The Survivor
Vrakus had handpicked executioners and saboteurs for the task: silent killers embedded within Nox's forward vanguard, weapons tampered, communications jammed, and reinforcements delayed. The operation was to be seamless, leaving no trace of deliberate murder. War would provide cover; the death of a Sith apprentice would appear as merely another casualty of battle.
Orders were dispatched with ruthless precision. Timing was everything. Vrakus adjusted the moments down to the second, a fuel conduit would fail, a turret would misfire, a squad would appear in the corridor moments too late. Each element was designed to squeeze Nox into a choke-point where the executioners could strike and erase him.
The Republic stronghold burned under the assault. Nox led his vanguard into the fray with lethal efficiency, unaware that the dagger was poised not from the enemy, but from his own master. Explosions cracked across corridors. Hidden saboteurs emerged, firing from concealed positions and attempting to overwhelm him.
Yet Nox's instincts, sharpened by countless battles, carried him through. He felt the subtle missteps in the operation, the pause of a unit too long, the targeting of openings no normal commander would exploit. Something did not add up. He repelled the hidden attackers, neutralizing them with precision, his mind screaming against the current of betrayal he could not yet name.
Then, amid the chaos, a cold certainty struck him: this was no ordinary mission. The subtle manipulations, the timing, the unnecessary risks, all pointed to a single truth.
Vrakus intended to kill him personally if necessary, or at least ensure his death indirectly.
The Quiet World
After the chaos at Merek, the fleet granted itself a brief reprieve. Zen had insisted on it, a deliberate pause, allowing soldiers to breathe, to tend to the wounded, to feel the world beyond constant orders and gunfire. He selected a quiet, unremarkable world at the edge of the Run: rolling hills like green waves, a slender river glinting under twin suns, and a small village of stone cottages whose inhabitants had never known the bite of a blaster.
Zen and Tif wandered through the village, stepping lightly among farmers mending thatched roofs and children chasing chickens through sun-baked lanes. A boy tugged playfully at Tif's boots, eyes wide with mischief, trying to heft her saber as if it were a toy. She laughed, low and melodic, and Zen felt a warmth stir, a softness easing into his chest that had nothing to do with victory or duty.
As evening fell, they shared a humble meal in a local inn. The owner pressed warm bread and bitter tea into their hands, insisting on kindness despite the simplicity of the fare. They spoke of things far from war: the gardens Tif would plant when the fighting ended, the rhythm of rain against Zen's windows, the quiet joy of ordinary mornings.
Each word was sacred in its ordinariness, a small rebellion against the galaxy's relentless urgency.
The Call
Later, in the stillness of their rented room, night wrapping the world outside in shadows, they let themselves shed the armor of responsibility. Hands brushed, fingers intertwined, and the heavy weight of the galaxy fell away just enough for attention to rest on the person beside them. Time became theirs alone, measured in whispered names, gentle touches, and the slow unraveling of walls long held firm.
When dawn came, they were wrapped together, a fragile warmth between them, a flicker of intimacy and trust that might, in another life, have been an enduring flame. Zen stirred first, the hush of the sleeping world settling around him. He watched Tif breathe evenly, the soft rise and fall of her chest a grounding rhythm, and for a brief moment, the universe felt simple, untangled, and whole.
A ripple surged through the Force, urgent and piercing, slicing through the quiet warmth of their morning. Zen's chest tightened instinctively; his eyes met Tif's, who had sensed the shift as well.
Tif: "Zen… what is it?"
He drew a steadying breath, grounding himself in her presence even as the call from his brother pressed against him across the stars.
Zen: "Nox… he's in trouble," he said, voice low but firm. "He's calling me, a planet, coordinates… now."
The quiet of the morning shattered as they prepared for departure. Zen and Tif moved with practiced efficiency, strapping on armor, checking weapons, and syncing their shuttle's systems. No fleet would accompany them, this was their mission alone. A precise strike. Speed and discretion.
The small shuttle hummed softly in the docking bay, its hull reflecting the early light. Zen and Tif exchanged a fleeting look as they climbed aboard, unspoken words heavy with trust, love, and the knowledge that the danger ahead was theirs to face, together.
The Shadow Moves
Vrakus, who was aware that Nox had survived the ambush, adjusted his posture in the shadows of his citadel. The apprentice had shown weakness to his brother's influence, softness that could be exploited.
Now, he would intervene personally.
His hand would be the one to ensure the elimination.
And the galaxy would tremble under his shadow.