Diplomatic Chamber aboard an oceanic spire city – Larthas IX. An ancient underwater world of shifting alliances and deep pressure. The meeting chamber rests at the summit of a coral-forged spire, tethered to the ocean floor beneath miles of water.
The chamber was made of light and silence.
Walls curved like the inside of a shell, glimmering with refracted sunlight that filtered down from the distant surface above. The water outside the transparent glass panels rippled with shifting bioluminescence—an endless sea of pale blues and greens, lit by the drifting glow of deep-ocean life. It was beautiful. And fragile.
Like the negotiations taking place within it.
Kaelen stood near the perimeter, silent and unmoving, his armor catching the filtered blue light in a faint sheen. His silhouette was rigid but relaxed, built for but shaped by restraint. A subtle pressure-seal seam ran along his collar—his suit had been adapted for submerged combat. Not that anyone acknowledged it.
His helmet rested beneath one arm.
His other hand hovered inches from the hilt of his violet saber.
He wasn't part of the conversation.
But he was watching everything.
In the center of the chamber, seated at a gently sloping half-moon table, the parties postured beneath the illusion of diplomacy.
Windu sat upright, hands folded before him, robes pressed, expression neutral but vigilant. His words came infrequently—but when they did, they were precise. His presence was a balancing force.
Across from him, the Larthan envoy reclined in an ivory inlay seat. He was tall, skin a pale teal, draped in ceremonial salt-crystal sashes that glistened like wet minerals. His eyes were half-lidded with the calm detachment of one who had negotiated peace for so long that he no longer believed in it.
Next to him sat Senator Halvern, a young human emissary from the Republic. Gold-trimmed tunic. Eager smile. And the naïve arrogance of someone who believed that words could unmake threats shaped by .
"Tensions are high, yes," Halvern was saying, his voice smooth and overly measured.
"But the Confederacy's presence at Ridge Shelf is defensive in posture. Nothing has escalated. No blood has been shed."
The Larthan envoy's mouth curved slightly.
"Perhaps because we have yet to open the hatch."
Windu offered a single nod. Measured. No endorsement. No challenge.
"And the cannon placements?" Windu asked evenly.
"Standard deterrents," Halvern answered too quickly.
"They assured us it's protocol. Certainly nothing to provoke panic."
Kaelen shifted.
Just a subtle motion of weight between his boots.
He had been silent for the entire session.
Watching. Listening.
Reading the air—not the words spoken, but the tones avoided. The deflections. The slight dilation in Halvern's pupils every time the Larthan envoy mentioned seabed sovereignty.
Kaelen knew the rhythm of a lie when he heard it.
And the weight of the truth no one wanted to say.
His voice came low. Calm. Certain.
"These people aren't here for compromise."
The room stilled.
Even the water outside seemed to quiet in response.
Halvern turned toward Kaelen, caught off guard by the intrusion. His brow furrowed, but he kept his tone cordial.
"That's one interpretation. But I'd caution against preemptive judgment."
Kaelen said nothing.
The Larthan envoy gave him a long, assessing look.
Not in protest. But almost in acknowledgment.
Windu didn't rebuke him.
But his head tilted slightly. Eyes sharp, narrowed.
Not because Kaelen was wrong.
Because he was right—and that truth would cost something.
"Knight Vizsla speaks with… intensity," Halvern said, forcing a smile.
"But we're here to de-escalate. This is about opening doors, not closing them."
Kaelen's gaze remained fixed on the envoy. Not aggressive. Just… watching.
The Larthan diplomat folded his hands.
"If your Republic's peace requires we surrender our trenches, our mines, and our energy fields," he said quietly, "then I wonder which doors you're opening. And for whom."
The air shifted again.
Moments later, a melodic chime rang out—delicate, almost musical.
It signaled the beginning of the next phase: the inter-spire transfer. A customary movement of talks from one location to another—"to honor balance and neutrality."
The delegation would descend into the deep.
Two spires. One shuttle tube. A long, sealed journey through the crushing pressure of the sea.
Kaelen's HUD activated silently as he slipped the helmet over his head.
Seal engaged. Internal oxygen stabilizing. Pulse steady.
Windu rose beside him, one glance exchanged.
No words spoken.
But Kaelen already knew.
This wasn't about diplomacy anymore.
This was positioning.
And someone was about to make a move.
High Council Chamber – twilight. The red-gold light that once poured through the upper windows has faded into soft cobalt. What little remains casts long, thin shadows between the twelve chairs. But it is not the light that has grown cold. It is the room itself.
No one spoke.
The silence was no longer just tension.
It was calcifying—solidifying into position, into alignment, into fracture. Not a pause for thought, but the kind of silence that happens when the truth has been said and no one wants to answer it.
Shaak Ti sat forward, her silhouette still as a blade resting on its stand. Her voice, when it came, was calm—but heavy. Not from rage. From loss. From disappointment.
"You endangered a political balance we are not authorized to disrupt."
Her tone wasn't sharp. That would've been easier to answer.
This was worse.
It was quiet judgment—not shouted, but placed, like a verdict in ceremonial stone.
"There are outer systems watching Calidrex," she continued, "on the verge of siding with the Republic. If they suspect Jedi aggression… if they think we've acted as agents of —"
Kaelen's voice cut in.
Not loudly. Not rudely.
But with precision.
"—The consequences would have been worse if I hadn't intervened."
The interruption was absolute.
Every head in the chamber turned toward him.
No raised voice.
No shift in posture.
Just fact, spoken without ceremony.
He stood in the center of the room—not the accused, not the angry, just… honest. The bruises from Calidrex still colored the side of his neck. The burn along his jaw had been left untreated, as if he didn't care to erase what he had walked through.
"The Republic wasn't watching Calidrex," he said, scanning the circle.
"The Jedi weren't watching. The Senate never would.
And we both know why."
Ki-Adi-Mundi's brow twitched. Windu's expression didn't change, but he didn't intervene either.
Yoda's ears flicked once. Barely noticeable—but for him, it was a shift in gravity.
The chamber seemed to hold its breath.
Kaelen continued, his voice lower now—but no less sharp.
"It's easier to let forgotten systems rot than risk political backlash. Easier to pretend the Outer Rim isn't bleeding so you can preserve a seat at the Senate's table."
Shaak Ti said nothing.
Neither did Ki-Adi.
But their silence was an answer.
Saesee Tiin leaned forward next, his voice more tempered—diplomatic, even—but no less deliberate.
"Intent is not always enough, Knight Vizsla."
He held Kaelen's gaze evenly.
"Even when justified, unsanctioned action erodes trust. Not only between us and the Senate—but between the Jedi and the people we claim to protect."
Kaelen blinked once. Slowly. Then answered with the quiet of someone long past trying to be liked.
"Then maybe it's not trust that's eroding.
Maybe it's the illusion of unity."
A longer silence followed.
And it felt different this time. Not cold.
Exposed.
Then
Plo Koon shifted.
He hadn't moved once throughout the entire exchange. But now his gloved hand lifted slightly from the arm of his seat, and his voice emerged through the rebreather with that deep, filtered clarity that carried across the chamber like wind through the trees.
"He sees what others don't."
It was not said loudly. But everyone heard it.
Plo paused.
"Perhaps because he knows… what others won't admit."
The words landed like stone dropped in still water.
The silence that followed was not defensive. It was introspective.
Ki-Adi-Mundi stiffened, clearly unsettled, but said nothing.
Shaak Ti lowered her gaze.
Even Piell and Eeth Koth exchanged glances—but neither spoke.
Kaelen remained still.
The moment didn't feel like vindication.
It didn't feel like victory.
It felt like truth laid bare.
And no one wanted to touch it.
Yoda's eyes stayed locked on Kaelen for a long, unreadable second.
Still silent.
Still unmoving.
But something behind his gaze had shifted. Not fear. Not agreement. But deep, internal turning.
Something old… beginning to unravel.
Outer corridor of the Jedi Temple – post-session. The sky outside has deepened into dusk. Temple lights glow in quiet gradients of gold and blue. Wind whispers through the stone garden beyond the glass. The chamber is behind them now. So are the masks.
The heavy doors of the High Council chamber closed with a final hiss, leaving behind the cold geometry of judgment.
Kaelen walked alone.
Boots soft against the polished floor, steps even, but his shoulders told a different story. The Council's words had burned through more than just pride—they'd tested patience, faith, and purpose.
His cloak drifted behind him, still weighed with the heat of Calidrex, of questions no one dared ask out loud.
He didn't look back.
Didn't need to.
He could already feel the presence approaching behind him.
Windu.
The older Jedi didn't call out. He simply joined him—his footsteps naturally syncing to Kaelen's as they walked side by side through the corridor's length. It was a wide hallway, reserved for ceremonial procession, yet it felt far too narrow for everything that was not being said.
For a moment, the silence between them was heavier than the whole chamber.
No Senate. No robes. No Council circle.
Just a Master and a weapon the Order hadn't finished building—but had long since started using.
Windu spoke first.
His tone wasn't harsh. It wasn't kind either.
"You showed too much."
The words weren't meant to sting.
They weren't advice.
They were a reckoning.
"But you did what no one else would have.
Again."
Kaelen didn't look at him.
His hands hung loose at his sides, but there was something coiled beneath the surface—like a tether slowly fraying. He kept walking another few steps before replying, voice flat:
"You knew they'd turn on me."
Not a question.
Just a confirmation.
Windu didn't deny it. But when he spoke again, there was a rare trace of something like honesty—muted, difficult, but real.
"No."
He exhaled.
"I knew they'd argue."
"You were never going to fit in the box they built."
Kaelen stopped.
Right there in the corridor. The floor beneath them caught the glow of distant skylanes. The city beyond the Temple was alive with motion. Ships. Decisions. Lies.
He turned just slightly. Not enough to face Windu. But enough to say it without flinching.
"They fear what I am."
A pause.
"Do you?"
Windu didn't answer right away.
He watched Kaelen's profile—sharp in the half-light, worn down by too many truths, too many missions no one wanted to admit happened. The kind of warrior the Jedi needed—but could never afford to claim.
And then Windu gave a slow, single nod.
Not agreement. Not surrender.
Acknowledgment.
"I fear what could happen… if no one does."
That wasn't an answer.
It was worse.
Kaelen finally looked at him then. Not with anger. Not with defiance.
But with something far colder.
Resignation.
Windu met his gaze and finished it:
"The question isn't whether you frighten them.
It's whether you can live being the thing they need—"
A breath.
"—but won't stand behind."
Kaelen didn't respond.
He didn't have to.
The silence that followed was his answer.
He turned and walked on, footsteps steady, cloak trailing behind like a banner from a no one had declared.
Windu didn't follow.
He remained in place, standing alone beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Temple he swore to protect—watching a shadow he had helped shape disappear into a hallway of light.
A hallway that led nowhere safe.
Chapter 30: From Flame to Flow
The room was quiet—but not peaceful.
It was the kind of quiet found before a storm surge, when the tide pulls back just a little too far. Something held its breath, and it wasn't just the ocean pressing against the crystal walls.
The diplomatic chamber was beautiful—a spiraling dome of translucent coralsteel and salt-etched glass, lit from above by refracted beams of surface light filtering down through miles of ocean. Shafts of faint blues and greens danced along the floor as schools of luminous fish drifted past in lazy spirals. But the decor couldn't mask the pressure in the room.
Kaelen stood still at the edge, armor subtly modified for marine deployment. The matte-black finish of his plates swallowed the filtered light, making him appear more shadow than man. His helmet, magnetically locked to his hip, bore faint scarring from a recent impact—a reminder of what happened the last time someone underestimated the currents of .
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
He watched.
Every motion at the table. Every breath between the words.
At the center of the room, Mace Windu exchanged the formal greetings. Regal, composed, present without posturing. The lines of his face remained flat, but his eyes never stopped evaluating.
Across from him sat two figures:
– The Larthan envoy, skin translucent, facial ridges lined with glimmering scale-rings. His robes were formed of woven kelp-fabric and polished bone crystal, adorned with the sigils of the Deep Sovereignty. Despite his calm tone, his long fingers twitched against the data pad resting on the table's edge.
– And beside him, Senator Halvern—Republic diplomat, smiling too often, too widely. He was young, clearly out of his element. His robes were ceremonial, designed for appearance—not protection. His words were soaked in courtesy and hollow reassurance.
"We believe this dialogue is a vital step forward," Halvern said smoothly, folding his hands.
"A non-militarized accord is within reach—if all parties are willing to prioritize peace over suspicion."
The Larthan envoy blinked once—a long, amphibious blink, more telling than any glare.
"Your Senate brings peace with one hand, and surveillance satellites with the other," he said in a calm murmur. "We find it difficult to trust an offer delivered with weapons in orbit."
Halvern gave a soft laugh. The type used by people trained to treat like an overreaction.
"Precautions, only. To prevent escalation. You know how sensitive the Outer Rim has become."
Windu said nothing. His silence was sharper than most men's words.
The envoy didn't press further. He folded his hands with deliberate care—as if holding back an ocean behind his fingertips.
"The fleet is already providing energy relief in three trench cities," the envoy said coolly. "They ask no ownership in return."
That, finally, got Windu to speak.
"But they ask for presence."
The envoy's head tilted slightly. Not a denial.
Kaelen's jaw tensed. He could feel the diplomacy folding in on itself. Not from anger or stubbornness—but because truth was circling the table like a predator no one wanted to name.
The tension began to rise. And Kaelen knew it wouldn't hold.
The conversation continued—Halvern asking for cooperation, the envoy giving measured non-answers. Everyone in the room pretended this was still negotiation.
Kaelen spoke only once.
"These people aren't here for compromise."
The room stilled.
His voice was low. Controlled. Almost quiet. But it hit like a dropped anchor.
Even Halvern looked over, caught flat-footed.
"Knight Vizsla," the senator said with a forced smile. "That's not helpful."
Kaelen said nothing.
But Windu turned to look at him.
Not with disapproval.
Not with praise.
Just with precision.
A shared understanding, passed in silence.
The Larthan envoy studied Kaelen for a long moment.
Then, quietly, without smiling:
"At least one of you speaks plainly."
Halvern cleared his throat.
"We appreciate Knight Vizsla's… caution. But the goal here is not to provoke. We're building a corridor of trust."
Kaelen didn't speak again.
He didn't need to.
The sea outside seemed to darken.
The tone shifted abruptly when a chime rang out—soft, aquatic-toned, signaling the beginning of the diplomatic transfer.
A robed steward entered and bowed low.
"Phase Two of the dialogue will continue at Spire Theta. A sealed transport awaits. Security preparations complete."
Windu nodded once.
Halvern stood too quickly.
The Larthan envoy didn't rise. Not immediately.
His eyes shifted toward Kaelen before he moved. There was no fear in the look. Just calculation.
Kaelen sealed his helmet.
The plates locked with a hiss.
Oxygen shifted through the regulator.
His visor came alive—displaying movement readings, subpressure markers, pulse rhythms.
And something else.
Instinct.
Because something was wrong.
And it hadn't arrived yet.
Underwater transport tunnel – pressurized rail-car shuttles enclosed in transparisteel tubing. A deep, silent vein beneath the oceanic crust of Larthas IX.
The transfer capsule hissed as the seals engaged.
Hydraulic clamps retracted. Magnetic fields stabilized. The transparisteel tunnel leading from the diplomatic spire curved downward into the sea like a glass artery. Lights pulsed gently along the tube—green to yellow to blue—as the descent sequence initiated.
Kaelen stood in the rear cabin, already suited in full armor. He didn't sit.
He never sat in transport.
His frame swayed slightly with the gentle tilt of the shuttle as it began its slow, angled dive. Two Larthan guards sat across from him—quiet, composed, weapons slung across their backs. They kept glancing toward him, perhaps for reassurance. Perhaps because they couldn't help it.
He ignored them.
Instead, he raised his gauntlet and slowly twisted the locking seal across his shoulder.
A deep click.
The final seal engaged.
The armor became a shell.
Not just for protection.
For focus.
Inside the helmet, his HUD blinked to life.
Pulse normal.
External pressure is rising.
Oxygen flow is steady.
Seismic activity—minor tremors near the shelf edge. Nothing flagged.
He closed his eyes.
And listened.
Not with his ears—but with everything else.
The ocean surrounded them now—the last traces of sunlight vanishing above, filtered into trembling lines of blue and gold. Past the transparisteel walls, schools of jellyfish pulsed like lanterns in the dark, their tendrils drifting with the current. Shafts of greenish light flickered from the depths of the trench wall, where phosphorescent moss clung to ridges like veins.
Kaelen extended his awareness outward—not visually, but through the Force.
It was different here.
On land, the Force was shaped by gravity, mass, conflict. It was tension and push, heat and pressure.
But here—
It moved like breath beneath the surface of sleep.
It wasn't fire. It was flow.
The currents whispered.
The sea bent sound. Bent motion. Bent time.
Kaelen could feel it bend the Force too—smoothly, rhythmically, with nothing to catch it.
He exhaled slowly.
The Force didn't blaze here.
It drifted.
It danced.
He reached for it—not to command, but to ride it.
A light touch. Like swimming without arms.
He felt the shapes outside before he saw them. Not people. Fish. Larger creatures. And something else.
Not yet close.
But coming.
Up ahead, in the forward capsule, Windu sat with the diplomat and Senator Halvern.
The Republic envoy kept talking, reciting projected terms, reasons for optimism, timelines for neutrality treaties.
Windu wasn't listening.
He watched the water outside.
Watched how the fish had started moving faster.
How the schools broke early—before the shuttle even passed through.
He activated the interior comm.
"Rear guard. Report."
Kaelen's voice crackled back after a beat.
"Flow's wrong. Current split near trench wall. Something's moving. Big."
"Sentient?"
"Not yet. But it's coming in clean. Coordinated."
Windu didn't respond.
Not with words.
He tapped a silent signal on the side of the shuttle—a coded hand gesture toward the guard at his side.
Seal orders. Prepare for breach.
The tunnel outside shimmered.
Light distortion.
Heat spike—barely.
A pulse. A wrongness.
Kaelen's HUD lit up.
Sector integrity fluctuating. Pressure field strained. Outer shell holding... for now.
He took one step toward the viewport, peering out.
And saw nothing.
But the Force—
The Force curled, like it was bracing for impact.
Then came the sound.
A low thoom, deep and distant—vibrating through the tunnel wall like the throb of something vast and moving.
The shuttle lurched.
A sharp jolt rippled through the rail line.
The lights flickered.
Kaelen braced.
The HUD flashed warnings.
The rear compartment pressure began to spike.
Alert: Hull stress rising. Structural cohesion weakening. Breach imminent.
Outside the tunnel, something struck.
Once.
Hard.
The transparisteel cracked.
Hairline fractures spidered across the observation wall in the rear capsule.
One of the Larthan guards cried out, grabbing for the wall.
Kaelen moved first.
"Brace!"
Too late.
The wall exploded inward with a blast of freezing seawater, flooding the capsule with deafening force. The shockwave ripped one guard from his seat and sent the other spinning into the ceiling.
And in that instant—
Kaelen activated his magnetic boots and kicked into motion.
The lights went red.
The current roared.
And through the breach—
Figures poured in.
Sleek. Armored. Silent. Assassins.
Three of them. Moving with lethal grace, tridents and tether-mines affixed to their suits.
Their helmets bore no insignia—just black mirrored visors, reflecting Kaelen's violet silhouette.
He didn't hesitate.
The Force moved with him—fluid and silent.
Not to burn. To flow.
A groan echoed through the tunnel's framework—low, skeletal, like the hull itself was about to scream.
Then came the rupture.
It didn't explode with fire or sound.
It folded inward, crushed by the pressure of thousands of meters of ocean, and in an instant, the tunnel became a battlefield.
The transparisteel wall split open, and the sea poured in—not a rush, but a violent impact, like the hand of a god slapping the chamber hollow. Bodies tumbled. Lights shattered. Panels blew free. Alarms failed—only the red pulse of emergency beacons lit the water in flashes.
Kaelen didn't move like the others.
He didn't flail.
He leaned into the chaos.
As the guards struggled to orient themselves in three-dimensional combat space, Kaelen let the water take him, body sliding with the current instead of fighting it. His eyes narrowed. His armor adjusted its seal automatically. Every breath was steady.
Then came the shapes.
Dark, humanoid—predatory.
Dozens of them flooded through the breach: attackers in stealth-slick aquatic gear, shock tridents pulsing with blue electricity, mines trailing behind them like jellyfish, visors glowing red.
Kaelen moved first.
He reached for his saber as he spun sideways in the current—a fluid, natural movement, as if he were born in water. His violet blade ignited with a slow, majestic pulse. In water, the blade did not hum. It roared in silence, vibrating the pressure itself.
The first attacker lunged.
Kaelen parried low—cutting the weapon in half, then following through with a tight crescent slash that carved straight through the enemy's torso. Blood clouds mixed with the silt.
He kicked upward, using the recoil to launch himself into a tight spiral through two more enemies.
One fell with a cleaved spine.
The second's oxygen feed hissed out in a stream of silver bubbles—disabled, disoriented.
Kaelen didn't stop.
He moved like a predator in full tide.
Not fighting against the sea, but with it. Letting its pull guide his flow. His cloak drifted behind him like a kelp shroud, catching the light in pulses.
More attackers surged forward—eight, ten, twelve.
Kaelen dropped into the heart of them.
He redirected a shock trident with his forearm bracer—absorbed the pain—then spun inside the attacker's guard and drove his armored elbow into the enemy's throat.
The Force rippled outward like sonar.
He didn't Force-push. He shifted the current—using micro-vibrations in the water to throw enemies off balance. Weapons drifted just out of reach. Mines swirled away, deflected by unseen pressure shifts.
A guard screamed—cut off as water filled his mask.
Kaelen's HUD flickered. Target: diplomat shuttle, hull stress rising. Distance: 22 meters. Threat level: critical.
Another wave of attackers jetted toward the diplomat's position.
Kaelen flipped backward, planted one foot on the shattered wall of the tunnel, and kicked off with the full propulsion of his suit. The Force surged through his body—not as fire, but as momentum, as clarity.
He reached the first assassin mid-charge and slammed his saber through their shoulder socket—twisting the blade to disable without kill.
The second, he threw wide with a curved burst of Force, shaped to wrap and pull rather than blast. The enemy tumbled end over end, crashing into a support beam and shattering their helmet.
The third raised a sonic mine.
Kaelen blinked through the water—Force-accelerated speed bursting him forward. He dropped low, beneath the assassin's guard, and drove an armored knee into their gut. The mine dropped. He caught it. Tossed it. Sent it spinning into the void where it detonated harmlessly behind a support strut.
The diplomat's shuttle was within reach.
Inside, Windu was holding the breach with a Force barrier—calm, controlled, hands outstretched, eyes tracking Kaelen like a hawk.
Their gazes locked.
Kaelen gave a single nod.
And then turned—because the sea was not done.
More shadows approached.
Not soldiers. Not mercenaries. These were assassins. Trained. Surgical. Each with a personal breathing rig, cloaking mesh, and Force-dampening integrated into their armor.
But Kaelen had the one advantage they didn't.
This was his element now.
He sank low, saber held reversed in a downward grip. His body aligned with the current. The Force moved in him like a tide returning home.
He exhaled.
And became the storm.
Upper docking bay, Larthas IX — interior of a spire-city rising from the ocean floor. Lights flicker. Emergency sirens pulse. The smell of ozone and salt hangs in the air.
Windu stepped through smoke like a blade through fabric.
The docking bay was chaos—alarms blaring, doors locking down in sequence, fogged saltwater vapor hissing from fractured seals. Guards shouted over intercoms, trying to maintain order. Republic techs scattered. One was screaming for backup that wasn't coming.
Then the breach.
A service lift cracked open mid-wall. Four assassins in black, pressure-adapted armor spilled out like knives given form.
Windu didn't wait.
His lightsaber ignited with a thundercrack of violet, humming hot through the mist. His form wasn't performative—it was pure function. No wasted arc, no hesitation.
He swept forward, disarming the first attacker before they even registered his presence, kicking a second into the lip of the landing bay and slamming him back with a force-enhanced blow to the chest.
One reached for the control console linked to the diplomat's collar. Too close.
Windu extended his hand.
The attacker didn't fly—he folded. Bones cracked as the Force snapped his spine mid-air and pinned him to the wall like dead weight.
The diplomat ducked, stunned silent, eyes wide. Windu never looked back.
He kept moving, slicing through another soldier's thigh plate and slamming him headfirst into a durasteel floor panel.
Then the shadows shifted. He felt Kaelen.
A flare—deep below.
Not pain. Not panic.
Motion. Precision. Fury wrapped in calm.
Windu turned, eyes drawn to the reinforced transparisteel viewport.
And there—streaking through the black abyss like a burning ghost—was a violet lightsaber. Graceful. Controlled. Relentless.
Kaelen was still alive.
Still clearing a path.
Windu let his blade lower, just for a moment. He breathed.
And then let go.
The next group of intruders met the full weight of Vaapad.
He launched himself into them, blade striking like a seismic fracture. He didn't just disarm—he disabled. Limbs crumpled, weapons shattered in hand, breath left lungs like a crushed tide.
A blade slashed near his cheek. He twisted beneath it and answered with a brutal elbow and a knee that shattered the attacker's faceplate. He moved like a man no longer defending something, but finishing something.
Each strike was justice.
Each movement was clarity.
Each breath mirrored Kaelen's below.
And still—through steel and water—he felt that blade dancing through the deep.
Two warriors, one above and one below, in sync without speaking.
Final shot of the scene:
Through the viewport, distant and spectral, Kaelen surges upward, dragging the diplomat behind him, his saber blazing in the black.
Windu lowers his weapon. Just for a breath.
The wasn't over.
But something else had begun.
Diplomatic safe chamber – deep within the Larthas IX spire. Smooth obsidian walls, pressurized silence. Emergency lights flicker with a faint hum. Water from the docking bay still puddles beneath their boots.
The door sealed behind them with a hiss, locking out the of chaos. For the first time in hours, the room didn't shake.
Kaelen stood still, helmet under one arm, shoulder plate cracked and crusted with dried salt. His breath came low and silent, almost indistinguishable from the hum of the walls. Burn marks scorched the edges of his armor where a pulse mine had grazed him. He hadn't spoken since extraction.
Windu stood beside him, robes darkened with seawater and streaked with blood not his own. One sleeve was torn at the bicep. A long welt cut down his collarbone, but he hadn't addressed it—hadn't even looked at it. He was watching the diplomat.
Across from them, the Larthan envoy—mid-fifties, gray-bearded, fine suit shredded at the seams—paced aimlessly in the chamber's center. He clutched a data-slate, fingers trembling more from memory than adrenaline.
He'd nearly drowned. Nearly died. And no one had asked him how he was.
Instead, the debrief had been short, surgical.
A Republic attaché entered. Asked how many casualties. Not who was responsible.
No one addressed the tunnel breach.
No one asked who held the line when the guards fell.
No one acknowledged Kaelen's presence.
Because no one knew how to.
Windu gave the official summary. "Attack neutralized. Transfer successful. Threat suppressed."
That was all they wanted to hear.
That was all they could afford to admit.
When the others cleared the room, the silence returned—deeper this time. Thicker.
Windu turned to leave.
But the diplomat's voice—low and cracked—stopped him.
"Wait."
Windu turned.
Kaelen didn't.
The diplomat stood frozen now, no longer pacing. He glanced at Windu… then Kaelen… and hesitated.
His eyes softened. The weight of what he'd witnessed—the blur of a violet blade in the black, the body that shielded him from the pressure shock, the hand that pulled him free through collapsed debris—settled in his voice.
"It was the other one who saved my life."
His voice wasn't angry. Just honest.
"You just cleaned up the rest."
It wasn't meant as insult. There was no malice—just the disorienting need to say it aloud. To set the record straight before it was buried by silence and politics.
Windu didn't flinch. He didn't blink.
Kaelen said nothing. No nod. No shift. No expression.
He stood exactly as he had before. Unmoved by praise. Unhungry for it. The silence that followed felt like gravity.
Then the diplomat exhaled, nodded once, and turned away. He didn't wait for acknowledgment. He knew he wouldn't get it.
Windu's gaze remained on Kaelen.
Longer than necessary. Longer than protocol required.
There was something in that stare now.
Not judgment.
Not concern.
Recognition.
Of the truth.
Of the cost.
Of the man beside him who bled without being seen—again.
Kaelen finally moved. He turned, slow and steady, and walked for the exit.
Windu didn't stop him.
But he didn't look away.
Final Line:
The door closed behind Kaelen.
And for the first time, Windu stayed in the room long after the mission was over.
Coruscant — Jedi Temple, Windu's private quarters. The lights are dimmed to meditation hue. Rain streaks down the transparisteel windows like falling starlines. Thunder murmurs in the distance, the skyline flickering with the pulse of storms far overhead.
The room is silent, austere and dark—monastic in its simplicity. No ornaments. No color. Just bare walls and the distant hum of Temple shielding reacting to atmospheric surges.
Windu stands at the center in a loose robe, his outer cloak discarded. His shoulders slope slightly—fatigue, but not just physical. His eyes are fixed on a small glowing terminal, casting pale blue light up across the angular lines of his face.
He breathes in once. Slowly. Deliberately.
VOICE RECORD: Initiated.
Recipient: Grand Master Yoda. Encryption Level Theta.
He hesitates. Then begins, voice quiet—deliberate.
"I've reviewed the field recordings."
He lifts a hand and lightly touches the control panel. A brief holographic clip plays—Kaelen underwater, moving like a ghost through currents, his violet blade flaring like a comet behind him.
"Kaelen wasn't just effective. He was… inevitable."
"His instincts didn't follow the Force. They became it."
The image flickers out. Silence resumes. Only the distant rattle of wind and rain.
"I watched him adapt to an environment that should've killed him. I watched him move in ways even the most seasoned among us wouldn't attempt. Not from arrogance. But from knowing he could."
Windu steps away from the console. He begins to pace. Slowly. Not in frustration—in thought.
"He's not unstable. He's not reckless. He isn't slipping."
"But he is... outside us now. No longer shaped by Council boundaries. No longer restrained by hesitation we still call wisdom."
He pauses, looking at the rain outside. His voice lowers—gravel-soft.
"We didn't temper him."
"We refused to."
A beat.
"And now we've sharpened him."
He turns back to the console.
"The question isn't whether he's dangerous. He is."
"The question is: what do we ask him to cut?"
A long pause.
His hand hovers over the terminal.
"Because when we ask him… it may be too late to decide what shape the blade takes."
The message ends.
TRANSMISSION SAVED: YODA.
SENT – CONFIDENTIAL PRIORITY.
Windu exhales deeply, finally sinking down onto a low meditation platform near the corner window. No candles. No hum. No mantra.
Just the sound of rain.
He sits in the stillness.
Not meditating.
Not resting.
Just… existing.
The thunder rolls again, and for a moment, the sound is less like weather—more like drums.
The window reflects his silhouette—tall, proud, still.
But behind the reflection, there's no clarity.
Only rain.