"Push forward," he ordered. "Staggered V. Sensor sweeps every ten minutes. If you see anything — movement, heat, reflection — mark it and call it in."

The troopers moved without question. No hesitation. No chatter. They weren't brothers anymore — just weapons shaped by war, and sharpened now by command.

Strake paused at the edge of the wreckage, looking once more at the fading footprints vanishing into the brush.

They weren't far.
And they were only getting slower.



He gave the signal, and the hunt began.

The trail led them to an opening in the canopy — a brief clearing where the wind spoke louder than the birds. CT-9423, Strake, emerged from the trees in silence, the rest of his squad fanning out behind him in textbook formation. Before them, the overlook stretched out over a steep valley, the same ridgeline the fugitives had reached hours earlier.

The air was still charged here — disturbed, somehow. The faint scent of ozone clung to the soil. Trampled underbrush marked where two figures had stood, one pacing tightly in a circle, the other still. Strake knelt and ran his gloved hand over the prints.

"They stopped here," he said. "Watched the sky."

CT-3057 followed his gaze toward the distant clouds. "The cruiser passed over this line at 0700. You think they saw it?"

"They saw it," Strake said coldly. "And they kept running."

He rose and turned toward the westward incline where the trees grew thin. The soil there was disturbed — more chaotic. Rushed movement. He followed the trail a few steps and crouched again near a rock where something dark fluttered low in the brush.

"Visual on trace," CT-9824 called, moving up beside him. "Piece of fabric. Torn."

Strake reached out and plucked the scrap free. It was rough, brown, worn — a shred of cloak, likely caught on a branch or jagged stone. He turned it over once in his hand, confirming the texture.

"Jedi."

CT-8805 scanned the immediate area. "One of them might've fallen. There's a shift in the tracks. The smaller prints are gone."

Strake moved toward the edge of the ridge, looking down into the canyon below. It wasn't a straight fall, but it was close. Jagged ledges and root-wrapped outcroppings descended into mist. It would take a skilled soldier — or a Jedi — to survive a fall like that.

"They jumped again," Strake said. "Or tried."

He tapped a command into his gauntlet. A small recon drone detached from his belt and zipped into the canyon, descending in a steady spiral.

"If they're down there," Strake muttered, "they're slowed."

CT-3057 stepped beside him. "Should we deploy climbing gear? Sweep the lower basin?"

Strake shook his head. "No need. If one of them's down, they'll bleed time. We keep to the trail. Stay above. They'll be forced to rejoin eventually."

He dropped the fabric on the stone and turned away.

"Command wants results. We give them bodies."

The squad moved on, slipping back into the forest like ghosts. Behind them, the clearing fell still again, save for the wind twisting through the trees — and the scrap of cloak left fluttering on the rocks like a forgotten flag.


She saw him fall.

It happened in an instant, and in that instant, everything inside her cracked. One moment Aelom was midair, pushing off the ledge just as she had — too late, too slow — and the next, he was plunging. His arc dipped too early. His form twisted. His hands reached. Her voice caught in her throat as the boy — no, the young man she had trained, protected, loved in her own distant, Jedi way — dropped from her sight, swallowed by the canyon's depth.

"NO—" It wasn't a scream, not quite. More like a breath sharpened into a blade.

She staggered to the edge, pulse thundering in her ears, the Force surging to her fingertips before collapsing. Her legs buckled under her, her already-wounded arm gave way as she reached toward the ledge, and pain flooded her senses. She couldn't even steady her breath, let alone catch him. He was gone — somewhere below, in mist and shadow. There was no sound. No sign.

"Aelom…"

Fallah knelt at the ledge, fingers gripping stone hard enough to tear the skin beneath her gloves. She reached out — through the Force — blindly, desperately. Her mind touched the air, the rock, the thrum of wind — but not him. Not yet. Either he was too far... or worse.

She tried again. Closed her eyes. Reached deeper.

There.

Faint. Flickering. Pain. But alive.

Relief struck her like a spear to the chest, stealing her breath. But it didn't last. The distance was too great. The terrain impassable. Her own body screamed at her with every movement — her ribs bruised, her arm strained to the edge of breaking, and her strength — the core of it, that inner stillness the Jedi taught — was slipping. Her mind clouded faster now. Guilt was a shadow dragging behind her, no longer whispering but shouting.

She pressed her palm to the cold stone, fingers trembling.

He's alive.

He's hurt.

And I can't get to him.

The thought was louder than her heartbeat. Louder than the wind.

Fallah rose slowly, her body stiff, mechanical. She looked once more over the ledge, then turned. Not because she wanted to. Not because it felt right. But because staying would do nothing. She could die trying to reach him, and that would help no one. If there was even a chance she could regroup, circle back, find another path down the ravine… she had to take it.

That was what the Code would say. Detach. Endure. Survive.

But the Code didn't feel like enough anymore.

She walked. One step, then another. Her legs moved, but her mind dragged behind, tethered to that broken cliff edge where her padawan had vanished. Every branch that cracked beneath her boots felt like a sin. Every rustle in the brush sounded like betrayal.

She was leaving him.

And the worst part — the thing she could not say aloud — was that part of her didn't believe she would see him again. Not because he would die. But because she might. Or he might. Or they would both become ghosts of a war that never gave them a chance.

Doubt crept in like smoke under a door. What if she had waited one more minute? What if she'd taught him better balance? What if she had carried more medkits, or stronger rope, or jumped second? What if—

She stopped. Breathed. Tried to center.

But there was no center. Not anymore. Only the trail ahead, and the weight of everything behind her.

Master Fallah Eldrel walked on, deeper into the forest, and the forest did not care. The trees did not care. The war did not care.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn't sure she did either.








The wind cut sharper at the canyon's edge.

CT-9423 — Strake — came to a halt just before the drop, his visor sweeping across the torn earth where moss and soil had been freshly disturbed. Around him, the rest of the squad fanned out in silence. CT-3057 crouched near the ledge, fingers brushing a dark smear across the stone.

"Blood trace," he reported. "Still warm."

"Two sets of prints end here," said CT-8805 from farther up the ridge. "One continues west. The other… doesn't."

Strake stepped closer. The edge was jagged, scraped raw by boot tread. He followed the signs: a skid, a break, a faint impression lower on the opposite cliffside. A fall — survived, barely. Below, mist coiled between rocky outcroppings, and somewhere in that fog lay one of their targets.

"Coordinates locked," he said, marking the ledge on his HUD. "Prepare descent protocols. Recon drone, drop zone five meters east."

CT-9824 pulled the tethered microdrone from his belt and released it with a hiss. The machine dipped and spiraled downward, lights blinking as it vanished into the haze.

"No body," 3057 muttered. "But someone fell hard. Had to be the smaller one — lighter stride, more erratic pacing. Likely the padawan."

"Survivable?" another clone asked.

"For a Jedi?" Strake answered. "Yes. But not for long."

He turned away from the edge and nodded toward the trail leading westward — broken brush, smeared footprints, fragments of fabric snagged in the thorns. This path was sharper, more determined. Someone hadn't stopped. Someone had made the choice to keep going.

The other one.

"CT-3057, 8805 — descend into the canyon. Scan for a heat trail. If the padawan's alive, you'll find him."

"Yes, sir."

Strake adjusted his rifle grip and started toward the path. "The rest of you with me. We keep to the upper ridge. This one is still mobile."

CT-9824 paused before following. "Priority?"

Strake didn't break stride. "Whichever dies first."

The squad moved quickly. No debate. No sentiment. Just motion — practiced, synchronized, lethal. White armor slipped between the trees with uncanny silence, and within seconds the overlook was abandoned, save for the canyon wind and the soft whine of the descending drone.

Down below, shadows shifted as the canyon swallowed the drone's lights.

Up above, boots crushed twigs in the same brush Fallah had passed through minutes earlier.

They were close now.

And closing.
Pain had become a rhythm.

Every movement sent a fresh bolt of fire up his leg, sharp and nauseating, but he kept crawling. One arm forward, then the other. Drag. Breathe. Repeat. His broken leg trailed uselessly behind him, wrapped in a makeshift splint fashioned from a snapped branch and part of his belt. It wasn't good — it was barely functional — but it kept the limb stable enough that he could move. Barely.

His breath came in short, wet gasps. Sweat clung to him like a second skin, mixing with blood and dust as he pulled himself across the uneven rock shelf. The canyon air was dry and thin, but down here the mist clung low, making every breath feel heavy, thick, like drowning on land.

He stopped beside a half-buried root jutting from the wall and slumped against it, forehead pressed to the bark. He could feel the tremor in his arms. His muscles had long since passed exhaustion and moved into something else — a kind of numb, shaking persistence. The Force, weak as it was in him now, flickered just beneath the surface. Not enough to heal. Not enough to call for help.

He reached to his belt and pulled free his lightsaber.

It was cracked along the emitter shroud. Scored. Part of the power casing had warped from the fall, and when he thumbed the activation plate, the blade sparked — a flicker of green light that hissed and guttered into smoke.

He stared at it, jaw clenched.

His saber had always been a comfort — more than a tool, more than a weapon. It was a piece of who he was. The hours he spent building it. The meaning behind the color. The lessons that led him to it. Now it was as broken as his leg. As everything.

He slammed it once against the rock beside him. Not hard enough to shatter it. Just enough to let the rage bleed out.

"Aelom to Master Eldrel," he whispered, reaching inward.

He stretched out with his mind. Pushed gently at first. Then harder. The canyon swallowed his reach like water soaking into stone. There was no answer. No presence. No anchor.

"Master…" he whispered again, but this time the word was less hope and more accusation.

Still nothing.

The fear in his chest curdled into something hotter. Not rage, not yet — but a spark. He wasn't used to being alone. The Temple had always been there. His Master had always been there. Now he was injured, half-lost in a dead canyon on an alien world, and there was no one. No guidance. No warmth in the Force.

He shoved the lightsaber back into his belt and forced himself forward.

Aelom didn't know how far he'd gone before he heard it — a faint click of stone disturbed behind him. Then another. The sound of boots. Controlled, methodical, precise. A pattern. Military.

His stomach twisted.

He froze, listening. No voices. No orders. Just silence.

Then a soft mechanical whine — distant, hovering. A drone. Search pattern.

They'd found him.

Aelom dragged himself under the lip of a rock outcrop and pressed himself flat to the ground, chest heaving. His fingers hovered near the saber at his belt, but he didn't draw it. Not yet. Not like this.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, trying once more to reach for Fallah. For anything. But the Force remained dim and distant, like a voice he couldn't quite remember.

He was alone.

And they were coming.

The footsteps were closer now.

Aelom didn't move. He barely breathed. He could hear them just beyond the veil of brush — slow, deliberate, precise. Clones. Two, maybe three. Their boots made almost no sound on the rock, but the way they moved was unmistakable. Military rhythm. Not searching — sweeping.

Aelom's fingers hovered near his saber hilt. It still hung at his belt, damaged and dormant. His broken leg pulsed with every heartbeat, a throbbing reminder that he wasn't ready for this. He couldn't run. Couldn't climb. Couldn't even stand.

A shadow passed overhead. Then another. They were here.

He didn't have time to crawl further. He barely had time to turn before a boot kicked through the brush and slammed into his ribs.

Aelom cried out, instinctively curling to protect his side as the second clone stepped forward, rifle raised. The first one — CT-3057, his armor scratched and scuffed from years of war — pressed a foot into Aelom's back and shoved him fully into the dirt.

"Target acquired," 3057 said into his comm. "Padawan confirmed. Alive."

"Copy," a voice crackled back. "Secure and interrogate. If he resists, end it."

The second clone, CT-8805, stepped closer and kicked Aelom's lightsaber away. It skittered across the stone, sparking faintly. Then he knelt, grabbed Aelom by the collar, and yanked him upright.

Aelom hissed as pain surged through his leg. He tried to stand, but collapsed onto his knees.

"That's better," 8805 said, voice hollow through the helmet. "Jedi should kneel more often."

3057 circled around, rifle lowered but ready. "You're lucky, kid. Orders said termination. But we're giving you a choice."

Aelom looked up, sweat dripping from his brow. His lip was split. His breathing shallow.

"You tell us where your Master went," 3057 continued. "Name, direction, destination. Anything. You help us bring her in, and maybe you walk away."

Aelom's jaw clenched.

"You've got five seconds," 8805 added. "And then we stop asking."

He tapped the side of his rifle.

Aelom didn't speak.

3057 crouched down in front of him. "Come on. You're young. You're injured. She left you. You think she's coming back for you?" He leaned closer. "She's running. That's what they do. They cut their losses."

Aelom stared at the ground. His hands trembled.

"She left you to die," 3057 said, voice soft like poison. "But you don't have to. Give us the Jedi, and you live."

8805 stepped behind him, raising his rifle. The barrel settled just behind Aelom's head — execution style.

"You're not worth the bolt," he muttered.

The silence between them stretched. The wind picked up. Somewhere above, the canyon moaned.

And something inside Aelom cracked.

Not loud. Not violent. Just… a shift.

Like breath drawn too deep. Like a weight shifting from fear to fury.

He closed his eyes.

He felt the pain. The fear. The shame. He let it in.

And then he rose.

The rage came fast — not like a fire, but like a scream held in too long.

Aelom's body surged upward, driven by something deeper than instinct. He twisted hard, seizing the rifle barrel behind him, and shoved it wide. The clone's shot fired high, scorching the air with a sharp hiss.

Then Aelom reached out.

The lightsaber — kicked aside minutes earlier — trembled in the dirt a few meters away. For a split-second, nothing. Then it snapped into motion, ripping free from the dust and sailing through the canyon air.

It hit his palm just as he turned.

The saber ignited.

A flare of green light burst to life, unstable and stuttering like a dying breath. The blade trembled in his grip, but Aelom didn't care. His heart pounded in his ears. His broken leg screamed with each movement, but pain only sharpened his focus.

CT-8805 backed up, rifle raised.

Aelom moved.

He didn't leap. He lunged. A broken, raw charge — one foot dragging, the other pushing him forward like a hammerblow. He deflected the first bolt just in time. The second clipped his shoulder. He grunted, spun, and brought the saber down in a diagonal slash.

The clone barely dodged, armor scraping as he tumbled backward.

CT-3057 was already firing.

Aelom deflected one, two, three shots — each harder than the last. The green blade flickered again, and this time orange bled through the core, faint and flickering.

He could feel it — the change. Not in the saber. In himself.

There was no calm. No center. Only heat.

Pain.

Fear.

Anger.

The blade hissed louder.

Another bolt screamed toward his head. Aelom turned it aside and rushed 3057, swinging low. The clone caught the blow on his forearm plate, stumbled back — but Aelom pressed forward, slamming his shoulder into him and knocking him into the cliff wall.

Then he drove the saber through his chest.

3057 spasmed once, then crumpled, smoke hissing from his armor.

Aelom wheeled around. 8805 had drawn his sidearm, already aiming.

Aelom didn't wait.

He hurled himself forward, deflecting a bolt wide — then another — then closed the distance with a scream. His blade carved downward, catching the clone's blaster hand. 8805 howled, stumbled — but Aelom was already in motion, twisting, swinging, landing a final, brutal strike across his torso.

The clone dropped.

Silence.

Only the sound of Aelom's breathing remained — jagged, wet, broken.

He stood over the two bodies, saber trembling in his grip. The blade flickered violently now — sputtering between green and molten orange.

Then the hilt cracked.

A surge of heat burned his palm. Aelom cried out and dropped the saber as it exploded in a burst of sparks, the casing splitting apart in the dirt at his feet.

From the wreckage, something rolled loose — glowing faintly in the gloom.

His kyber crystal.

No longer green.

Not red.

Just orange — cloudy and unstable, like it hadn't made up its mind.

Aelom stared at it, breathing hard. His arms were shaking. His leg throbbed, useless beneath him. Blood stained his tunic. The two clones lay motionless.

And all he could hear was the echo of his own scream, still ringing in his skull.

He looked at his hands — still curled into fists.

And he didn't recognize them.


Master Eldrel stopped walking.

The Force rippled — not soft, not distant. Violent. Like a scream she couldn't hear with her ears, but felt in her bones.

Then came the heat.

Anger. Fury. Pain.

Not hers.

Aelom's.

Her breath caught. The ground tilted beneath her feet. She gripped a tree trunk to steady herself, but the bark felt slick under her hand. Her knees nearly gave.

"No…" she whispered. "No, not again."

It was happening — again. The same flare she'd felt on the cruiser during their escape, when the clones had turned, when he had lashed out with raw power and no control. Back then, she'd told herself it was adrenaline. Instinct. Desperation.

But this…

This was rage.

She closed her eyes, trying to push it back — to push him back. But the Force wouldn't let her. His presence was tangled in it now, like blood in water. He was alive.

But changed.

Fallah leaned her head against the tree, pressing her forehead into the rough bark. Her breath came shallow. The ache in her ribs flared again, but it was nothing compared to what twisted inside her chest.

She had failed him.

Another fracture, clean and deep.

One more piece breaking away.

She forced herself upright, teeth gritted, blinking hard against the burning in her eyes.

She turned toward the canyon.

She didn't know if she was going to find him—

—or bury him.