Chapter 295
**Dagon POV**
The plateau was a wasteland.
Where once jagged rock had stood, now stretched a vast field of blackened glass — meters of sand fused into smooth, reflective sheets by the fury of clashing lightning and crescent moon blades. Shattered stone littered the edges. The air still smelled of ozone and scorched flesh.
Zule arrived first, leaping from the gunship with Puck and Lucky right behind her. Her red-orange skin was streaked with dust and tears as she scanned the devastation.
Vos's body lay in two clean halves, already cooling in the desert night. A pile of fine gray ash marked where Saa Qalu had finally been reduced to nothing. And in the center…
Dagon.
He was on his knees, left arm completely missing below the elbow, cauterized stump still smoking. His chest bore three horrific puncture wounds from the Vong hooks. The right side of his helmet had melted into his scalp, one eye swollen shut and crusted with blood. The remaining eye stared blankly at the stars.
"Master!" Zule's voice cracked as she sprinted forward.
Puck and Lucky moved with grim efficiency. They dropped beside him, ripping open med-kits. Stimulants, bacta charges, emergency kolto patches — everything they carried was injected, slapped on, or pumped into veins without hesitation.
For one terrifying moment there was only silence.
Then — a weak, thready heartbeat.
Dagon's remaining eye fluttered open.
"Master!" Zule rushed in, throwing her arms around him in a desperate hug.
"Oww… I'm still hurt," he rasped, voice raw.
"Right — sorry!" She pulled back immediately, hands hovering helplessly, tears streaming down her face.
**Scene 2**
When Dagon next opened his eyes, he was floating inside a bacta tank aboard the *Finalizer*. The cool, blue-tinted fluid stung the burns and wounds, but the pain was distant now. Through the transparisteel he saw Zule standing frozen across from him, flanked by several clone medics. Her red-orange skin was pale with exhaustion.
The moment his eyes focused, a tidal wave of joy and relief crashed through their bond.
*Stardust? Teacher!!*
He managed a weak smile inside the mask.
*How much time has passed?*
*Twelve hours, Teacher!*
*Where are we?*
*On board the Finalizer, Master.*
*Okay. Get me out of here. We need to go to Tatooine.*
*But—!*
*Don't argue. I need to finish the job. And then I can rest.*
*…Fine.*
A few minutes later the tank drained. Half an hour after that — after a quick nutrient pack, a scalding shower, and some careful stretching to test his regenerating nerves — Dagon stood on the bridge listening to Lichtendahl's report.
"As it turned out, everything ended more or less well," the officer began. "Puck led the squad back to the shuttle crash site. Reinforcements arrived twenty minutes later. After sending Rotta to the *Finalizer* under the supervision of the doctor and Lucky, Blam led the search for you. In response to protests from Jabba's patrol ships, our usually reserved aristocrat Ceri lost his temper and threatened orbital bombardment. I think everyone was a bit taken aback by the statement. By the time they came to their senses, we were already in orbit, outside Tatooine space."
Dagon gave a tired chuckle. "Good man."
"Puck thoughtfully recovered Vos's body — both parts. It's now in the freezer. Zule collected the lightsabers, including the Sith blade… well, what was left of it."
Dagon nodded slowly. He felt surprisingly well — except for lingering weakness and occasional double vision. The bacta had done miraculous work after eleven straight hours of immersion. Zule had explained they'd been taught in the Halls of Healing that immediate, prolonged bacta was critical in cases like his. Otherwise things could have been much worse.
Even so, he had nearly died.
The aftereffects of the dark lightning and Vong hooks were literally etched into his body now: a collection of ugly scars and burns across his chest, shoulder, and the right side of his face. They didn't hurt — they felt like normal skin — but they were permanent reminders.
He caught his reflection in a polished panel and chuckled darkly. *Hmm… what a mug.*
*Next time,* he thought grimly, *I throw secrecy to the wind and use every resource I have to survive. The sensations I felt when my heart stopped… Zule said she had to restart it… I never want to feel that again.*
He made a mental note to stop by the Jedi Temple soon — to heal what he could of the nerve damage and scars. For all of them.
An hour later they transferred to the last remaining Barq'tok-class gunship. Zule and the others had flatly refused to fly on anything else. They had even considered the *Endorser*, but Dagon had shot that idea down immediately — it would have been too conspicuous.
So it was time to finish the task.
Dagon stood at the front of the gunship as it descended toward Jabba's palace, the desert stretching endlessly below. Twelve hours remained before the Hutt's deadline.
He felt Zule's hand slip quietly into his remaining one. Through the bond she sent a fierce wave of love and stubborn determination.
*We're with you, Teacher. All the way.*
Dagon squeezed back gently, scars pulling tight across his chest.
One last delivery.
One last confrontation.
Then, perhaps, he could finally rest.