The nearer Kael drew to the primary hangar, the more the Temple's urgency condensed into something heavier — less rumor, more gravity.
The corridor opened at last into a vast circular threshold, and beyond it the hangar stretched outward like the interior of some colossal engine. The ceiling arched so high that the upper struts vanished into shadow, ribbed with durasteel supports and latticed conduits humming faintly with power. Rows of Jedi starfighters lined the polished deck in disciplined formation — Delta-7s gleaming beneath overhead lights, their slender profiles angled like resting birds of prey. Maintenance droids rolled between them, mechanical limbs whirring softly as they performed last-minute calibrations no one had ordered.
The massive blast doors at the far end of the hangar were sealed shut, their segmented plates locked tight against the sky beyond. No traffic moved in or out. No light filtered through their seams.
The air felt contained.
Nearly two hundred Jedi filled the space.
Robes of every shade — brown, tan, cream — gathered in quiet clusters across the expanse of the floor. Masters stood with hands folded within sleeves, their expressions guarded. Knights murmured in low voices, their earlier corridor whispers now subdued beneath the immensity of the setting. Even those who had rushed here first seemed to have slowed upon entering, as if the scale of the moment demanded restraint.
Temple Guards stood posted at each entrance point, halberds upright, armor reflecting the hangar's overhead glow. A small knot of Padawans had attempted to follow their Masters inside; Kael caught the tail end of the exchange as he stepped through the threshold.
"You are to remain outside," one Guard stated firmly, voice amplified but not raised.
"But Master—" a young voice protested, cut short by a gentle but resolute hand upon their shoulder.
"No Padawans," another Guard repeated.
There was disappointment in the air — confusion — but no defiance. The younger students were ushered back into the corridor, doors sealing behind them with a low mechanical hiss.
Kael observed it without comment.
There was no need.
He moved farther inward, his boots echoing faintly across the deck plating as he took his place toward the rear of the assembled Order. His height allowed him an unobstructed view over most shoulders, though he made no effort to push forward. He preferred distance. Perspective.
At the front of the hangar stood the Council.
They were not elevated.
They did not sit.
They stood together in a deliberate line before the sealed blast doors.
Master Windu at the center, posture immovable, hands clasped before him. His presence alone seemed to anchor the room, drawing every wandering thought back into focus. To his side, Master Yoda leaned lightly upon his gimer stick, eyes half-lidded yet impossibly aware. Plo Koon stood calm and unreadable, mask reflecting the ambient light in muted gold. Ki-Adi-Mundi's elongated silhouette cut a sharp outline against the hangar's backdrop. Even Piell's compact frame radiated a tension that belied his size. Saesee Tiin and Shaak Ti flanked the formation, silent, resolute.
Every available member is present.
That, more than anything, quieted the remaining whispers.
Kael felt the subtle shift ripple through the crowd — recognition that this was not routine, not procedural. The full Council did not assemble the entire Order lightly. They did not seal blast doors for trivialities.
He adjusted his stance slightly, robes settling against his frame. The Darksaber's angular hilt rested steady at his hip, a foreign geometry among curved metal and ceremonial cloth. A few Jedi near him cast brief, measured glances toward it before returning their attention forward.
He folded his hands loosely behind his back, shoulders squared but relaxed.
From this vantage, the hangar seemed both cavernous and confined. The starfighters, pristine and prepared, suddenly appeared less like instruments of exploration and more like tools awaiting instruction. The maintenance droids had stilled, their programming suspended as if even machinery understood that something larger was unfolding.
No engines ignited.
No orders barked.
Only silence.
Above, high along the upper gantries, Temple Guards repositioned discreetly. Their presence was subtle but unmistakable — this was containment, not assembly.
Kael's gaze flicked briefly toward the blast doors.
Beyond them lay the open sky.
Beyond that, Coruscant.
Beyond that, the galaxy.
He sensed it then — not fear, not danger exactly — but a tightening in the Force, like the atmosphere before a storm breaks. Something inevitable had already begun moving, and they were merely gathering to acknowledge it.
He did not search the crowd for Anakin.
He did not shift restlessly as others did.
He stood still.
Waiting.
And across the vast expanse of the hangar, Mace Windu's eyes lifted slightly — not scanning the crowd, but measuring it.
Two hundred Jedi.
All present.
The Temple held its breath.
For several long seconds, no one spoke.
The weight of two hundred gathered Jedi pressed against the sealed blast doors, against the starfighters waiting in disciplined silence, against the high vault of the hangar ceiling itself. Even the distant hum of machinery seemed to recede, as though the Temple understood that what was about to be said would mark a dividing line in its own history.
Mace Windu stepped forward.
He did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
When he spoke, the sound carried effortlessly across the immense chamber, deep and controlled, each word placed with deliberate precision.
"Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi has been captured."
There was no sharp intake of breath, no outcry — but something in the Force shifted palpably at the name. Obi-Wan was not merely another Knight. He was steady. Respected. A pillar among them.
Windu continued without pause.
"He was taken into custody by the Separatist droid army on the planet Geonosis."
The word hung in the air like a flare igniting in darkness.
Geonosis.
Even before this moment, it had become synonymous with unrest — factory worlds, hidden alliances, murmurs of military build-up that the Senate had debated in increasingly frantic sessions. Now it had a name attached to it. A Jedi.
Windu's gaze swept across the assembly, not searching for reaction, but ensuring comprehension.
"Further intelligence confirms that Padawan Anakin Skywalker and Senator Padmé Amidala are also being held on Geonosis."
A ripple, barely perceptible, passed through the gathered ranks. Skywalker's name carried its own gravity. Amidala's presence added a complication that transcended simple military rescue.
Windu allowed the silence to follow, giving the information space to settle.
"The Separatist movement has consolidated its forces. Their droid foundries are active. Their leadership is present on Geonosis. We have reason to believe this gathering represents a formal declaration of open conflict against the Republic."
The word conflict was measured. Not shouted. Not dramatized.
Measured.
"The Jedi Council," he continued, "has been granted authorization by Supreme Chancellor Palpatine to intervene."
There was no emphasis on the title, but its inclusion was unmistakable. Emergency powers had been granted to the Chancellor only days prior, a move debated fiercely within the Senate. Now those powers bore consequence.
"Under this authority," Windu said, voice steady as stone, "I have been instructed to lead an immediate strike force to Geonosis."
He stepped slightly to one side, enough that the scale of the assembled Jedi behind him became more apparent. Every available member of the Council stood present — Yoda unmoving but intensely aware; Plo Koon's masked visage reflecting the hangar lights; Ki-Adi-Mundi's elongated silhouette rigid with focus; Shaak Ti's lekku draped gracefully but still; Even Piell's compact form radiating coiled readiness; Saesee Tiin's gaze sharp and forward.
This was not routine deliberation.
This was commitment.
"Our objective," Windu continued, "is the extraction of Master Kenobi, Padawan Skywalker, and Senator Amidala."
His eyes hardened almost imperceptibly.
"If necessary, we will engage Separatist forces."
There it was.
The shift.
Not mediation.
Not negotiation.
Engagement.
"The Republic stands at the brink of war," Windu said, and though his tone remained even, the words carried a resonance that filled the hangar's vaulted height. "The Jedi Order has long served as guardians of peace. Today, that duty demands action."
The phrase did not sound triumphant.
It sounded inevitable.
"Strike teams will deploy immediately. Starfighters are prepared. Additional support is en route."
He did not elaborate on that support — not yet — but the implication lingered like distant thunder.
"You will maintain formation upon arrival. You will prioritize extraction. Discipline will be absolute."
His gaze moved across the sea of faces once more — Masters who had trained him, Knights he had elevated, younger Jedi who had never seen true battlefield engagement. There was no hesitation in him. No uncertainty.
"We do not seek war," Windu said quietly. "But we will not abandon our own."
The final words settled with unmistakable weight.
"We depart at once."
Silence followed.
Not confusion.
Not panic.
Resolve.
Across the hangar, Jedi began to move — not chaotically, but with sharpened purpose. Robes shifted into motion. Hands adjusted sabers at belts. Maintenance droids reactivated with sudden efficiency, guiding pilots toward assigned craft. The sealed blast doors remained closed for now, but the stillness that had held the chamber moments before had transformed into something else entirely.
A threshold had been crossed.
War had not yet been declared.
But it had been accepted.