A/N: Reblogs and comments are much appreciated :))
--
You woke up in a cold sweat, shivering like a leaf amidst dust and twigs and things your brain could only comprehend as bones, dry and naked of any flesh or blood. You blinked the sleep off, your heartbeat picking up as your eyes swept over your surroundings in alert. A deep breath escaped your lungs, and you tried your hardest not to panic at the sight of the remains you had woken up on top of.
You were in a ditch, mud and leaves carefully plastered on the walls like it was a work of art. Under the moonlight, your gaze wandered to the other side of the pit, noting the way the twigs were so intricately braided together. It looked like a giant bird’s nest, filled with bones instead of worms.
You don’t remember passing out, nor did you remember ending up wherever this was.
Your hands found their way to your face, and you closed your eyes, memories of the past hours flooding back to you.
The factory.
The Inquisitors.
Han and Chewie.
Your lightsaber.
You paused.
Seventh Sister had shattered it, cleaving the hilt in two just as she seized the upper hand. In desperation, you had hurled the broken weapon at her, buying yourself a moment’s escape. The memory still burned. You bit down on your lip until the sharp tang of blood filled your mouth, fury knotting in your chest. You longed to strike, to break something, anything, while the image of her smug, unyielding face seared itself into your mind.
Your fingers tightened as they dug painfully into your scalp. You had survived the ordeal, yes, but at what cost? Han and Chewie may be safe for now, but what guaranteed they would be safe the next time? You had no means to protect them now that your lightsaber was gone. Fighting off the Inquisitors with a weapon was hard enough, now you had to do it without.
Moreover, the last thing that connected you to your Master was gone, reduced to metal shrapnels and ash. You suppressed a sigh. He had told you once that your weapon was your life, and then you went ahead to have it wrecked in a lightsaber fight like an absolute buffoon. Maker, you were such a disappointment. A failure. You were glad he wasn’t there to witness that tomfoolery you willingly put yourself through, but you knew deep within, you would do it again, because nothing mattered more than the people you loved, even if it meant losing your most prized possession.
Your self-loathing monologue went on for a few more minutes before a sharp screech cut the night air. You stilled, blood freezing at how close it sounded.
You held your breath, turning your head slowly to come face to face with something that could only be described as a featherless version of the Fishcatching birds of Eredeen Prime.
You remained still despite your fear, watching as it pecked at the already clean bones, its short narrow beak gleaming under the moonlight. That bird was a baby, with its eyes still closed and wings tightly pinned to its side as if it had just broken out of its shell, yet it stood at your height, with skin exactly the same shade as yours.
Your hand twitched. No wonder you had ended up here. The mother must have thought you were one of its younglings who had wandered away from the nest when she had found you passed out in the forest, the exhaustion causing you to drop like a sack of beans in the middle of nowhere.
You stood up from where you were seated, right hand braced against the wall to maintain your balance on the uneven ground built of things you had no wish to identify for your own sanity. One step in, and pain engulfed you. You pressed your other hand to your side as it throbbed, and the contact almost had you collapsing. Jolts of pain ran through the entirety of your body, electrifying your nerves from your toes to your eyes.
Your lips parted, but no sound left. You endured it in silence, too afraid to alert anyone or anything in the surroundings. There was not a single fight left in you anymore.
Your fingers peeled back your shirt, and the sight of the bruises littering your skin had you tilting your head towards the opening of the ditch in resignation.
They were as dark as the midnight sky with light bursts of green, blue and yellow, the parts that hadn’t already ripen into full blown bruises yet. The paleness said nothing, because it all ached the same, with the intensity of a burning volcano or the molten sting of a blaster wound.
The wound Boba Fett had left on your arm as a parting gift had healed cleanly, but the scar remained. You often found your eyes drifting to it, a reminder that you had escaped once, and a promise to yourself that you would escape again. But this time, there would be no Ben to pull you through.
You had escaped the jaws of the Empire once more, saved only by the bitter rivalry among the Inquisitors themselves. But you couldn’t get caught again. Next time, death would surely be waiting at your door.
Your luck was running thin.
You pressed your hands against the walls, searching for any fissure in the mud, any foothold that might let you climb free. The ditch was deep, its walls unforgiving. Your fingers kept scraping at mud and leaf, searching for purchase. Then at last you found it, a jagged bone jutting from the wall, slick but solid. You hauled yourself upward, boots kicking against the earthen side until you caught another hold, then another.
The cries of the newborn hatchling echoed below you, thin and piercing. For a moment, you stared at it. A life just beginning, while yours clung to the edge. You couldn’t stay. This place wasn’t yours, and time was slipping fast.
With a final heave, you dragged yourself over the rim, chest heaving as you collapsed onto the grass from the effort. The hatchling’s cries echoed faintly, a reminder of what was left behind. You pressed a mud-streaked hand against the ground, steadying yourself.
Now what?
The mud still clung to your hands as you rose, but your mind was already elsewhere. The factory. The place where the Inquisitors had nearly ended you.
Your lightsaber was gone, shattered in that brutal crash. The hilt had been nothing more than scrap when you last saw it, but the crystal… the crystal might still remain. It was more than a weapon. It was part of your Master. It was part of you.
The thought ate at you with every step you took away from the pit, You could flee, vanish into the shadows, and perhaps live another day. But without the crystal, you would never be truly whole again. The Empire had taken nearly everything. You couldn’t let them have this too.
The woods were quieter now, but not silent. As you picked your way towards the factory, the ground told the story of who had passed through not long ago.
Boot prints pressed deep into the soil. Charred branches where blaster fire had scorched the trees. A discarded ration wrapper, trampled into the mud. The Stormtroopers had combed this place thoroughly, fanning out through the undergrowth in their hunt for you.
You knelt, pressing your palm to the faint impression of a steel-lined heel, still sharp at the edges. They couldn’t be more than a few hours gone.
A chill threaded down your spine, if you hadn’t been dropped into that ditch— your jaw tightened at the thought— you would have been right here, sprawled across the grass unconscious when their search was at its fiercest.
You let out a slow breath, the image of the hatchling flashing in your mind. The mother bird hadn’t meant to save you. To her, you had been nothing but a misplaced youngling. Yet, by some twist of chance, her mistake had sheltered you from the Empire’s grasp.
Luck. Nothing more. But luck had teeth, and you were still alive because of it.
The outline of the factory loomed through the thinning trees, and your focus sharpened. Whatever fortune had spared you before, it wouldn’t protect you now. If your crystal was still inside, you would have to take it back with your own hands.
The air began to reek of scorched metal and ash the closer you got, the echoes of your last fight still fresh in your memory, Seventh Sister’s sneer, the snap-hiss of blades clashing, the moment your saber split apart in your hands.
Every instinct screamed at you to turn back. To leave it buried with the ruin and blood. But your heart pulled you forward. Somewhere in the wreckage, beneath steel and shadow, your crystal waited.
You had to find it.
The hangar gaped open before you, its metal ribs twisted and scorched from the firestorm that had consumed it. The stench of fuel and char still clung to the air, mingled with something heavier, something that spoke of flesh and finality.
You stepped carefully over shattered transparisteel and charred debris, every sound echoing in the cavernous ruins. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the faint groan of warped beams settling above. The factory was out of commission, the damages far too extensive for it to be functional barely hours after it was wrecked.
And then as you turned, you saw him.
The Third Brother. His hulking frame lay pinned beneath the collapsed structure of a TIE fighter, crushed in the explosion that had brought the fires licking high at the roof. The mask of fury he had worn in life was gone, replaced by a stillness that felt both alien and intimate.
You froze, throat tightening. The image of your blade striking, the anger in his eyes, the desperation in your own, it all surged back with the weight of silence all around.
He would have killed you.
It was him or you.
But the echo that answered your thoughts was hollow, unconvincing even to yourself. Survival had demanded it, yes but survival offered no comfort, only the heavy stone of guilt pressing harder against your chest.
You turned away, jaw set, trying to bury the weight with each step deeper into the ruin. You told yourself again it was necessary. Again, and again. But the corpse in the hangar didn’t argue.
You moved deeper, each step heavier than the last. Your fingers sifted through ash and twisted steel, the sting of your bruises still fresh on your skin. But the harder you searched, the louder the guilt became. You killed him. The thought came unbidden, as persistent as your own heartbeat. And you did it by choice. You didn’t have to drive him back into the burning TIE, yet you did.
You had taken a life.
Your hands trembled as you lifted a scorched panel, only to find nothing beneath but shattered glass. You clenched your jaw, whispering under your breath as if the words themselves might hold you together, “It was survival.”
You tore through the wreckage until your fingers bled. Metal sheets shrieked as you pried them up, broken circuits scattered under your boots, ash and soot clung to your face and hands. Every overturned beam, every hollow pipe, every shattered casing— nothing.
You dug deeper, crawling on hands and knees through the rubble, driven by a hope as fragile as glass. The crystal had to be here. It was yours. It had survived everything with you, bled with you, burned with you. It couldn’t just be gone.
But piece by piece, the factory gave up only emptiness and guilt.
Then, nothing left to overturn, no shadows left to search. You stared at your shaking hands dusted with ash. Empty.
The breath left you in a ragged sob. You tried to swallow it down, tried to grit your teeth and force steel back into your spine, but the dam cracked wide. The weight of failure, of loss, of guilt broke through all at once. You collapsed into the ruins, shoulders heaving, fists pounding weakly into the cold metal floor.
For the first time in a long time, you let yourself break.
Your vision blurred, and you felt the edges of despair closing in, your thoughts spiraling as sobs racked through your chest.
Then, bootsteps.
You froze, every nerve locking tight. Tears still rolled down your flushed cheeks, and you forced yourself to swallow down the whimpers threatening to escape your chest. With a hand dragging your dirty sleeve over your face, you moved swiftly, crouching behind the overturned crates to hide as best as you could.
Intertwined in the mess of your emotions, you had neglected to pay attention to your surroundings. The force had barely thrummed to alert you of anyone who had crossed the corridor to the hangar.
“Kid?”
Han. His voice cut through the haze, sharp and searching.
The familiar tone eased something in you, and you found yourself slumping back against the crate, body loosening in relief at the thought that he was still safe and in one piece. But as soon as the comforting feeling dissolved, something uglier snarled in your chest.
A low rumble echoed— Chewie.
Your stomach lurched. No. Not them. Not here. You couldn’t be seen like this, your hands raw, eyes wide, crouched in the wreckage like prey. Worse, if they found you, you knew they’d never let you go again. They’d tether themselves to your fight, and the Empire would grind them down for it. Han acted like he didn’t care, but you knew from the first time he’d panicked when a stray shot almost hit you, that he felt more than he let on.
If they had come for you, then they had no intention of ever letting you go. It should have filled you with uncontrollable joy, but all you could feel was the gripping heartbreak at having to disappear from their lives like smoke in a violent burst of wind.
You shoved yourself back further into the shadow of the overturned crates, biting down hard on your lip. The smoke cloaked you, but Chewie’s growl told you he was close to catching your scent, too close to dragging you out into the open.
Your hand clenched empty air where your saber should have been. The absence ached.
Stay hidden. For them.
You pressed yourself lower, nails digging onto your palm until they hurt. Han’s footsteps echoed across the durasteel floor, cautious but searching. Chewie huffed, frustrated, scanning the wreckage.
You shut your eyes, forcing your lungs quiet, praying that they would just give up and leave. Boots scuffed against the floor, slow and deliberate. Han’s silhouette flickered through the smoke, a shadow cut into shifting light. Your heart pounded so hard you were sure he’d hear it.
Chewie padded ahead, nose working, growling low in his throat. He stopped near the wreckage of the TIE and rumbled sharply.
Han stopped beside him, staring at the body, half-covered in ash and scorched plating, beneath the warped wing. He swore under his breath, and crouched carefully, studying the body without getting too close. The thing was big, imposing even in death. The armor wasn’t standard trooper issue. This was something nastier. Something that belonged to the kind of people you didn’t want to owe money to.
“Has to be one of those religious freaks. Who else dresses up like that?”
Chewie barked a low agreement.
“Not exactly what I expected from an Imperial shootout. What’s that stubborn little thing gotten herself into this time?” Han sighed. He knew you had a knack for walking straight into the middle of trouble, and the blast at the factory hangar was the biggest mess on the planet. If you were anywhere. Han figured you’d be near it.
He said your name, his voice softer now, not demanding, but almost pleading. “You don’t have to run, kid. Whatever’s going on, we can work it out.”
Chewie let out another growl. The sound vibrated through your ribs, a comfort and a threat all at once. You pressed your forehead against your knee, fingers tightening in your fists until your knuckles bled white.
Han hummed and nodded at Chewie, “You’re right, looks like the scavengers already stripped the place down. Come on, we’ll look somewhere else. She can’t be that far.”
The words hit you like a blade. Scavengers. They would have taken everything. Not just metal. Not just weapons.
Your crystal. How didn’t you think of that?
You tightened your eyes shut, breathing slowly through your nose, forcing down the guilt bubbling up your throat at the thought of them looking for you.
Chewie casted one last uneasy look at the wreckage, then followed Han out of the hangar. Their footsteps echoed on the scorched deck, then faded into silence.
You didn’t move until they were gone, until you could no longer feel their warmth through the Force. Only then did you crawl from the shadows, eyes fixed on the collapsed fighter where the Third Brother’s corpse lay entombed.
The scavvers had gotten to your crystal first.
And just like that, you’d have to hunt them down just like the Empire were hunting you.
The market noise pressed in from every side like it had yesterday. Stalls overflowing with cloth and spice, traders bellowing offers, children laughing as they darted between carts.
Your belt still felt wrong. Light. Empty.
You cut down a side street, away from the heavy press of bodies. You knew she’d be here. Exactly where you had bumped into her yesterday. Information brokers didn’t move far from the flow, Han told you once. They let the currents come to them.
Sure enough, there she was. Siddi Dren with the same worn coat, same lean against the clay wall leading to the spaceport, hands tucked inside her sleeves like a woman with nothing to hide. The first time you’d met, she had come to you, murmured the Inquisitors had landed, had names on their tongues. A warning dressed as generosity. You hadn’t known if it was the truth or bait, you hadn’t even stopped to think whether it was or not, too consumed with the threat that your friends might be in danger, but she had been right.
This time, you were the one to approach.
“You said they were here,” you said, voice low but edged. “You were right.”
The broker’s mouth curved into the faintest smile. “I’m always right. Otherwise I’d be dead.” Her gaze flicked to your eyes, scratched raw with your tears and your fingers alike, then to your belt, the empty space where your saber should have hung. “You seem lighter than before.”
Your jaw tightened. “The scavvers,” you said, voice rough. “I was too late. Did they take it?”
Her smile didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened. She leaned a fraction closer, voice soft for you alone. “They pulled many things from the wreckage. Blasters. Parts. Scraps. But yes… one of them mentioned something else. A crystal. Bright. Warm. Almost alive.”
Your throat tightened.
“You know where it is?” you asked, more demand than question, forgetting your manners in your desperation.
The Togruta chuckled low. “That’s two you will owe me. Are you sure you want that on your shoulders?” she said casually, as if you were asking her for directions to the best tea vendor of the market.
You hated her at that moment. Her calm, her patience, the way she dangled truth like bait. But you needed the answer. You needed your crystal back before anyone else took it to somewhere unreachable.
“What do you want?” you asked flatly, frustration bubbling inside, threatening to take over your body and do something you would most definitely regret barely a few seconds later.
Her smile widened, pleased. “Nothing, this time. Let’s say I’m investing. I warned you once. Now I point you again.” She slipped a small datapuck from her sleeve into your palm so smoothly no one around you even noticed. “Coordinates. Outskirts of town. A scavver camp. They don’t even know what they’re sitting on, but you should hurry. Something with so much value in the black market won’t last long.”
You curled your fingers around the puck. You wanted to ask why she was helping you, but you already knew the answer. She wasn’t. She was playing her own game.
By the time you looked up, she was already gone, swallowed by the flow of the market.
When you had reached the scavenger camp, they were already long gone. Your crystal had been sold, passed on to someone far more dangerous than you were ready to face alone. You had memorised the name, whispered it like a curse. Karl Drixx. A crimelord of Ord Varnis, rumored to collect more than just weapons. A man whose reputation alone could make a grown bounty hunter sweat.
You didn’t have a ship. Not anymore. The Falcon was gone with Han and Chewie, so you had taken passage on a civilian cruise liner, one of the slow, clunky freighters that ferried passengers and cargo between the Outer Rim worlds. It wasn’t the Falcon, but it wasn’t the vents either, so for that you were grateful.
The journey had been long. Days watching the stars shift through the reinforced viewport, listening to the drones of the engines and the dull murmur of the passengers, all oblivious to the danger trailing you. You had gone over the datapuck repeatedly, tracing every route, memorizing every possibility where Drixx’s men could intercept. Every plan you’d considered, every contingency, sharpened by necessity.
And now, as the liner broke through Ord Varnis’s thick atmosphere, you felt the familiar coil of tension tighten in your stomach. From the viewport, the planet sprawled beneath you, rust-coloured cityscapes clinging to poisoned wastelands, towers leaning like broken teeth, landing platforms glowing dimly though the haze. The sight didn’t thrill you, it warned.
The landing struts locked with a metallic clang. The liner hissed as the ramp lowered, the air of the planet crawling in. The stench of fuel, rust, and something fouler you couldn’t name. You tightened your cloak around your shoulders, fingers brushing the empty space at your belt.
You exhaled slowly, centering yourself. The thread led straight to Drixx. This was the end of the trail you had been given. The beginning of what you would have to do yourself.
And you were ready.
You spent the last days tucked into the shadows of Ord Varnis’s undercity. You watched the crimelord’s compounds and his patrol routes from afar, noting shifts in guards, supply drops, and the coming and going of anyone who might be connected to your crystal. Every day you traced the movements, your eyes narrow, your breathing steady. You knew you had to be patient because one wrong move meant that your lead could vanish like smoke. But despite that, you couldn’t help the resentment growing in your chest.
You felt angry at everything. Angry at the world, angry that you had landed yourself in this situation, angry that you were not strong enough to hold your own against the Seventh Sister, angry that you had lost the one thing your Master had entrusted you with.
Gone was the version of you who had once felt guilty for stealing a poncho on Tatooine.
That night, you found yourself perched on a rooftop overlooking Drixx’s palace, a colourful building that screamed of wealth, while the rest of the neighbourhood rotted in the jaws of poverty and famine. It was late, two hours after midnight when you noticed the newcomers, a family of bounty hunters moving in on your position. They were cautious but efficient, scanning rooftops and alleyways, weapons always at the ready.
You climbed down the roof, disappearing into the shadowed alleyways to lead them away from the palace to somewhere quieter, somewhere the people wouldn’t blink an eye to the presence of a corpse.
You slid down the curved wall, landing on the platform under the bridge connecting the wastelands to the city, the sound of the river drowning out the distant noises of the nearby streets.
“You breathe like a bantha, you know that?” you said casually, staring straight to where you knew for a fact, the daughter was hiding, crouching behind the same wall you had slid down earlier. You leaned against a metal beam, waiting for either one of the three bounty hunters who had followed you down to reveal themselves.
A woman appeared, blaster pointed straight at you. “Now, there’s no need to get rude,” she said, her tone dripping with the same sternness Master Kelriss used whenever you stepped inside the house with muddy shoes.
“Well. excuse me if I don’t particularly enjoy being hunted down simply for breathing,” you snapped.
The lead hunter, a tall man with cold eyes and a scar running down his forehead appeared from the shadows. He didn’t fire immediately, just tilted his head, studying you. The daughter, barely older than yourself, stayed crouched behind him, tense and ready to strike if he gave the order, but you didn’t straighten or move your hands to where they would be visible. You stayed still, leaning against the beam, your lips twitching in slight annoyance as if daring them to come any closer.
90You hadn’t slept in 3 days, and the last thing you ate was half a ration pack you had found discarded on the side of an alleyway, which definitely didn’t help your mood.
“Look, I really don’t want to hurt you, but the last person who tried to kill me ended up under a burning TIE,” you mumbled sincerely, the exhaustion clear on your face as the moonlight deepened your eye bags.
The mother tightened her grip on the blaster, taking a few steps closer to you to shield her daughter from your line of sight. Your heart twisted in pain, the memory of your Master’s last words surfacing back.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then the father’s lip twitched in what might have been a smile, or maybe a wry acknowledgement. He studied you closely, noting the youth in your posture, the stubborn set of your shoulders, and something clicked as he spared his daughter a glance.
The father raised a hand in a slow gesture. “Let her go,” he said softly. The daughter blinked, confused.
“Husband?” the woman questioned, never letting her gaze slip from your figure.
But you didn’t wait for more. You melted back into the shadows, leaving the bounty hunters alone under the bridge, silently hoping they wouldn’t change their mind come morning.
You had ended up back on the same rooftop you had started the night on a few hours later. It had become yours for the last few nights, a place high above Ord Varnis’s stink where the air was at least breathable. You had slept curled against the low wall, cloak drawn tight, your body trained to stir at the smallest sound.
You woke with the first gray stench of morning light spilling over the jagged skyline. For a moment you thought you were alone, the hum of the airspeeders below blending into the haze of half-dreams. But then you shifted, and saw movement in the corner.
A child. Bundled in patched cloth, knees pulled up, half-hidden in the shadows where a vent jutted from the roof. He was staring at you, wide-eyed but unafraid, as though you were the intruder.
You blinked hard, sitting up. Your first instinct was to reach for your belt, and then the emptiness there reminded you that your saber was gone. You let your hand drop, exhaling.
“You live here?” you murmured, realization settling in.
The child gave the smallest nod. He wasn’t a street urchin who had climbed up by chance. This was his refuge, his corner of the city above the noise and smoke. You had been the trespasser.
You let a hand through your hair, sighing in defeat.
The child’s eyes flicked toward the stairwell door, then back at you, a silent question you understood immediately. Are you leaving?
You shook your head slowly. “Not yet.” Your tone softened. “But I won’t take this from you. I’ll be gone soon.”
The child didn’t answer, only tugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders. But after a moment, his posture eased, just slightly.
You pulled your cloak tighter as well, turning your gaze toward the awakening palace. For the first time in days, you felt the edge of your anger dim.
At first, the child didn’t speak. He just watched you with those sharp, dark eyes while you came and went, returning at night to claim your usual corner of the roof. You respected the silence, never offering more than a smile or a nod.
On the third day, you found half a ration bar near the vent.
By the fifth night, the child offered a piece of stale bread himself. You took it without comment, through the corner of your mouth twitched in something that almost felt like a smile.
The days blurred together. You moved through the city, always coming back to the same rooftop. The child’s silence became less hostile, more curious. He began to mirror you, sitting cross-legged when you did, tilting his head at the same sounds below. When you muttered curses under your breath after another dead lead, the child’s lip twitched as though he wanted to mimic you.
Finally, one evening as the smog-thick sun sank behind the leaning towers, the child spoke. His voice was soft, unused.
“Why do you come back here?”
You were caught off guard. You leaned against the low wall, arms crossed, and after a long pause, answered honestly.
“Because it’s high enough to breathe. And because nobody else wants it.”
The child nodded as if that was reason enough, and for the first time, he inched closer to your side of the roof.
By the end of the week, you were sharing stories in fragments. The child pointed to a broken tower and claimed he once climbed halfway up before being caught by a neighbor. You told him about flying through asteroid fields, but you left out the part about running spice routes with Han and Chewie, and just called it “piloting jobs.”
And when he asked if you’d ever been scared, you surprised yourself by answering truthfully, “All the time. But you learn to keep moving anyway.”
On a misty night, he finally whispered his name.
Tillian.
And you offered him yours.
Not Crystal.
Your real name. The one that hadn’t touched your lips in so long.
And the day after that, he waited on the rooftop until dawn broke, his fingers worrying his tattered blanket in anxiety.
You were gone. Just like everyone else.
The night had started badly. The waitress uniform you had stolen turned out to be two sizes too small, and wearing your dirty clothes was definitely not an option. Karl Drixx’s auction nights were far too fancy for the likes of you wandering around the lavish ballroom with the scent of trash and sweat sticking to your clothes. So that left the only viable option. The sewers and the vents.
The sewers stank, but at least the rodents weren’t larger than the size of your palms. The vents turned out to be much more spacious than the ones of the Ardent Whisper, so for that you weren’t complaining, but things took a turn for the worse when you had actually broken into the palace.
You could feel the low thrum of your crystal, but every time you so much as closed in on it, your chest deflated with the absence of its signature in the Force. It was almost like it had feet on its own, moving around and teasing you like you were playing hide and seek.
After a close encounter with the guards, it became clear that there was one thing you had missed from your stake-outs. Everything in the lineup for the auction was evidently being moved around purposely to deter the assets from being stolen by thieves like you.
You bit your lip. You had managed to get in undetected, so you could hypothetically get out safely and come back in again once you found the solution to the new problem that had risen, but there was no guarantee the Kyber crystal would still be here. If it wasn’t, you might have to do this all over again. Board another over-filled passenger cruiser to the next planet and hope that whoever had bought the crystal wasn’t a crimelord with a reputation such as that of Karl Drixx’s.
You let out a sigh. This was your only chance. You didn’t have any other choice.
The heist went as well as you expected. You found the crystal in the end, still intact, still shining as bright as you last saw it, but it came with a cost. The guards were fierce, and they protected the crystal like they had everything to lose. It wasn’t until they were lying unconscious on the ground that you noticed it. Missing fingers or ears… There wasn’t a single guard who hadn’t had part of their body mutilated or burned away. Karl Drixx’s cruelty ran deeper than you had even imagined, and for a moment, you could feel your heart in your throat. You just brought more pain and suffering to these people.
You looked away. Because if you hadn’t, the guilt would have made you do something you would regret.
Just as you slipped away, one of the guards cracked one of his eyes open, blinking through the tears, the image of you burnt at the back of his head. The Rodian let out a relieved sigh as he let his head rest on the floor. The crystal may be gone, but he wouldn’t lose a hand this time, not when he had something to bargain with, though as for his colleagues, he couldn’t say the same.
When you burst out of the sewer, the night was still young, and the chaos you expected in the palace hadn’t broken out yet. You sneaked a glance at the rooftop, the memory of Tillian still fresh in your mind. You hesitated, your fingers running over the crystal, savouring the warmth and the reassurance it offered. Paying him one last visit could put him at risk. The guards had seen you no doubt, and surely one of them would remember your face, and if it was as you suspected, the stormtroopers would be barricading the city as soon as news of the heist broke out.
When dawn broke, your assumptions held through.
And a few hours later, you found yourself running through the narrow market place, the busy town square that smelled strongly of ammonia, the only thing between you and the stormtroopers.
You could feel your lungs burning and your heart pounding so hard you were convinced it would just jump out of your chest. Civilians ducked as blaster bolts sliced overhead. Stalls went up in flame, the air thick with smoke and the smell of burning fabric.
“Stop! In the name of the Empire!”
You didn’t stop. You darted between two vendor carts, flipped one over behind to block their sight, and ducked into a side street.
Straight into another squad.
You spun, searching for a way out. There wasn’t one.
Then a sharp whistle cut through the noise.
You turned. There, above the square, half-hidden by a rooftop sign, a small figure waved once. Thin, wiry. Eyes wide in the glow of the morning sun.
Tillian.
Your chest tightened. What was he doing here?
The child vanished from the roof and moments later a crate fell into the alley beside you, knocking loose a tarp that revealed a narrow gap between two buildings. Just wide enough for you to fit.
You slipped through it, scraping your arm on the duracrete. Ahead, you saw the kid waiting in the next passage, pointing furiously.
“This way!” he shouted.
You didn’t question how he knew where to go. You just followed. He darted through the labyrinth of alleys like smoke, cutting corners seconds before patrols appeared, ducking under the bridges right before blasterfire scorched the walls. Every turn seems impossibly lucky.
Too lucky.
The realization hit you when you skidded to a halt at a dead-end. The kid turned back, eyes wide, but instead of fear, there was a strange calm, like he was listening to something you couldn’t hear.
“Wait,” he said quietly, and pointed to a blank section of wall. “Here.”
Before you could ask what he meant, an old service hatch flickered and slid open with a hiss of compressed air. Dust billowed out.
Tillian blinked in surprise, like he hadn’t known it would work.
You stared. Your heart pounded, not from the chase, but from recognition. You had felt the ripple, faint but there, brushing against the edges of your awareness like a breath in the Force.
You had felt him.
“Go,” you said, pushing him towards the tunnel. He scrambled inside, and you followed, sealing it behind as the troopers’s shouts faded overhead.
You didn’t stop until the tunnel curved into silence. The only sound was your breathing.
You leaned against the wall, sweat dripping down your temple, clutching the pouch at your belt. The crystal pulsed faintly.
Tillian sat a few feet away, hugging his knees, eyes wide and uncertain.
You watched him for a long time. The way the dust shifted subtly around his hands when he moved. The strange, untrained steadiness in the chaos.
“You’ve done that before,” you said softly.
The kid shook his head. “Done what?”
You hesitated. “Listen to something no one else can hear.”
He frowned, not understanding. “I just felt the wall was wrong.”
You didn’t tell him what it meant, not yet.
Instead, you said, “You saved my life.”
Tillian looked away, embarrassed. “You looked like you needed help.”
You huffed a laugh. “I usually do.”
You climbed until the noise of the city dulled into a distant hum. The tunnel had spat you out near the industrial quarter, and from there, a half-collapsed stairway led to the roof of an old comms building. The place was deserted, like most things in this city that didn’t serve Karl Drixx or the Empire.
You pulled yourself up first, then reached a hand down for the kid.
From up here, the city stretched like a wound, exhaust plumes, green fog from the river, the steady movement of patrol ships cutting lines through the haze. It was almost peaceful if you didn’t listen too closely.
Tillian sat on the ledge, legs dangling, watching the traffic below. “You think they’re still looking for you?”
“Hopefully no, they’ll assume I got out of the district.”
He gave a small nod, then went quiet again.
You reached into your pouch and took out the kyber crystal. Even in the dim light, it glowed faintly, catching in your palm. The kid leaned forward, eyes widening in wonder.
“What is that?”
You turned it slowly between your fingers. “Something that used to belong to me. Something I wasn’t supposed to get back.”
“It’s pretty.”
“Yeah,” you mumbled. “And dangerous.”
For a moment, he just watched it. The yellow shimmer reflected in his eyes, and you saw again that flicker in the Force, subtle, curious, unshaped. Like a moth drawn to flame.
You hesitated, then asked quietly, “Do you ever feel things before they happen?”
He blinked, unsure. “Sometimes. Like knowing when to move before something falls. Or sometimes when people are lying.” He frowned. “My mom says it’s luck.”
Your chest tightened. “It’s not luck.”
The words came out gentler than you meant them. You set the crystal down between you and him.
“What happened back there,” you said, nodding toward the city below, “the way you knew where to go, that wasn’t chance either.”
He looked at you, confused. “Then what was it?”
You exhaled, tracing the outline of the city. The word felt dangerous in your mouth.
“It’s called the Force.”
He tilted his head. “Like… the stories?”
“Not stories,” you said. “It’s real. It’s what kept us both alive tonight.”
His brow furrowed. “But I didn’t do anything.”
“You did more than you think.”
Neither of you spoke after that.
Then, he whispered, “Are you one of them? The people who can use it?”
Your jaw tensed. You wanted to lie, say no, say you had just heard stories too, but the truth had already found its way into your tone.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Tillian studied your face, as if searching for some mark that proved it. “Is that why they’re after you?”
You looked down at the crystal, turning it once more in your hand. “That’s why they’ll always be after me.”
The wind shifted, carrying the faint hum of a passing speeder.
You continued to stare at the crystal.
Months of chasing it.
Months of sleeping in cold corners, bribing liars, and dodging imperials, all for this, and holding it didn’t even feel like victory.
You’d fought so hard to get this piece of you back. But looking at it now, you couldn’t tell if you wanted it because it mattered, or because you had nothing else that did.
The crystal was supposed to belong to you. But maybe it didn’t anymore. Maybe the Force had other ideas.
“You should have it,” you said.
He blinked, turning to you. “What?”
“The crystal. You should keep it.”
His head snapped toward you. “No, no, you said you just got it back!”
“I know,” A small smile tugged at your lips, faint but real. “Maybe that’s why it makes sense.”
He frowned. “But you don’t even know me.”
“I don’t have to, the Force tells me enough.” You held it out for him. His small hand reached carefully. The glow dimmed between his fingers, as if settling.
“It’s yours now,” you said quietly. “Don’t try to force it. It’ll find you when you’re ready.”
He stared at you, wide-eyed. “What about you?”
“Me?” you murmured. “I’ll figure something out.”
You had recovered your crystal, and lost it again. But somehow, this time, it didn’t feel like losing at all. The Force rippled softly around, then it settled into an unusual calmness, as if everything that led you here was meant to be, as if the crystal was meant for his hands instead of yours.
Morning came quietly.
You hadn’t slept much. You had stayed on the rooftop until dawn broke, the kid curled on the other side, still clutching the crystal you had given him. You left before he woke. It was better that way, you told yourself that as you walked through the streets, hood drawn up, hands deep in your pockets. Just another face in the crowd. Just another morning.
And for a while, it was. You sat by the water fountain, hand reaching every once in a while to quench your never-ending thirst. You almost — almost— let yourself enjoy the ordinary noise of life again.
Then you saw it.
A merchant yelling at a trooper. A cage overturned. A blur of feathers and noise as something small and furious took off down the street.
A kestrel hawk. Bright, fast, and terrified.
The trooper fired a stun bolt. It missed. The crowd ducked and scattered. You froze mid-sip, hand halfway to your mouth. The bird slammed into a wall, fell hard, flapping helplessly.
And before you could think, before you could remind yourself you are being hunted, you idiot— you moved.
You vaulted the stall, ducked under the trooper’s arm, and scooped the injured creature into your jacket in one smooth, impulsive motion.
“Hey!” the trooper barked.
“Relax,” you said without looking back, already walking off so that he wouldn’t notice how your face was eerily similar to the thief currently being hunted down. “It’s just a bird.”
But apparently, on this particular nerfherding planet, kestrel-hawks were registered property of the governor. Which made taking one, however accidentally, theft.
So when the second trooper called for backup and a crowd started gathering, you knew it was too late to disappear quietly.
You sighed, pressing your lips together.
Two minutes later, you were face-first against a speeder, wrists bound, the bird squawking indignantly from inside your jacket.
The trooper scowled as he confiscated it. “You realise you just stole from the governor’s preserve?”
“It was dying!” you shot back. “You could’ve just left it—”
“Save it,” he replied. “You can explain it to the officer.”
You rolled your eyes. “My favourite part.”
By the time you were dragged into the detention centre, you had stopped fighting. They hadn’t recognised you yet, and if the detention centre was what you hoped it was, it could actually be your one way ticket out of here. The cell block smelled like rust and recycled air. The corridors buzzed with the distant hum of faulty power couplings.
And then, as the guards marched you past a row of holding cells, you heard a strikingly familiar voice. You froze. Every muscle locked.
‘ —I told you, I didn’t know it was Imperial rations! You said take what you can carry!”
Your head snapped so fast your neck hurt.
Behind the durasteel bars sat Han, looking very much like a man who just lost an argument with authority, and Chewie, who was slumped beside him with a long-suffering patience of someone who had definitely been through this before.
Han froze mid-sentence, blinking once, twice.
You spoke before he could. “Han?”
He pushed up against the bars, disbelief, relief and a grin competing for space on his face. “You’re alive.”
You opened your mouth again, words at the tip of your tongue before the trooper rushed you forth. You looked back, straining your neck to catch a last glimpse of them as you were pushed in front of a small desk crammed at the end of the hallway. For a heartbeat, you couldn’t breathe, because Han and Chewie were here, on the same planet, the same detention centre, the same floor. It was as if the Force had wanted this, how else could you make sense of it? A million planets in the galaxy, yet we were all on the same one…
The officer dwarfing the desk cleared his throat, stylus poised over his datapad. “Name?”
You snapped out of the disbelief at the sudden voice, and blinked.
He let out a sharp exhale, and repeated the question as if it pained him.
You didn’t even think about it.
“Jabba the Hutt,” you exclaimed absentmindedly.
You bit down on your tongue hard, your mind still not comprehending the fact that Han and Chewie were here. Barely five feet away from you.
The officer stared, unamused, then sighed and actually wrote it down. It wasn’t until he read it aloud that the absurdity seemed to dawn on him. He blinked, exhaustion written all over his face. “Are you kriffing serious?”
You didn’t answer.
“Just take her away. Any kriffing cell will do,” he muttered, his fingers massaging his temples.
You had lost track of much time you had spent staring at the mouldy wall, your mind constantly replaying the moment your eyes had met those of Han. The absurdity of the situation hadn’t dawned on you until you were left rotting behind the bars of the cell that had no right being this cramped, and as if that wasn’t enough to dampen your spirits, your roomie was the epitome of a giant slug and snail hybrid that constantly flooded the cell with slime.
Your fingers twitched, restless. The Force hummed faintly at the edge of your awareness, and the tension pressing down on your chest wouldn’t ease, but you weren’t scared, not like how you were when you ran away from the Sith. A quiet realisation settled over you like dust. You’ve been in this situation before, too many times. And you were fine, or maybe not fine— maybe you had just run out of fight in the panic part of your brain.
If they took you to processing, you’d think about escape then.
If they moved you to interrogation, you’d act then.
If they called someone worse, you’d decide how to face it.
But right now, in this moment, you just sat, hands folded, shoulders loose, and eyes stinging with exhaustion. You shifted slowly, so that your head was cushioned on the scratchy blanket, and you closed your eyes, letting your breath slow down as the tightness in your chest dissipated at the promise of sleep.
You woke up to the sound of shouting. Not the sharp, ordered commands of a ward keeper, this one was messy. Clattering boots, raised voices, alarms that someone hadn’t turned off properly. The kind of chaos that meant something had gone wrong fast.
You laid still on the cot, blinking blearily at the ceiling, your mind too slow to catch up.
A trooper stumbled across the door of the cell, cursing under his breath. That had you getting on your feet before you consciously decided to move.
He fumbled with a ring of keys at his belt, muttering something in his comms. The chaos behind him built into a crashing crescendo of panicked shouting, roars of someone slamming into a wall, and Chewie roaring somewhere far off.
Your heartbeat kicked back into motion.
Your hands shot between the bars, lightning-fast, snatching the keyring off his belt with a clean, practiced twist. By the time the trooper jerked back, you were already stepping away from the door, keys tucked behind your back.
The trooper muttered another curse, patting his now-empty belt, spinning in confusion.
But the alarms blared louder, someone screamed two cells down, and the trooper bolted the opposite direction without looking back.
You didn’t wait.
You jammed the right key into the lock and the door clicked open. You slipped out into the corridor, boots silent on the floor, the shouts echoing around the prison block.
Han and Chewie. They were here somewhere, you reminded yourself, the thought hitting you harder than expected. A strange warmth flickered in your chest— fear for them, relief they were alive, and the stupidest hope you had felt in months.
You moved quickly, following the unmistakable rumble of a Wookie’s frustration.
Two turns. Metal stairs. The same long hallway with reinforced doors you had walked by earlier.
You stopped before the first cell, listening carefully and then you heard it.
“ — I told you grabbing the power conduit was a bad idea.”
Chewie roared, and your shoulders sagged in relief.
You approached their cell door and paused just long enough to be sure no troopers were close. Then you stepped into view and whispered as you lifted the stolen keys, “I’m getting you out.”
The lock turned. The door swung open.
All three of you just stared at each other, as still as concrete pillars. Something thick flowed in the air, not relief or joy, but disbelief and a faint coldness that scratched you wrong.
The lower corridors shook with something close to an explosion and you snapped out of it.
“Move,” you said softly. “Before someone actually competent shows up.”
Chewie surged forward with a relieved bark, but Han didn’t move. He stayed exactly where he was, sitting on the edge of the metal bunk, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on you with a look that made your pulse stumble.
Not confused or surprised. Just hurt. And angry.
Chewie turned, puzzled, but Han lifted a finger to stop him without looking away from you.
Your stomach knotted.
“Han?” you tried, voice small. “We gotta go.”
His jaw flexed. “Yeah. I figured that part out.” He stood slowly like he was holding himself back from saying something worse. “Funny thing, though.” He stepped closer, expression tightening. “You drag us halfway across the galaxy into trouble we didn’t even know we were in. You disappear. You lie. Repeatedly. Then you save us with whatever nonsense this is.” He waved sharply at you.
You flinched.
He noticed.
“You think we didn’t deserve to know?” His voice dropped, lower and rougher. “Not once? Not ever?”
You swallowed hard. “I was protecting you. If they knew you were with me—”
Han cut her off with a bitter laugh. “Protecting us? Kid, you think we haven’t been getting shot at before we met you?”
Chewie rumbled, unhappy, glancing between you.
He kept going, words tight with betrayal. “All the time I have spent in this cell made me realise something. We trusted you. We kept looking for you. Worried about you. Chewie lost sleep over you. Hell, I lost sleep over you.” He jabbed a finger at the corridor. “And you’re still hiding the one thing that would explain everything.”
Your throat clenched so hard it hurt. You had imagined him angry, but this? Him sounding like you had broken something? It was worse.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking.
“Yeah,” Han muttered, stepping past you into the hallway, “well, sorry doesn’t undo weeks of thinking you were dead.”
Chewie brushed your arm gently as he followed, his low hum forgiving but weighed down.
You stood frozen a moment before forcing yourself to move, running after them. You jogged a few steps to catch up, heart hammering harder from Han’s words than from the alarms blaring overhead.
“Han, wait.” Your voice cracked, pleading.
Han didn’t stop, but he hesitated.
“Please, I will explain everything. All of it. Just…” You forced out the words, breath shaking. “After, I promise. I just need you to trust me long enough to get us clear.”
Chewie grumbled something low— encouraging, nudging Han with a pointed look.
Han exhaled sharply through his nose, like he didn’t like the position you were putting him in. Like he didn’t want to trust you, but he couldn’t quite stop himself.
Finally, he muttered, “Fine. After.” He turned down the hall. “But you better make that explanation one hell of a good one.”
Luke leaned back in his chair, letting the subtle hum of the command centre wash over him. Reports lay strewn across the desk, each one a breadcrumb in the tangled trail of intelligence he had been following for weeks. He scanned the latest updates he had received from the last systems the intelligence unit had combed for data. Nothing significant except for a heist at Karl Drixx’s palace. It wasn’t unusual at first glance. It was an opulent palace, high security, a motley crew of would-be thieves probably, but then his eyes caught the critical detail: the only thing stolen was a crystal.
Not just any trinket. A kyber crystal. The one a Jedi would treasure. The crimelord had only acquired it weeks before it was stolen. The timing was impeccable, suspiciously so, especially when the Seventh Sister had explicitly noted down how she had split the Jedi’s lightsaber in half during their last encounter.
He stopped scrolling through the data pad, finger frozen as the side of his lip tugged upwards.
Sentimental, are we?
He had officers comb through every record he could get his hands on, because no fugitive was as perfect at hiding as they thought they were. Petty crimes, serious ones, everything. Every minor scuffle, every theft, every unexplained disappearance on Old Varnis were investigated. It all mattered. Every detail fed the calculation.
Then he slowed, staring right at the report of a petty theft. Nothing serious. Just an injured bird, but the description of the thief was what stopped him in his tracks. It was brief, height, eye colour, hair colour and nothing more, but every detail matched what he already knew about you. Patterns began to snap into place.
The citizens knew better than to touch the governor’s property, but an outsider wouldn’t. Or maybe you just didn’t care. All you saw was an injured bird, and what was the Jedi if it wasn’t for their rotten compassion? The compassion that always led them into danger.
Always.
By the time he touched the toxic ground of Old Varnis, Voss informed him that the detention centre was in chaos. Guards scattered, alarms blaring, prisoners unaccounted for. A fleeting exhale escaped him, a suppressed, almost exasperated sigh. You were gone. Of course, you would be.
But he didn’t linger on frustration. There was no panic, only calculation. He just needed to catch a thread of your presence and you would be his.
He moved through the narrow alleys, every sense alert, every step measured. Then he felt something tugging at him, faint and insistent. A presence, your presence, like a whisper brushing the edge of his awareness. He concentrated, letting the Force guide him. Each step carried him closer, the resonance growing stronger, sharper, unmistakable. He was almost certain, you were here, nearby, and he could almost taste the success on his tongue.
The trail led him through narrow alleys, up winding stairways, and finally to the edge of a rooftop overlooking Karl Drixx’s colourful palace.
Crouched in the shadows, was a figure.
A small one, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, hand clutching something bright.
A crystal.
Your crystal.
His chest tightened for a fraction. The Force hummed through him, confirming your connection. So, that’s what he felt.
He approached cautiously, controlling his presence, softening his steps, keeping the subtle weight of authority tempered. The boy flinched at his arrival, eyes wide with suspicion as he shivered against the morning chill. Luke stopped a few steps away, voice calm, deliberately soft. “I’m looking for someone. You hold her crystal.”
The boy didn’t relax immediately. Luke felt his doubt, his wariness, his fear, the instinctive barrier a child puts up against someone unfamiliar yet commanding. He let a hint of patience thread through his presence.
“Easy, I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Who are you?” The child said, hands tightening at the edge of his mouldy blanket as fear poked inevitable holes through his composure.
“A friend. There’s people looking for her. Ones who want to hurt her. I have to find her before they do.” Luke’s eyes softened slightly, eyes flicking on the trinket in the boy’s hands.
His suspicion didn’t vanish. If anything, it sharpened. “Then… What's her name?” he asked cautiously, small fingers still curled around the crystal.
Luke’s mouth went dry for a heartbeat. He had only ever known you as Crystal, a trace in the Force, the object in the boy’s hand. But he stayed still, listening, unwilling to come undone by a child. He let the connection flow, quiet, intimate and for the first time since he began searching, he heard it, clear and unmistakable, reverberating through the boy’s mind.
It wasn’t just a sound. It was a presence, a pulse that evaded him for months, threading through the Force like a whisper he had been chasing blindly. Every failure, every dead end, every misstep of the hunt seemed to crystallize in that single word. Relief washed over him, but it was layered, tangled with something else, an unfamiliar warmth that made his chest tighten.
He said it aloud without thinking, letting the sound roll from his tongue. A name as sweet as your face. The name felt right in his mouth, like a key sliding home. It anchored him in a way he hadn’t expected. It made all the planning, all the tracking, all the failures, all the patience worth it.
Yet, beneath the brief warmth, the old certainty returned, He reminded himself of why he was here, why he had tracked you this far, not to comfort but to confront. The human impulse lingered, but it did not rule him.
The child’s posture relaxed fractionally, though caution lingered. “I… I don’t know where she went. But, I think she might still be here. I’m not sure,” he whispered, almost to himself.
Luke nodded, authoritative yet patient, a subtle warmth slipping through his voice. “That helps. I’ll find her.”
After a long pause, the child extended his hand hesitantly, as if not knowing if he should trust him or not, but his worry for you overtook his suspicion . “I shouldn’t have taken this. But if you find her, give it back. She might need it. Please.”
Luke accepted it, feeling the quiet weight of your presence through the object, the pull that guided him. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself something human— a recognition of the boy’s bravery, the bond he had with you, the care that lingered between you and the boy.
“Stay here,” he said softly, cloak settling around him like shadowed authority. “Don’t move until it’s safe. I’ll handle the rest.”
Before he left, he turned, glancing back at the boy. “Thank you, Tillian.”
Tillian watched him disappear down the stairs, eyebrows switching in confusion. Then, came the horror. “How—?” he muttered, swallowing hard.
He hadn’t even told the stranger his name.
The detention centre was surprisingly easy to break out of as it was already in chaos. They slipped through the turmoil like shadows, slipping past disoriented stormtroopers and ducking through empty corridors. Doors swung open and slammed shut behind them. By the time they reached the hangar where Han and Chewie had been when they were first taken into custody, the hangar gate was the only thing standing between them and freedom.
Then, heavy footsteps echoing through the corridor like the sound of your heart pounding through your chest.
No, not now. Not when you were so close.
The Falcon’s ramp barely touched the ground when blaster fire cut through the hangar. Smoke and sparks lit the air as you moved behind Chewie. You were almost at the Falcon when a sharp sting hit Chewie’s side. He let out a strangled roar, stumbling as Mandalorian toxin coursed through him. You caught him, half dragging him toward the ship using the Force, while Han barked orders to keep moving. Blaster bolts cracked around you as stormtroopers closed in, but the Falcon’s ramp yawned ahead like a lifeline.
Han barked, “Get in! Now!” His face was tight with urgency, the blaster he had stolen sweeping to keep the troopers at bay.
Your heart hammered as you maneuvered Chewie across the Falcon’s ramp. The Wookie’s movements became sluggish, his growls weaker, every breath heavier. You cursed under your breath, pushing him forward, urging him to the ship.
“Come on, Chewie! You’re almost there!”
You felt him before anything else.
Just as your foot hit the Falcon’s ramp, Chewie slumping harder against your shoulder, Han covering your flank, you felt it.
Not the Force itself, something colder and sharper.
A presence that knew exactly where you were before you even looked up.
Your stomach dropped, hard and instinctive.
He’s here.
Then the blasterfire stopped.
You turned.
He was there, standing a few steps away from the ramp. Calm, like he had been waiting there the whole time.
For a second you couldn’t breathe. Not because of the smoke, or the blaster residue still drifting in the air. But because he held your crystal.
Your crystal… which had been with Tillian.
You felt cold. Hollow.
If the Sith Lord had the crystal, then he’d reached Tillian. And if he’s reached Tillian, then Tillian was either captured, or gone.
And now, Chewie was half-collapsed beside you, poisoned and barely holding consciousness. Han was pinned between stormtroopers. You had nothing. No leverage. No path. No power.
Just him standing steps away, calm as ever, the man who killed your master, holding the last piece of your old life between his fingers like it was his right.
“Come with me,” he said, “and no one gets hurt.”
Your voice cracked out sharper than you meant. “How can I trust you?”
He didn’t even blink. “You don’t.”
The blunt honesty only made it worse, because it meant he knew he didn’t need your trust. Only your surrender.
You swallowed hard, eyes flicking to Han. He met your gaze— confused, furious, worried. And underneath all of that… there was something like understanding. Like part of him had suspected there was a shadow behind you all along, and now he was watching it come into the light.
The Sith lord said your name, your real name as a warning and you froze.
You hated it. You hated how he said your name.
“Fine,” you breathed shakily. “But they go first. Off-planet.”
At that, Han jerked forward against the stormtroopers, trying to pull free, one last desperate lunge towards you, as if he could still change this, still drag you into the Falcon and slam the ramp shut behind you.
Two stormtroopers flanking the Sith Lord came forward, ripping you away from Chewie as easily as Han ripping a bacta patch off his skin. You didn’t resist, but Chewie held on weakly, groaning in pain as the stormtroopers pulled. Your heart clenched, but you refused to cry, refused to give the Sith more satisfaction by seeing you broken.
Han resisted, thrashing as the troopers dragged him to the ramp of the Falcon. There were a thousand questions in his eyes as he twisted back to look at you.
Why didn’t you run?
Who the hell are you really?
How long have you been living with all of this alone?
You saw it coming. And you shook your head once. “Go!” you snapped, louder than the blasterfire that had filled the hangar minutes earlier. “Han, GO!”
He froze at the force of your voice, eyes wide, chest heaving, before the troopers pushed him into the mouth of the Falcon.
You caught one last glimpse. Chewie slumped against the corridor wall. Han still shouting something you couldn’t hear over the engines. Both of them staring at you like they were watching you drown.
Your chest twisted. Your throat burned. You felt everything and nothing at once.
Then troopers slammed the ramp shut.
You stared after the ship as its engines flared, climbing unsteadily, a wobble in the ascent telling you Chewie was barely conscious and Han was flying half-blind with adrenaline. You should’ve been relieved.
Instead there was a ringing in your ears.
Because you felt him behind you, closer now. And because the stormtroopers were still holding your arms behind your back in an iron vice. And because the last thing you saw before the ramp was Han turning, eyes locking on you, something knowing in them.
Like your real name had confirmed something he had suspected since the moment he met you.
His hesitation flashed in your mind again. That one second where he almost, almost, did something reckless.
Something stupid.
Something brave.
You had screamed at him, voice breaking. And he had listened.
Now the Falcon was gone.
It was just you.
You swallowed, forcing yourself to breathe as the troopers stepped back enough for you to catch the balance, Chewie’s warmth was gone from your side, Han’s voice gone with the ship, Tillian— maker, he had gotten to him first. The truth hit harder than the blasterfire.
Slowly, you lifted your head.
He stood in front of you. Not gloating. Not smiling. Just watching you with that quiet, unreadable calm, like he could see every fracture inside you.
And in his ungloved hand, the same scarred one you saw in the mirror, was your crystal.
Alive with a pulse you felt even metres away.
Of course he had it.
Of course he had found the boy.
Of course nothing you cared about ever stayed safe.
You exhaled shakily.
Anger simmered low in your chest, hot, bitter, born from months of running and loss. And beneath it, fear. Real, animal fear because the man standing in front of you had killed your master, had hunted you across systems, and now—
Now he had everything.
You felt yourself dissociating as soon as the troopers began to drag you forward. Your eyes were burning into the back of the Sith lord's head, yet your mind was blank.
You stumbled forward, right foot catching a stray bolt on the ground and instinct took over before thought. Before Tillian. Before consequences. Your body moved on its own, slipping from the stormtrooper's iron grasp as if the forest itself had claimed you. You didn’t even realise when you had left the hangar, but now that branches tore at your sleeves, and roots snagged your boots, every sense sharpened, every nerve screaming in pure survival.
And behind you, without fault, was him.
Moving through the trees with impossible precision, silent and unstoppable. He wasn't chasing recklessly, every step was measured and inevitable, everything yours weren’t. Every instinct in your body screamed that you could not outrun him or outsmart him, but you had to try, one last time, even if it’s the last thing you do.
Time froze. You and him caught in that moment. A prey and a predator locked in a deadly inevitability. You stopped just as he did, eyes locked in a fiery battle as you breathed heavily. He was standing metres away, calm and breathing with the ease of someone who hadn’t just ran after you with the speed of a sand cougar.
The forest narrowed, and in that hush of leaf and wind, everything but the two of you disappeared.
And then you heard the distant sound of a stream. Its gentle, running water whispering in your mind of freedom, of a brief sanctuary, a moment where you might escape the impossible weight of him, the galaxy, the loss that had followed you. Your heart leapt. Your instincts screamed yes.
He saw it too, read your intent before you even formed it. “Don’t,” he said, his voice calm, but not threatening. Certain, like shadow that knew the terrain better than you could. His eyes flicked to the hidden stream, to your escape route, to the path you had already calculated tin a split second, and you knew he could read it.
But instinct doesn't wait for reason. You bolted. Every muscle burning, lungs screaming, legs pumping as if they could outrun your fate.
And then, sudden movement, straight at you. Sharp, brutal, raw. A flash of grey, a creature came, teeth bared, claws flashing.
He reacted before your mind could even register panic. Strong arms yanked you sideways, pulling you off your path, swallowing most of the shock as you both slammed to the earth. His chest pressed against your back, warm, firm and grounding. His arms wrapped around your waist, unyielding, holding you against him with a strength that was terrifying in its precision.
For a heartbeat, you felt him. Not just his strength, but the pulse beneath it. You were pressed to him, trapped by its certainty, and yet you didn’t hesitate.
You elbowed him hard. Skin, bone, the sharp wet sting of blood. Pain exploded across his face. Shock flashed in his eyes for the briefest instant, and then nothing. Calm returned. His grip eased and you rolled free, shaking, sprinting into the forest, but the creature’s claw had slashed your calf. Fire lanced through your leg, bright and hot, and blood beaded against your boot.
You ran. Through the blur of pain and panic. The creature’s roar echoed somewhere through the forest but it was nothing compared to the knowledge he wouldn’t stop, that he would catch you sooner or later.
You didn’t get far.
You could hear him behind you, close and steady. Not breathless, not stumbling, not injured the way you needed him to be.
Your calf was on fire, every pulse of your heartbeat sending another burst of agony through the torn muscle. Your vision blurred. You tried to push forward anyways, but your leg ducked and your back hit the rough trunk of a tree.
You slid down, hitting the ground hard, palms now scraping over dirt and moss.
You tried to crawl. Tried to drag yourself. Tried to move.
But your body rebelled, pain radiating up your spine, the wound wet and hot against your skin.
You tasted tears before you even realized you were crying.
A branch snapped behind you. He wanted you to hear. He wanted you to know he was here.
You squeezed your eyes shut, chest heaving. Not from running anymore, but from certainty that this was it. That you were spent. You couldn’t outrun him, not bleeding like this. Deep down, something twisted. You would never have outran him anyway.
His footsteps stopped beside you.
He crouched.
The Sith Lord dropped down in front of you with a terrifying calm, as if you weren't sobbing and shaking and trying to decide if you could still drag yourself another metre. His face had a stream of blood running down his nose where your elbow had split his skin, but he hadn’t touched it, hadn’t even wiped it away instinctively. It streaked past his mouth like it was nothing.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and you watched, fully expecting him to wipe the blood off his face, but he didn’t, instead he inched closer.
You recoiled instantly, dragging yourself backwards flush against the tree. “Don’t touch me.”
He didn’t flinch. “I’m just trying to stop the bleeding.”
“You just threatened to kill my friends!” you spat, voice breaking, tears streaking dirt down your face.
He didn’t defend himself. “Your friends,” he said flatly. “Not you.”
Your heart stuttered. Your breathing hitched. He said it like it was supposed to reassure you.
“What did you do to Tillian?” you rasped, your voice cracking under fear and fury.
His expression didn’t change. No guilt, no hesitation, just the cold, unshakable steadiness. “I’m not the monster you think I am.”
You stared at him. Really looked at him.
At his bright blue eyes, his shiny blond hair and the blood still flowing down his face like a trophy he had earned.
At his stillness.
At the way he hadn’t even raised a hand to defend himself when you elbowed him— because he didn’t need to.
Your voice came out hollow, trembling but sharp as shattered glass. “Says the murderer.”
He didn’t respond.
Didn’t deny. Didn’t explain.
He just tightened the handkerchief like a tourniquet around your leg with clinical, precise movements, ignoring your flinches and attempts to pull away.
When he finished, he finally asked, “Can you walk?”
“Yes.” You forced it out instantly. Too fast. Too desperate. You pushed yourself upright despite the tearing pain that shot through your leg. You wavered but refused to fall.
He watched you carefully. Something unknown swimming underneath the assessment.
Your gaze flicked backwards, toward the stream, toward the faint hope of another escape. Maybe, if you timed it right, you could run, despite the pain.
He noticed. Of course he did.
“Save yourself the trouble,” he said, voice even, stripped of warmth, “Don’t.”
His face was cold. Controlled.
Before you could react, before you even shifted from the trunk you were leaning against, he was there. Two impossibly quick steps and he reached you.
He hauled you over his shoulder with ease, as if you weighed nothing at all, like a bag of feathers.
“Put me down!’’ you screamed, thrashing.
Your hand shot for his lightsaber.
With a smooth motion, he snatched it from his belt before your fingers even grazed it. “Careful with that, you might hurt yourself,” he said, amused.
You kicked, twisted, yanked, but nothing changed the fact that he was in control. The forest blurred past as he carried you effortlessly. Your every instinct screamed for escape, every ounce of pain and panic driving you to struggle harder.
blakekathryn
ellievsbear
jbbartram-illu
germansingergirl
kaledo-art
kianamaiart
andulkaphoto
