The council chamber of the citadel smelled of iron and old fires. Cloaked forms filled the ring of obsidian seats, faces half-hidden by hoods. The air buzzed with hard-edged hunger, not for conquest this time, but for the simplicity of an end.
Valdra rose first, fingers tapping the arm of her chair like claws. Her voice was flat with contempt.
Valdra: "He has failed in the field twice. Twice he has shown clemency where a Sith would have finished the work. That is not weakness we can tolerate, it is rot. If Vrakus will not act, the Council will. We cannot carry this liability."
Serik grinned like a beast smelling blood.
Serik: "We do not need hesitation in our ranks. A single strike would cleanse it."
The murmurs swelled into a chorus. Vrakus listened, still as carved stone, but the lines at his mouth fixed into something harder. He had protected the apprentice, argued usefulness over waste, and watched Nox carve victories that expanded his dominion. But the Council's patience had run thin; their appetites had sharpened.
He let them press. He wore their indignation as theater. Then he rose, the room folding into silence around him. His voice was low, deliberate, the voice of a man who'd always known how to bend hunger to his will.
Vrakus: "You would have him ended. Very well."
He let the words sit before continuing.
Vrakus: "But hear me: this must be precise. Public spectacle will not satisfy. A brazen execution would risk upheaval. We will not kill a general in a purge and call it order. We are Sith, we are artful."
Eyes that had wanted simple blood now sharpened with curiosity. Vrakus unfolded his plan like a blade, each detail cold and exact.
Vrakus: "He will be given command of our next major assault, a carefully chosen target, a Republic strongpoint positioned to inflict maximum political damage if lost. His victory will be expected. His fall will be plausible. Mid-battle, when chaos reigns and the cries drown truth, the true executioners will act. Kill him quietly. Make it look like the cost of war, not our hand."
He paused, tasting their reaction. Some looked pleased; others, like Kael, kept their smiles small but approving.
Vrakus: "The Council will not be seen as rulers here. We simply let war take what must be taken. When the boy vanishes, the story will write itself, a brave death in battle, a hero fallen. No one will look for a hand in the shadows. And if any whispers start… we will show them the consequences of rumor."
The room filled with the low, satisfied sound of predators closing in. The decision was brutal, clean, and final.
No more tests. No more excuses.
The mandate was simple: Nox is to be removed.
The Trap Set
That same night, aboard his flagship, Nox stood alone at the tactical console, reviewing the sealed mission parameters. The operation shimmered with promise, a strike deep into Republic territory, bold enough to fracture supply lines and scorch morale. It was the kind of mission that turned commanders into legends.
Pride stirred in his chest, mingling with the old, coiled fury. If the Council doubted him, he would answer with fire. Let them watch. Let them choke on the ash of their hesitation.
But in the shadowed halls of the citadel, the game had already shifted.
Vrakus had dispatched his executioners, silent killers embedded within Nox's own vanguard. Saboteurs with altered orders. Assassins who would strike when chaos masked intent. The battlefield itself had been shaped to betray him: a maneuver designed to funnel him into a choke-point, a fuel conduit set to fail, reinforcements timed to arrive a breath too late.
Each detail was precise. Each moment calibrated. The trap was not loud, it was elegant.
To Nox, there was only duty and the hunger to prove himself.
To Vrakus and the Council, there was empire, and clean erasure.
Between them lay the trap: a battlefield, a roar, and a silence that would never speak the truth.
Fire and Fracture
The stars had the cold blue of distant knives as the Vigilant Dawn led the Republic task force into the Corellian Run. Zen stood on the bridge like calm in the center of motion: hands folded behind his back, jaw set, eyes scanning a hundred moving points on the tactical scroll as if reading the chest of the galaxy itself. Around him, officers barked coordinates, engineers tuned shields, and the hummed voice of Captain Voro threaded the comms like a weathered baritone.
Tif hovered at his shoulder, a coiled presence of steel and warmth. She watched the readouts, fingers tapping adjustments into the console with quick certainty. Where a month ago she had looked to him for every answer, now he found himself glancing toward her for counsel, an instinct that surprised and comforted him in equal measure.
Tif: "Sensors show a convoy at Kordus Station, primary fuel depot. They've hull-mounted turrets facing the approach, but the outer lattice is thin. If we cut the secondary lines first, their reinforcement vectors collapse."
Zen allowed himself a smile.
Zen: "Then we collapse them."
His voice was quiet, but authority rode it like a keel.
Zen: "Tif, you take team two on the flank. I want a surgical strike, minimum occupation, maximum disruption."
She nodded. The glance they shared carried no master or apprentice in it; it was the exchange between two linked minds. It steadied him. It frightened him softly, like the edge of something too precious to name aloud.
Kordus filled the viewport, a lattice of docking arms and fuel pylons like a mechanical forest. Raiders scrambled to defend a hub they could not truly replace. Republic fighters uncoiled around the station, and the first shots were like the drumbeat of something inevitable.
The boarding dropped in with the soft shudder of docking clamps. Zen led the insertion force down a narrow maintenance channel into the belly of the station. The corridor echoed with alarms, shouted commands, and the clank of boots. Droids, mercenaries in mismatched armor, and automated turrets made for tight, lethal pockets of resistance.
Tif moved like a spear: precise, economical, deadly. She cut through an entry team trying to set a reactive charge on a fuel conduit, then used a Force-pull to flip a security console and feed false telemetry back to the station's sensors. Zen watched her adapt diplomacy and swordplay into a single flow, the way she used a soft word to unsteady an opponent and a hard strike to finish the moment
A flash grenade bounced down the corridor, spinning like a tiny angry sun. Tif dove, pushing Zen clear. The shockwave slashed at metal and cloaks alike. When the light cleared, they were laughing, breathless, hearts hammering, the sort of laugh that is forgiveness and promise rolled into one. The soldiers around them looked on with the familiar awe shared by troops who have seen a true pair of leaders save them from the skin of danger.
They accomplished Kordus in hours: cutting fuel lines, collapsing key supply arteries, and slipping out before reinforcements could reroute. The raid's success fractured the raiders' chain of command; within twenty-four hours, minor warbands began slaughtering one another for scraps. Zen's strategy, cut supply, let greed consume the rest, worked with a cruelty the Jedi never celebrated publicly.
In the quiet of his quarters later, he ran his hands along the rim of his mug and felt the hand of duty heavy on his shoulder.
The Escape
In the wake of the operation, the task force held a rapid council. Republic captains, logistics officers, and the Jedi contingent crowded a long table lit by a single, stubborn lamp. Maps rolled, holograms flickered; the cheap metal chairs creaked with human weight.
Captain Voro leaned forward, elbows on the table, the scars of old fights written across his face.
Voro: "We've cut Kordus, but they're still moving stockpiles out through shadow lanes. We need to hit Merek Junction before they reestablish."
Zen nodded.
Zen: "Merek is the next pivot. If we collapse its routing software, they won't be able to coordinate convoys. Tif, you'll lead the insertion there as well."
Voro cocked an eyebrow.
Voro: "You sure about leaving command to your Padawan on a node that's heavier than Kordus?"
Zen answered for them both.
Zen: "She's ready."
The words were simple. The room accepted them because they had seen her move and knew the truth of his statement.
In the quiet that followed, Zen felt Kaeden's earlier words hum up from memory like a distant bell: When the time comes, will you be able to tell which path is duty… and which is love?
He let the thought rest. For now, the job came first. They both understood that the war did not allow indulgence for long.
Merek was a tangle of software nodes and dock bays. To secure it, Tif led a select infiltration team under cover of a fighter strike. Her plan was elegant in its simplicity: stealth entry, the tinny taming of routing arrays, and a quiet exit.
Zen watched her lead, pride ringing in his chest like a bell. She moved with a commander's calm, issuing rapid, precise signals that made the rest of her team act like extensions of her will.
They slipped into an office complex where the routing arrays pulsed like a sleeping machine. Tif knelt before the main console, breath measured, fingers dancing across the ancient keys until the routing tables blinked in a new pattern.
Their escape was nearly perfect, until a concealed sentry detected a waveform. Metal clashed, blaster fire ignited, and the team spilled into a narrow corridor facing an automated security wall.
They were boxed.
Zen's blade sang. He pushed back the wall of enemies, and Tif used a Force-pull to wrench a maintenance ladder free, creating the opening they needed. As they tumbled into the night sky through service ducts and landing rails, Tif laughed into the dark, a bright, wild sound.
Zen felt his chest loosen, as if something integral had shifted to a new, lighter gear.
Back aboard the fleet, in the mess hall as mechanics traded ribald stories and cooks passed out hot broth, Zen and Tif shared a quiet corner. She took his hand and folded it into her own. No one disturbed them. The fleet had its rhythm. They had their quiet.