only. Detachment. Balance. Dogma.
Dooku stood at the centre. Tall. Calm. Impossibly alone.
"We did not summon you," said Mace Windu.
"I did not come to be summoned," Dooku replied. "I came for clarity. And to offer you the truth you have refused to see."
Plo Koon's brow furrowed. "You speak in riddles, Master Dooku."
"Not riddles. Warnings."
Yoda gazed at him, ancient eyes unreadable. "Speak then, do you. Heavy your thoughts are."
Dooku nodded, his voice low but clear.
"Master Scyclodiad was murdered. Not by blade, nor by Sith, but by a lie—one birthed from this very room."
Ki-Adi-Mundi shifted uncomfortably. "The Senate approved the military commission."
"Yes. And Scyclodiad believed the Jedi would oversee it. But your silence handed it to private hands. The Banking Clan used his trust—and your passivity—to create a weapon beneath the Republic's nose. Now he is dead. And you sit here, arguing semantics while the stars burn."
"Speculation," Windu snapped. "Scyclodiad's death was tragic, but we found no proof of assassination."
Dooku turned sharply.
"Because you did not look. Because to investigate would risk being involved. And involvement risks compromise. And you—none of you—can stomach being wrong."
His words hung in the chamber like smoke.
Shaak Ti finally spoke. "Even if this is true, the Jedi must remain neutral. We do not dictate the Republic's actions."
Dooku's eyes narrowed.
"Then you are no longer guardians. You are ornaments. Icons on a crumbling altar."
Yoda's voice came quiet, slow.
"See much pain in you, I do. But fear this path, I must."
Dooku met his eyes. Not with hate. But with something colder—disappointment.
"I once believed in this Order. I believed the Force lived in its silence. But now I see—the Force moves despite you. Not because of you."
The chamber fell into tense silence. No one moved.
Dooku stepped back. His voice was nearly a whisper.
"I hereby renounce my seat. My allegiance. And my silence."
He turned, cape trailing behind him like a severed bond.
No one followed.
Far beyond the Core, in the hidden world of Carthan's Shadow, Serion stood within a vast black chamber, watching a massive construction scaffold bloom in orbit.
The Eclipse-Class Dreadnought had begun.
Its keel—one hundred kilometers of alloyed obsidian and reinforced hyperframe—was already active, covered in engineers, forgers, and mechanized drones. It would be invisible to most sensors, its hull treated with phase-dampening plates harvested from stealth corvettes and derelict Separatist wreckage.
It would not be a weapon of war.
It would be a declaration.
Taliya approached, amor half-removed, sweat still drying from the training ring.
"You've seen the holofeed?" she asked.
"Yes," Serion said, voice unreadable. "Dooku has left the Jedi."
Taliya leaned against the cold railing. "He'll come to us?"
"No. Not yet. He must wander first. Disillusionment is a crucible—it burns off the old before the new can root."
She watched him silently.
"What would you have me do?" she asked.
Serion turned, the hum of the Force deep in his throat.
"You are ready for the next threshold. You will no longer train as a soldier. You will train as my heir."
Taliya blinked. For the first time in years, uncertainty crossed her face.
"But I—"
"You lead," he said. "In silence. In death. In precision. You will now lead in doctrine."
She nodded slowly.
A second later, a chime blinked across the room.
The Trade Federation had initiated its blockade of Naboo.
The storm had begun.
Serion turned back to the stars. "Let Sidious play his game. Let the Jedi debate. Let the Republic tremble. We shall build while they burn.