(Less than 24 hours before the execution, Planet Ixtal, Soron's POV)
Soron sat alone in the quiet of his chamber, his back resting against cold stone as his breathing remained shallow and measured, each inhale deliberate as though his lungs themselves needed persuasion to keep working for a little longer.
His body felt brittle.
Not in the dramatic sense of imminent collapse, but in the far crueler way where strength had simply faded away over time, leaving behind stubborn will layered over exhaustion, as even remaining seated demanded more effort than it once should have.
His hands trembled faintly when he lifted them from his lap, the motion subtle yet undeniable, as age, injury, and countless battles finally caught up to him, reminding him that his time was no longer measured in years or even months.
But rather in moments.
As only after steadying himself did his gaze finally drift forward, lingering on the stone table before him, where two artifacts rested side by side.
