The Dawn's Eagle had been circling Coruscant's orbit for two standard days, held in the flow of transport ships awaiting clearance to land at one of the Republic capital's spaceports. During this time, no signs of surveillance were detected, and no one had attempted to attack the small freighter and its decidedly motley crew.
However, anyone who did try to board the Eagle would very quickly regret it. It wasn't often that one found a former Jedi Master, who had been a Dark Lord of the Sith and founded his own Empire, alongside two of his apprentices, one a trained Sith assassin, a Mandalorian mercenary who had long worked for the Hutt Cartel, and, of course, the galaxy's best assassin droid. It would be simpler to destroy such a vessel outright, and preferably from the farthest possible distance. But with a powerful Force-sensitive pilot in the cockpit, that, too, would prove difficult.
Yet, at the moment, the ship was being piloted by the droid HK-47 in tandem with the astromech R2-D2. Seeking to occupy his computational powers and suppress his kill protocols, HK was busy formulating an attack plan for every merchant vessel they encountered. The freighter's meager armament severely limited his options, but the metallic killer possessed a remarkably creative mind.
In the middle of yet another simulation of a bloody massacre against "useless meatbags," the Mandalorian entered the cockpit. Her face was once again hidden by her helmet, and thus, only Revan knew her identity aboard the Eagle. The day before, the young woman and the former Sith had been unable to have a proper conversation, as the mercenary had chosen to leave immediately after Revan had accurately identified her species. Tira was surprised that the one she had asked for help knew about the Chiss race, and, judging by his manner, not just by reputation.
The Chiss Ascendancy had clashed with the Republic multiple times, and contact was not always peaceful. However, after the end of the war between the Old Republic and the Sith Empire, of which the Chiss were official allies roughly four thousand years ago, contact between the "blue-skinned schemers" and the "breeding ground for bureaucracy," as the two galactic powers liked to refer to each other, was minimized.
The Chiss were well aware of the Republic, while the Republic had seemingly chosen to forget the Chiss existed. Information about the species, of course, remained in the archives of Coruscant and the Jedi Temple, but who reads them? There were no diplomatic relations between the Senate and the Ascendancy's government, save for a few minor trading contracts with Outer Rim worlds. This arrangement suited both sides. The galaxy was vast.
"Where is Vaner?" the Mandalorian asked from the doorway, having decided to continue yesterday's conversation to clear up any lingering questions.
"Condescending: The Master is busy," HK replied without turning his head.
"I didn't ask about his daily schedule. Where is he?" Tira irritably pressed.
The astromech answered the question, chirping something incomprehensible.
"I don't speak Binary!"
R2 let out a long, frustrated beep and displayed the translation on one of the monitors.
"The Captain of the ship is in the second cargo bay," the text read.
The Mandalorian left the room without a goodbye.
"Snide warning: I do not recommend abruptly opening the door and entering," the assassin droid informed the ceiling, not making a great effort to warn the mercenary.
Meanwhile, in the cargo bay, the young Skywalker, huddled in a corner and shielded by a deflector shield, watched the duel between the two Force adepts with fascination.
Maul and Revan moved at incredible speed, their figures a blur to the eye. Their silhouettes streaked across the space, accompanied by the trails of their lightsabers and the flashes of their collisions. The Zabrak maximized his youth and strength, constantly accelerating the tempo and attacking his opponent. His crimson lightsaber staff spun incessantly, aiming to strike. The more experienced Revan used only one of his sabers, moving economically and deftly evading direct attacks, while delivering extremely precise counterblows. The silver blade merely grazed the red one, yet the effect was impressive.
Maul, who had hoped to impress his new instructor, could not establish a rhythm, constantly running into Revan's parries. His mentor seemed to know every sequence the young Zabrak had learned and predicted his next move. Very quickly, Maul realized that this was indeed the case. His instructor knocked the staff aside, then, with a sharp knee strike, interrupted a nascent kick attack, and finished it all with a swift backhand blow to the face with the saber's emitter. The young dark side adept lost his balance and missed the moment when Revan's single movement swept him off his feet. The silver blade stopped with a menacing hum an inch from the Zabrak's throat.
"Good," the former Jedi praised, deactivating his blade and offering Maul his hand.
The Zabrak accepted the help and, rising, bowed respectfully to his instructor.
"Thank you, Master. However, I failed you."
"Nothing of the sort," Revan countered. "Your lightsaber form is at a decent level, as is your physical conditioning. But you lack flexibility."
"Flexibility?" Maul echoed.
"Yes," his instructor nodded. "Not in terms of agility, but in terms of flexibility of mind and adaptation to combat conditions. You trained with droids, didn't you?"
"Yes, Master."
"I thought so. It's noticeable in the way you move. Though it was useful in that little scuffle on Coruscant," the former Sith chuckled.
Maul allowed a flicker of surprise to cross his face upon hearing the assessment of that tough battle against several dozen droids in a derelict cantina, but quickly composed himself.
"Forgive me, Master, but what is wrong with my movements?" the Zabrak asked with a slight note of irritation in his voice.
The brief emotional flare, as well as the suppressed anger, did not escape Revan's notice. The horned warrior had decent qualities for a Sith, and his ability to control his rage and emotions in general was particularly gratifying.
"Watch closely." Revan activated his blade and took the basic stance of Form I. "Let's take the simplest overhead vertical strike."
The silver blade sliced the air and stopped just short of the floor.
"This is a movement practiced by all beginner duelists. Hundreds of thousands of times, building muscle memory and automatizing the technique. But even a Form I Master cannot execute this movement identically even a dozen times. Unlike a droid. It will execute the attack perfectly, strictly vertical, referencing its gyroscope and targeting systems. It will follow a programmed algorithm and will always strike the same way. Even if its memory contains a sequence of strikes. Time after time, it will be perfectly accurate."
"What are you getting at, Master?" Maul frowned.
"A living opponent fatigues, panics, gets angry, experiences the full spectrum of emotions and feelings, and is incapable of striking identically. Your movements are very dry, precise, rigid. They are designed to parry a specific strike at a specific point, and then counterattack. And that is generally correct. The only difference is that you are unprepared for the strike to be executed with an error. If the blade deviates slightly, the block becomes uncertain, and your entire sequence crumbles."
"So, that's why it was so difficult for me to parry your attacks?"
"Correct," Revan nodded. "I deliberately made mistakes, struck slightly harder, softer, or with a broken trajectory. You managed to react, but your body's reflexes tried to respond to the strike in the usual way. The result is a delay. And in combat, even a millisecond is enough to lose your life."
Maul was silent, pondering his master's words. Part of him was indignant, taking the criticism personally. He had already killed Jedi! And they were all pathetic weaklings, trapped within self-imposed boundaries. Morality, duty, service! Cowardly dogs. Weak! None of his opponents had survived... Except for his Master... and those other two.
However, another part of the Zabrak eagerly absorbed his instructor's wisdom. Maul knew he was facing a much more experienced opponent, despite his youthful appearance. And not just anyone, but Darth Revan himself! The Sith legend, returned from oblivion and embodied!
"How many living opponents have you faced? Not counting myself and Qui-Gon and his Padawan," Revan interrupted the Zabrak's thoughts.
"Enough," the Dark Side adept vaguely replied.
"No, not enough," the former Sith stated in a severe, instructive tone. "Trust me. Experience is not acquired in a day, or even a year. Training never ends. Only the instructors change. Eventually, sooner or later, you become the instructor."
"I think... I understand, Master," Maul said uncertainly.
"If you think you understand, then you don't," Revan shook his head. "But that's not a problem. From now on, I will be your instructor until your answer satisfies me."
"But what about..." The Zabrak glanced towards Skywalker.
Revan followed his gaze and smirked.
"I see. There's the second reason for your inattention."
Maul momentarily allowed an intimidating grimace to cross his face, which his instructor perceived as childishness. To one who had seen a terentatek's maw a hand's breadth from his face, even the most horrifying scowl would seem like a sweet smile.
"You were trying to impress me, but instead, you were constantly distracted by Anakin."
"The Rule of Two..."
"Complete nonsense," Revan interrupted his apprentice.
"But it is based on your holocron..."
The ancient one nearly groaned in exasperation and, letting out a heavy sigh, removed his Mandalorian mask. How tired he was of how time distorted certain events and actions, not to mention words taken out of context.
"It merely means that some fool who found the holocron failed to grasp the meaning of my message. And this entire misunderstanding has led to the Sith in the galaxy now being countable on one hand!"
The ancient Sith's eyes flashed gold. The sudden anger that gripped him subsided only a moment later. However, Maul had felt his Master's outburst, if only for a fraction of a second, and was stunned by the degree of control.
"Remember," Revan's voice still held a growling edge, even though his eyes had returned to their normal color, "it does not matter how many apprentices I have. I will train each one."
"Yes, Master," the Zabrak bowed before his instructor.
The former Jedi slowly exhaled, driving away the remnants of his anger, and returned the mask to its place, anticipating the imminent conversation.
"Your third mistake is that you are not using the Dark Side as the Sith did."
"What?" Maul was surprised.
"You have only two states. Either you suppress your anger, distracting yourself with control. Or you fall into a rage that blinds your mind."
"I do not..."
"Don't even try to deny it." Revan didn't let his apprentice finish. "You may think you're in control, but you are not."
"I am trained in control!" Maul snarled.
"Then prove it!" the former Jedi roared.
The Zabrak lunged forward, activating the blades of his staff. His eyes glowed gold, and his face twisted into an animalistic snarl. The strike was powerful. Maul poured all his anger and hatred into it. But it was all for naught. Revan was no longer at the point of attack. The ancient Force adept slipped past his attacker, on the move jabbing the deactivated saber's emitter into his ribs. Had this been a real fight, it would have been over.
But Maul refused to yield. He spun and attacked again. A lunge, a miss. A swing, a block and a sweep. A roll, a strike, another miss and a powerful blow to the chest from his elusive instructor. Get up, focus, attack! Turn anger into strength! Kill! The crimson staff became a pair of blurred, broken lines, between which slid a black shadow in a Mandalorian mask.
It took Revan less than a minute to subdue his apprentice. The staff, after another failed lunge, found its way into his instructor's hands, leaving the Zabrak unarmed. The latter now knelt, breathing heavily, his neck caught in the cross-hairs of the crimson and silver blades.
"In that minute, you could have died fourteen times," Revan commented calmly. "Do you need more proof?"
"But my rage has always been my ally," Maul quietly replied, himself disappointed in his abilities.
"That merely suggests that the training level of your opponents was even lower."
The Zabrak remained silent, head bowed.
The blades deactivated with a hiss.
"You have potential. And I will help you unlock it."
"Master?" Maul asked with hope, unaccustomed to such treatment from an instructor.
"Yes, I will help you," the former Jedi repeated.
The staff was returned to its owner's hands. Revan, meanwhile, pondered the results of the brief examination of his new apprentice. Maul was talented in lightsaber combat. He was quite familiar with the Seventh Form, adapted for the staff. His skills in masking his presence were also impressive. But everything else...
The Zabrak clearly had not been taught specific Force techniques, limited to basic telekinetics and the enhancement of his own body using the Dark Side. And that was poor. Maul was clearly a close-range fighter, focused on his saber skills. Force attacks from a distance were secondary to him. The main problem might be that Maul was already too old, and his mind was not as pliable for him to be retrained in the use of the Force. Moreover, the brutal training methods characteristic of the Sith inevitably deform the psyche.
Nevertheless, something could be done. Training him in Light Side techniques was pointless; he was too used to fueling himself with anger and hatred. Battle precognition would also be difficult, as with such weak control over his emotions, the Zabrak would simply be unable to perceive the future. It is not for nothing that they say anger blinds.
However, everything could be corrected in the long run. To begin with, Maul would need to learn an ancient complex of meditations and exercises to strengthen his own mind. His ability to fuel himself with rage was impressive, but it lacked control. Meditation would help achieve this. He would certainly not become a Dark Side Master, but he could potentially grow to the level of a good "Inquisitor."
"Let's draw a small conclusion," Revan said, breaking the prolonged silence. "You need to learn to control your anger much better. I will teach you the necessary techniques."
"Thank you, Master."
"Furthermore, we will work on your lightsaber style," the instructor added, and, seeing the confusion on his apprentice's face, explained: "The richness of Form VII techniques is determined by the knowledge gained from the remaining six forms. Believe me, when Juyo relies on its 'younger sisters,' it is a completely different level of swordsmanship."
"I have noticed..." Maul grumbled, bowing his head in deference.
"Then, immediately, the first lesson. Your stance."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Don't misunderstand me, the frontal stance, with the staff extended forward, looks... intimidating. However, it loses effectiveness to other options. For instance, the basic side stance."
"But doesn't the side stance limit maneuverability?"
"That is a misconception," Revan shook his head. "Yes, the attack sector shifts slightly, exposing a flank, but the speed of reaction from such a position is significantly higher."
"How?"
"Very simple. In a frontal stance, when the saber is extended in one hand, no matter how strong your muscles are, you will not be able to block a powerful strike. And, you must admit, dealing with the resistance from the gyroscopic effect of two blades with one hand is not easy. And if your opponent is someone like a Jedi Defender, capable of closing to attack range in the blink of an eye, you will have problems. A successful block requires taking the staff with both hands. And that takes nearly a second of time." Revan, coupling his blades into a staff, demonstrated the first stance and then the side stance.
"In the second case, you hold the emitter with both hands and are capable of directing the blades of the lightsaber staff in any direction with a rotational movement. Or, executing an unexpected thrust from behind your back by only slightly turning your body. You instinctively transition to this stance anyway."
The Zabrak nodded thoughtfully.
"Your speed will be exponentially higher, and a sure grip will provide the necessary strength for your blocks. Don't forget that a staff is not a saber. The strikes will be wide, arcing. Yes, it has two blades, but they are fixed on a single line, and direct attacks are only possible if you are standing sideways. No other way."
"I think... No, I understand," Maul corrected himself in time, noticing his Master slightly tilting his head at his first word. "I hardly ever think about defense, and so I never noticed the flaw in my basic stance before."
"You cannot win a fight with a single attack. Every swing opens an opportunity for your opponent to kill you. Move, keep your head, stay focused. The staff can become your impenetrable shield, giving you time to plan your attack."
"I understand, Master."
"Good. Then for the rest of the day, you will practice Makashi. Subsequently, you will have to try to adapt it to your fighting style. And starting tomorrow morning, you will work on physical conditioning with Anakin. But remember, the boy's safety is your responsibility."
"I... I understand, Master."
"Then, you are dismissed. The third cargo bay is yours."
"Yes, Master." Maul bowed courteously and headed for the exit.
He collided with the Mandalorian in the doorway, nearly running into her. Both reacted simultaneously, dodging each other. Revan noted out of the corner of his eye the grace with which Tira avoided the collision. In full Mandalorian armor, she managed to move with surprising fluidity. The former Jedi had always respected the Mandalorians. They were his first serious adversaries, and in part, he had gleaned the knowledge from them that helped him become one of the most successful Jedi Generals in the Order's history.
"Vaner, we need to talk," Tira demanded, coming up to him.
At the same time, Skywalker, having deactivated the deflector shield protecting him from accidental injury, ran up from the other side.
"I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait," Revan replied to the mercenary, removing the Mandalorian mask from his face. "We have our first training session scheduled with Anakin now."
"This is important," the young woman insisted.
"As is the lesson."
"As if you haven't already given the lesson?" the woman challenged, crossing her arms. "You didn't arrange that sparring match with the horned one in front of the boy for no reason, did you? You wanted to show him what he should strive for?"
"The lesson was for Maul," Revan replied dryly.
From the former Jedi's gaze, it was clear that arguing now was pointless. So the Nomad was forced to back down.
"Fine, I'll wait here."
"I don't object."
"I'm ready," Skywalker promptly announced, trembling with impatience.
Revan smiled. He knew that anticipation for knowledge well.
"So, Anakin, starting today, we will begin your training..."
"Hooray!"
"Don't be so quick to celebrate," Revan checked his student. His instructor's gaze grew stricter, underscoring the seriousness of his words. "The age of an apprentice is usually much younger. Because a massive amount of knowledge and skills must be absorbed to become a fully capable Force user. But there are special cases. Yours is one of them."
Tira scoffed, involuntarily recalling her own instructor's speech when she had first joined the Nomad clan. Revan didn't notice, or pretended not to.
"You will have to learn meditation and Force powers, skills in handling various types of weapons, and not just the lightsaber. Believe me, sometimes you have to use a blaster, too."
"But why do I need to know about weapons? There's no war right now..." Anakin wondered.
Revan shook his head... which was done in uncanny synchronization with the Mandalorian, who mirrored the gesture.
"Anakin, the galaxy is vast, and conflicts occur in it every day. I think the incident with Naboo should have been an excellent example for you, shouldn't it?"
"I... guess," the boy scratched the back of his head, still not fully grasping the meaning of the words.
"There will always be someone who craves conflict. No matter what their ultimate goal is, if they choose combat as the means, it's better to be ready for it."
"A blaster can lie in its holster for a hundred years, but if it saves a life even once, you didn't carry it for nothing," Tira suddenly added.
Revan nodded approvingly, although he looked surprised.
"My instructor, Sevras Nomad, loved to repeat that phrase whenever I started... protesting," the mercenary explained.
"And he is absolutely right," the former Sith continued. "Take the Jedi, for example. They always called themselves the protectors of the Republic and guardians of peace, yet they were considered some of the most dangerous fighters. Why do you think that is?"
The boy thought for a moment.
"Maybe because to protect the Republic, they had to fight often?" he hypothesized.
"That too," Revan agreed. "But the main reason is that one who walks the path of conflict does not immediately heed words and diplomacy. Most such individuals initially prefer violent methods of resolution. And to get such... individuals to listen, they first need to be prepared."
"You can achieve far more with a kind word and a blaster than with just a kind word," the Mandalorian added with a smirk.
"Subtly observed," Revan smiled.
Even through the opaque visor of her helmet, the Force adept could feel the woman's surprised gaze upon him.
"You're some kind of wrong Jedi," she noted.
"Because I am not a Jedi."
Skywalker stood, not understanding what they were talking about.
"Sorry, Anakin, we got distracted," the former Sith turned back to the boy. "As you see, you need to be ready for anything. And that means you'll have to study hard."
"I understand," the child was once again filled with enthusiasm.
Revan smirked, remembering how a certain blue-skinned Twi'lek used to bounce just as impatiently aboard the Ebon Hawk.
Driving away the sudden surge of nostalgia, the former Jedi called his loyal droid on the intercom. Anakin didn't know why, but he regarded the proceedings with a fair amount of apprehension. During their last conversation, HK had threatened the "small, annoying meatbag" with a guided tour of the Sarlacc's stomach.
"Vaner... why do you need..." the boy began, but Revan preempted the question.
"You won't find a better weapons expert."
"Ahem!" the mercenary drew attention to herself.
"Bless you," the former Sith wished good-naturedly, ignoring the obvious attempt to object.
"Joyful address: Do you have a target for me, Master?" the droid inquired briskly as he entered the cargo bay. "Anticipating: To kill someone? To intimidate? To drive them insane? To carve a message onto the hide of another meatbag? Or perhaps to make them beg for a quick death by gradually grinding their fragile bones into dust?"
Even the Mandalorian took a half-step back from the droid upon hearing this.
"Well, you've been stagnant, friend," Revan remarked, entirely unfazed, being accustomed to his droid's behavior.
"Tired and dramatic: Oh, yes, Master. My circuits yearn for the action I was deprived of during a millennium of imprisonment in a dirty, dark cave."
"Less theatricality," the former Sith chastised the droid.
"Ready: Of course, Master," HK instantly changed his tone. "Command request: What is required of me, Master? HK-47 is ready for service, Master!"
For a few moments, Revan hesitated whether to assign this task to the droid... However, deciding that such an experience would only benefit Anakin, he spoke, addressing the best assassin in the galaxy.
"HK, your task will be to teach Anakin the basics of handling the most common types of weaponry in the galaxy."
The droid froze motionless. It seemed as though even its power core had stopped emitting any sound. Then, with a quiet whir of its servomotors, it slowly tilted its head to the side.
"Confirmation request: Confirm the order, Master?" HK asked in an almost pleading tone.
"You will teach Anakin how to handle weapons," Revan repeated.
The droid's head twitched, its eyes flashed crimson several times, and a few sparks crackled from beneath its chest plate.
"Did he just short-circuit?" Tira stepped back another pace.
"No," Revan shook his head.
He knew perfectly well what was happening with his droid. HK was struggling. The emotion and personality matrix was conflicting with the logic module. The voltage in the circuits and conduits was uncontrollably "jumping," causing short circuits and motor twitches.
Yes, giving this order, Revan had roughly anticipated the assassin's reaction, but he had hoped the droid would be able to compose himself.
And it did.
A few minutes later, HK, slightly smoking in a few places, once again showed signs of adequate behavior.
"Irritated query: Specify the limits of my authority," the droid said gloomily, not even trying to conceal its attitude toward the order.
Revan pondered the wording for a minute to give Forty-Seven a certain freedom of action without destroying his apprentice.
"The boy must remain alive and capable of continuing his training," he finally delivered.
The droid's eyes lit up, and he seemed to straighten his posture. If his faceplate could convey emotions, Revan would bet a downright diabolical smirk would be spreading across it.
Anakin, too, apparently sensed something, as his knees began to tremble betrayingly. He had fearlessly participated in podraces with ruthless competitors. He had not hesitated to engage in combat in a Naboo starfighter. But the thought of training with HK... was terrifying... He was alone with a droid... an armed assassin droid... an armed assassin droid who disliked him.
"Mommy," a pitiful moan from the boy's survival instinct echoed in his mind. "And why did I have to go heroing then, disobeying HK..."
HK-47 himself was experiencing something he would describe as a joyful anticipation of the imminent liquidation of an annoying little meatbag. His personality matrix and logic module had finally reached an agreement. The Master hadn't forbidden using this "little bag" as a target, had he? No. And how else could the effect of a stun blaster be explained more clearly? It wasn't enough just to explain; its effect needed to be demonstrated on a living target. Otherwise, what kind of training was it?
"The object must remain alive and capable of continuing its training," the logic module reminded him.
"Oooooh, he will live! Poorly, painfully, in never-ending suffering... but he will live," the personality matrix brushed off.
"HK," Revan called, noticing the droid sinking deeper into thought.
"Ready: Yes, Master?"
"No dismemberment."
"Disappointed: Not even a slight one? For educational purposes, Master?"
"Only for educational purposes," Revan agreed.
Skywalker seemed to hear the droid's frightening, villainous laughter in his head. Shivers—or a herd of icy Rancors—ran down his spine.
"Anakin," the man addressed the boy. "Study hard and diligently."
"I... I-I understand," the boy replied, stammering.
"Now HK will conduct an introductory session for you." These words made Skywalker's eyes widen in terror, but Revan continued, paying no attention. "And tonight, we will focus on meditation. As for tomorrow, you remember, you have a morning session with Maul for physical conditioning."
"Can I go back to the Temple?" the boy asked hopefully.
Revan put on a predatory smile and looked at Anakin with eyes burning gold.
"The choice has already been made." The ancient Force adept's voice seemed to echo somewhere near the boy's chest. "You are my apprentice now! This is your path!"
Skywalker barely suppressed a frightened squeak and managed to compose himself.
"Yes, Master!" the boy replied, sounding much firmer than he felt.
"HK, the apprentice is yours." Revan clapped the droid on its metallic shoulder as he walked past. "Tira, you wanted to talk."
"Yes," the mercenary nodded and followed the man out of the bay.
The conversation this time took place in the cabin that had been allocated to the representative of Clan Nomad.
Ensuring the door was locked, the young woman removed her helmet. There was no point in concealing her face from Revan anymore.
"So, what did you want to talk about?" the former Jedi asked, already guessing the topic.
Last time, they hadn't been able to discuss anything. The young woman had left Revan's cabin too quickly.
"About my origins." The gaze of her crimson eyes was fixed on the ancient Force adept. "You agreed to help my clan. Nomads have always honored honesty between allies. And I was taught that in matters of special importance, there should be no secrets. Uncovered truths at the wrong moment can shatter an alliance and lead all its participants to ruin. And what could be more important than the task of saving the clan?"
The young woman was clearly trying to convince herself of the necessity of revealing her history to an outsider rather than explaining to Revan the motives that led to this conversation. The former Jedi did not rush her. He understood perfectly how difficult it could be to reveal something from one's past that should have been kept secret. He also understood that secrets could indeed kill if they were revealed against your will.
When the crew of the Ebon Hawk learned that their friend, commander, and comrade had been the terrible Dark Lord of the Sith, Darth Revan, all along, their team nearly dissolved. It took a miracle to keep them together. And Carth's deserved trust was never fully restored.
"Alright," the young woman took a deep breath, suppressing a tremor in her voice. It was obvious that speaking was hard for her. "Let's start with what you already figured out. I am a Chiss."
Revan nodded.
"I was born on the planet Coperos... Though, perhaps I'm starting in the wrong place," Tira massaged her temples slightly. "Are you familiar with the governmental structure of the Chiss Ascendancy?"
"In general terms," the man shrugged. "Everything is based on the Ruling Families, isn't it? An aristocracy?"
"A'ristocra," the young woman corrected. "Not entirely accurate, but yes. We have a ruling elite, but there is also a Senate and a Parliament. I won't go into details, though."
Revan encouraged the young woman with a nod.
"The point is, I was born into the Mith family—one of the Ruling Families. However, I didn't receive a birth name."
"Why?" Revan was surprised.
"My mother was exiled from the family immediately after my birth," the young woman replied, wincing as if in pain.
The former Jedi didn't have time to ask his next question.
"I am not a pure-blood Chiss," Tira continued. "My father was a mercenary from Republic space, who, due to circumstances, found himself in Ascendancy territory. I don't know much about his identity. My mother never even named his species. I tried repeatedly to find out, but all genetic tests proved almost useless. My father was from a near-human race, and there are quite a few of those. Based on indirect signs, such as the altered pigment of my hair and irises, I concluded that he was of the Echani people."
Revan's eyebrows shot up. He was well familiar with this people. At one time, he had even had to duel their leader. The fight ended tragically for his opponent, but the former Sith had genuinely enjoyed it. There were few fighters in the galaxy with the same level of close-combat training as the Echani.
There was reason in Tira's words. The Echani were characterized by light skin and hair, as well as silvery irises. The mixing of their genes with the Chiss genome could have resulted in Tira having crimson hair and eyes that acquired a golden hue.
"My appearance stood out immediately. Such an origin was unacceptable for a representative of the Mith family," the young woman continued. "However, they couldn't simply expel a representative of even a collateral branch, which my mother was. It would have cast a shadow on the family. Ultimately, a sham marriage was arranged with the youngest son of the Anude family, who was not yet five years old. Mother entered another family, and I received the name Tir'Anude."
Revan shook his head. He had never liked caste systems in society. Origin should not determine fate—only actions.
"Life wasn't easy for us. Everyone understood my mother's situation. An outcast, even if unofficially. A place in Parliament was out of the question. The road to the Senate was also closed. However, she was a good analyst. And she found her place in the Tactical Planning Corps of the Ascendancy's Expansionary Defense Force."
"Talent always finds a way," Revan nodded.
"Perhaps," the Nomad shrugged. "But in the Ascendancy, it's more complicated. In any case, we moved to Naporar, where the fleet headquarters was located. My appearance no longer drew so much attention after I started dyeing my hair, and people stopped harassing me. My mother achieved some success and did everything to ensure my future in the Ascendancy. At six, I entered the Military Academy, and the instructors repeatedly noted my abilities: outstanding analytical skills, excellent physical conditioning, and leadership qualities. I was predicted to earn commander chevrons in the senior years, even though I had only studied for two. My mother even managed to arrange for someone as 'talented' as me to be adopted into the Aru family, who were distantly related to one of the Ruling Families—the Nuruodo. Yes, the connection was remote, through five generations. However, it could have served as a good springboard for my impending career. But... it didn't work out."
"What happened?" Revan asked with interest.
"A mandatory medical examination before the start of open space training at the beginning of the third year of study. It included a genetic test for predisposition to nervous system disorders and other factors that could affect adaptation to zero-gravity conditions. Do you guess what they found?"
"That you weren't Chiss?"
"Exactly," the young woman offered a sad smile. "My whole life was suddenly flushed down the drain. I was quickly discarded and presented for expulsion. Counter-intelligence suddenly took an interest in my mother. A scandal nearly erupted, but the family intervened. The very one, one of the Ruling Families. They simply threw us out of the Ascendancy..."
"Just like that?"
"Of course not! Officially, my mother was transferred to an intelligence expedition heading into the Unknown Regions. But in reality, she was given a small shuttle with a third of a baca [a small unit of currency] and a month's army ration. And after that... one standard day to clear out of Ascendancy space before the ship's transponder was handed over to the patrol fleet with a shoot-to-kill order."
"And how did you end up on Dxun?"
"That's what I still don't understand..."
"What do you mean?" Revan was surprised.
"Literally," the young woman shrugged. "We were flying in the opposite direction from the Republic, as we couldn't cross the distance to the Ascendancy border closer to the Republic in one day. But our hyperdrive suddenly malfunctioned and triggered a jump to random coordinates. By all laws of hyperspace navigation, we had a one-in-a-million chance of the transition being successful. We were lucky. We survived. Only the drive was simply ripped apart, leading to our emergency landing on the nearest planetoid. That turned out to be Dxun. How we covered a distance in one day with a Class 2 hyperdrive that you couldn't even cover with a Class 0.5 remains a mystery."
The Force, Revan thought. Its influence, everywhere and always.
The former Jedi distinctly sensed a wave of melancholy emanating from the young woman. And he quickly guessed the reason.
"Your mother died?" he asked directly.
"Not right away," Tira quietly replied.
"My condolences."
"Thank you."
The young woman's eyes glistened with moisture, and she quickly turned away, wiping her tears.
"Hutt, I thought I had dealt with all that a long time ago," she whispered angrily, quickly regaining her composure. "Sorry, that's the first time that's happened to me."
Revan smiled sympathetically. However, a sudden suspicion pricked him—that this was all an act. Very high-quality acting. The sadness was genuine... But the tears...
"Mother died a week later... Predators..." Tira reported, her voice almost regaining its former steadiness. "And a week after that, the Nomads found me. They nearly shot me... But I took a liking to the squad leader. They took me with them, and that's how I began living with the mercenary squad from Clan Nomad, who were also looking for artifacts of ancient Mandalore. And a year later, I was offered to become one of them. That's my story."
Silence descended, which neither of the interlocutors sought to break. Revan was the first to speak.
"Thank you for sharing your story with me. I appreciate it." He indicated a polite bow with a nod of his head.
"Candor for candor," Tira responded. "You're some kind of wrong Jedi. And you say you're not a Jedi at all. I don't understand much about all your magical and religious stuff, but there's clearly something off about you."
The former Sith smirked.
"You have no idea how much."
"Tell me!" the young woman demanded.
"Well, then... Let's start with the fact that my name is not Vaner."
"I already figured that out. Few mercenaries use their real names."
"My real name is Revan."
The young woman frowned, as if remembering something, and then her eyes widened, displaying shock on her blue-skinned face.
"And I am a little over four thousand years old..."
The mercenary's jaw slowly began to drop.
"Although formally I was dead and have returned to life, I remain the one who was once called Darth Revan," the man continued. "I am the one who fought the Mandalorian Neo-Crusaders on the side of the Republic. The one they called The Butcher. The one who defeated Mandalore the Ultimate and took his mask. And the one who later gave it to Canderous Ordo—Mandalore the Preserver. The savior of the Republic and its conqueror. And my history will take more than one day to tell."
The young woman whispered something profane in Mandalorian, her eyes locked on the ancient Force adept.
"And here I was worried about my secret..."
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