Sublight Drive (Star Wars)

Empress Teta Orbit, Empress Teta System

Koros Sector

“And you are absolutely certain the distress signal originated from Coruscant!?” Commodore Vinoc demanded in furious pace as he marched through the passageways of the Koros Spaceworks.

“Affirmative,” the BD-3000 attendant droid replied, hijacked by Lady Lex’s programming, her stiff servomotors struggling to keep pace with his haste, “My sister and I have already calculated the shortest flight plan possible. At best speed, we can reach Coruscant in eighteen hours.”

Vinoc clenched his jaw. Eighteen hours? A pipe dream! The full might of Honor Salima’s Home Fleet stood vigil over Coruscant, with all of the most advanced Star Destroyers the Republic Navy had at its disposal. In comparison, Vinoc’s 284th Battle Division barely numbered seventy-four old and tired warships, with no more than twenty-two capital ships among their number. With some clever hyperspace plotting, they could surely bypass all of the picket lines between them and Coruscant, but they could never hope to touch the Jewel of the Core Worlds.

His pace slowed as he turned left, gaze drawn toward the vast viewports lining the passageway. Beyond them, the warships of the ‘4th Battle Division lay moored in the void, a flotilla of battered war machines silhouetted against the glittering shimmer of Empress Teta. The capital ships hung like wearily, the scorch marks of turbolaser fire and the patchwork plating of hasty repairs telling stories of their own..

His eyes settled on Crying Sun, his flagship, a Providence-class dreadnought that seemed to weep golden tears in the reflected light of the ecumenopolis below. It was a beast of a warship, its once-pristine hull now a mosaic of battle damage and retrofit modifications.

Flanking it, Recusant-class light destroyers stood in formation, their long, skeletal frames bristling with turbolasers. Lean and predatory, they had been the autonomous vanguard of his Deep Core Campaign, slipping past Republic sentry lines and striking deep into enemy strongholds. Beside them, the Munificent-class frigates rested like sleeping sentinels, their hyperwave jammers still warm from the last engagement. And that was not to speak of the dozens of cruisers and corvettes that filled their lines of battle.

They were not the shining, pristine warships of the Coruscant Home Fleet, nor the Perlemian Coalition’s painted warships gleaming in parade formations over Raxus Secundus. No, these ships were something else. Veterans of the void, of a hidden war they would never be thanked for fighting.

Because they had fought, bled, and conquered in the shadows of the Deep Core–beneath the cold, unblinking gaze of the Galactic Center. Droid-brained warships slithered through the labyrinth of hyperspace, threading routes no sane navigator would dare attempt, maintaining vital supply corridors to their Givin allies in the galactic south. Battlecruisers bore the flag of invasion forces, spearheading assaults against the Republic’s Deep Core redoubts.

Now, he was being asked to turn these veterans against Coruscant itself. Against the very heart of the Republic. By a damn pleasure droid.

Vinoc exhaled sharply.

No, not any mere pleasure droid. Whilst it was indeed a chrome blue-purple bettie bot pacing beside him, her true form was a kilometre-long star destroyer lurking in the deep black. Recusant-class star destroyer, Lexington, the ‘elder sister’ of the two most notorious raiders in the Deep Core. Together with her twin, these fully autonomous warships had waged a campaign of terror and precision that no organic crew could have sustained.

In the galaxy’s long and storied annals of warfare, countless doctrines and battle plans bore the names of legendary strategists and brilliant commanders. But the brutal, unorthodox style of warfare that had carved a path through the Deep Core? That belonged to two artificially thinking machines.

They had ruthlessly exploited theoretical hyperlanes, transited forbidden spacelanes where any flesh-and-blood crew would have met their doom, and stalked the battlefields of the ‘zone’ like monsters beneath one’s bed. Lexington, Saratoga and their fleet had fought a kind of war that no organic mind could withstand–a war waged in the crushing, endless dark, where even the stars themselves seemed to burn out under the unblinking stare of the supermassive black hole.

To think these two machines were once just another batch of warships fresh from the foundries of Ringo Vinda. As with all droid automatons put under Rain Bonteri’s command, they somehow found a certain kind of self-awareness of their own unlike any found in other droids. Vinoc knew not what data Bonteri trained his battle droids, but he could not deny the results.

“Commodore?" Lady Lex’s voice–hollow, electronic–brought him back.

“I presume you have a strategy to break the Home Fleet’s blockade?” Vinoc paused just outside the tender that would ferry him to his flagship.

“Affirmative. Saratoga and I will depart forthwith, and rendezvous with a second force enroute from Commenor just beyond the Coruscant Star System,” the droid star destroyer informed him, “With this, we will have two separate forces, including the Fourth Division; one Rimward and one Coreward respectively.”

“You intend on distracting the Home Fleet whilst the Fourth Division slips from behind?”

Lady Lex’s glazed eyes bored into him, “That depends on the timing of our arrival, and whomever Admiral Honor detects first.”

Vinoc studied the BD-3000’s lifeless stare, though he knew it was not truly her he was speaking to. Lexington was out there, somewhere beyond the viewport, a dark shape lurking against the light of Empress Teta. It was a strange thing, conversing with a warship in the shape of an attendant droid, but he had long since stopped questioning it.

He exhaled, shifting his weight slightly as he mulled over the plan. The strategy was sound, though it relied on more improvisation than he would have liked. Would Lexington’s division arrive first, or would his? Which would Admiral Honor detect first, and which would she decide was of a higher priority? There were far too many factors at play, and leaving the safety of Empress Teta’s domain meant enforcing radio silence. It would all come down to luck.

And yet, what other choice did they have?

Vinoc nodded, slowly at first, then with conviction.

“We’ll proceed with the plan,” he said, “Make sure Saratoga is aware of every detail.”

Lady Lex inclined her head, “She already is.”

Then the light in her photoreceptors flickered, dimmed, and faded. The BD-3000’s posture stiffened, and with that, Lexington was gone–her mind retreating back into the depths of her warship hull, the attendant droid falling into hibernation until she was needed again.

Vinoc turned, stepping onto the tender, the hiss of the hatch sealing shut behind him. Within moments, the deck beneath his feet shuddered, and the small craft detached from the station.

Through the forward viewport, he watched as the mooring arms of the Koros Spaceworks fell away, revealing the vast sprawl of the 284th Battle Division arrayed beyond. Veterans of a war that had never officially existed, hulls gleaming faintly under the reflected light of Empress Teta, the golden haze of the ecumenopolis casting a warm sheen across their massive frames.

Vinoc activated the comm panel at his side, his voice steady as he addressed the fleet.

“All hands, this is the Commodore,” he began, “Shore leave is canceled, effective immediately. All crews are to report to their vessels and be ready to depart in… three hours. You will be briefed en route.”

He toggled the frequency.

“Jorm, prep your auxiliaries and help me get a line to the Empress. I want to call in a favour.”

“–Another sortie already? What’s our target this time?”

“Coruscant.”

“...Well,” a worm of sudden apprehension slithered into Captain Jorm’s voice, “I’ll certainly let Her Highness know.”

The tender glided toward Crying Sun, engines humming low. Outside, the 284th Battle Division was already beginning to stir. Running lights flickered to life along warship hulls as skeleton crews warmed the engines. Moored vessels disengaged from their berths. Autocannons tracked invisible targets, shattering the ice buildup on their barbettes. Hollow tubes were filled with the dull warheads of proton torpedoes. The stillness that had settled over the fleet in the lull of shore leave was evaporating, replaced by the hum of impending battle.

Vinoc folded his arms, watching it unfold.

If the Republic hadn’t known of their existence… they certainly would now.

⁂

Coruscant, Coruscant System

Corusca Sector

The order is given once, then again, and again.

With each attempt, Republic Intelligence dispatches the order through another hole in the sabotaged communications network, another wavefront bursting out into the galaxy and towards the galactic rim. It spreads to GAR commanders on Togoria and Mimban, Dantooine and Wroona, New Cov and Serenno, and every battlefront, every military installation, every hospital and rehab center and spaceport cantina in the galaxy.

And it is sent again, again, and again. Like a repeating mantra, an earworm digging itself into the minds of every clone, marshal, general and admiral in the Grand Army of the Republic, burning away any uncertainty of command.

Everywhere.

Everywhere, except for Coruscant.

Because on Coruscant, Order 66 was already being executed.

It was a slow suffocation, a deep, smothering shadow falling over the Force. Every breath she took carried the weight of dying Jedi–each one a brief flare of light, a sudden crack of pain, then silence. The hunters spread across the planet like a tightening noose, troopers and droids and agents surging through the great duracrete jungle like an unrelenting virus. Shocktroopers gunning down Jedi in the alleyways of Uscru District, gunships glassing hidden enclaves on Level 1313, snipers watching for any fleeing wayward robes on the high landing arms of the Senate Annex.

Dawn was creeping across Galactic City. Fingers of morning brought a rose-colored glow to the wind-smeared upper reach of a vast twisting cone of smoke.

Jedi Master Shaak Ti was not prone to profanity–not aloud, at least. Even now, as she plummeted four thousand meters from a penthouse suite, her lips never formed so much as a syllable. Her expression remained composed, serene, as though she were merely meditating against a stiff breeze rather than plummeting toward the duracrete veins of the ecumenopolis below. Yet when she caught sight of the source of that smoke her mind betrayed her discipline with a curse she had only ever heard in the depths of a Corellian shipyard.

The Temple Precinct is on fire.

Shaak Ti sharpened her hunter’s gaze, and searched for a way out of her unplanned chuteless skydiving, sweeping the gleaming permaglass towers racing past her reflection, mind working faster than her freefall. There, just ahead–barely visible in the streaming lanes of air traffic–moved a police speeder, its silver-black chassis cutting through the dawn-lit smog.

It was too far. She was moving too fast.

She exhaled.

The Force surged to her call, wrapping around her like an unseen cocoon. The terminal velocity that had threatened to smash her into the durasteel jungle below folded around her instead, the crushing force bleeding into something softer, more malleable.

Slowing.

A snap of her wrists, a shift in her posture, and the wind resistance caught in her robes, sending her angling toward the police speeder. The distance closed rapidly. Too rapidly. Even softened, the impact would be–

Painful.

Shaak Ti struck the speeder hard enough to crack the transparisteel cockpit, only the protection of the Force saving her from a panoply of shattered bones, the power of her landing buckling the repulsors and sending the vehicle into a spiraling dive. Its sirens whooped in distress, thrusters sputtering.

Inside the cockpit, the police droid barely had time to register the incoming anomaly before Shaak Ti drove a boot through the transparisteel canopy, tearing it free in a shriek of metal and shattering glass.

It struggled to unlatch its blaster pistol; “Jedi–!”

Shaak Ti grabbed its frame and hurled it skyward.

It pinwheeled into the abyss, shrieking as it did so.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The Jedi Master slipped into the pilot’s seat in a single motion, hands ghosting over the controls. The speeder was still in freefall, tumbling nose-first toward a crowded pedestrian thoroughfare. She snapped the control yoke to full reverse, thrusters whining in protest. The speeder screamed–then jerked upward, engines howling as it leveled out a few hundred metres above the duracrete.

Shaak Ti exhaled through her teeth, steadying the craft.

She stabbed a code that canceled the speeder’s programmed patrol route, then grabbed the yoke and kicked the craft into a twisting ascent that shot her through half a dozen crisscrossing streams of air traffic.

Shaak Ti momentarily glanced above her, towards the Chancellor’s–the Sith Lord’s–suite, where flashes of emerald against blood red could be seen clashing through the shattered glass. A part of her urged her to return to Master Yoda’s aid, but the Jedi Master within knew what was most important; the future of the Jedi Order. Master Yoda would agree, Shaak Ti was sure. Besides, he could handle his own.

Master Yoda had not lived nine hundred years to fall by the hand of some Naboo flyboy.

Destination in mind, Jedi Master Shaak Ti angled the speeder toward the smoke rising from the Temple Precinct, and triggered the speeder’s comm. It crackled to life, the frequency a tangled mess of overlapping transmissions, static bursts, and clipped voices rattling off urgent updates;

"–Repeat, all units, Temple District remains on full lockdown. Perimeter secure. Senate Emergency Response has declared a state of martial law across Galactic City. Repeat–martial law is in effect. Authorization to engage all Jedi on sight confirmed–"

Canine teeth gnashed as Shaak Ti finally let go of her composure, clenching her jaw in rictus determination.

⁂

Jedi Knight Barriss Offee and Jedi Master Cin Drallig sprinted through the empty vaulted hallway, clattering echoes of their footsteps making the two of them sound like an entire platoon. The main doors of the Temple were slowly swinging shut, two monumental duracrete edifices rumbling together until they locked into a flush surface.

The two Jedi saw the lone gatekeeper there, Master Jurokk hunched over a monitor.

“How bad is it?” Master Cin Drallig immediately demanded. He was the head of the Jedi Temple Guard, and if anybody in the Temple had any right to know, it was him.

Master Jurokk did not need to say it. It was written in the way his shoulders sagged, in the deep lines of his face that the shadows could not quite hide. It was written in the night beyond the Temple, in the thunder of approaching boots, in the distant whine of engines and the rhythmic clanking of durasteel feet upon the permacrete of the Processional Way.

The Gate Master stepped aside; “See for yourself.”

The night beyond the Temple was full of clones. Battalions of them. Brigades. Thousands. Heavy weapons and tanks and walkers lining up as far as the eye can see, in a solid, momentous march towards the Temple gate. Rank upon rank, shoulder to shoulder, no hesitation in their march. No uncertainty. No pause to wonder if they should be doing this.

They had already decided. Or, more accurately–

Someone had decided for them.

Barriss saw the great siege walkers pause, saw the slow tilt of their cannons adjusting for angle, and saw the gunships wheeling overhead. He saw the black silhouette of the Temple reflected in thousands of T-shaped visors.

A flicker of movement. A commander raising his hand.

The world shattered.

The first volley struck like the hammer of a vengeful god, slamming into the deflector shields in a cascade of shrieking energy. Blinding light bloomed across the surface of the shield dome, curling outward in chaotic flares. Over them, gunships and starfighters circled like vultures, punching and prodding the Temple’s deflector shields with missiles and torpedoes and blasters. The duracrete beneath their feet trembled. The very air turned electric, snapping and crackling as the Temple’s defenses strained against the onslaught.

Another impact. Another. Then what felt like a hundred more.

Blaster cannons roared in synchronized fury, hammering the shield with relentless, mechanical efficiency. Heavy artillery launched volleys of plasma-shells that burst like dying stars. Swarms of missiles left bright contrails in their wake, each one screaming bloody, burning death.

The Temple groaned around them, dust drifting down in ghostly spirals from the vaulted ceiling. The concussive impacts outside had a rhythm to them now–steady, methodical, relentless. The shields would hold. For a time. The walls would endure. For a while longer. But there was no question of the outcome.

It was only a matter of time.

Barriss Offee brushed a layer of grit from her shoulder, ignoring the shuddering tremors beneath her feet, “Even with all our preparations, do you truly believe we can hold out?”

Cin Drallig did not hesitate– “Yes.”

His certainty was absolute; “Thanks to you and Master Gallia, we have fortified the Temple beyond anything the Coruscant Guard might have anticipated. Even if the shields fail, it will take hours for their siege cannons to crack the main gate.”

“And the other ingresses?”

Jurokk answered this time, his voice measured but firm, “Every hangar bay has been sealed, with their own localized shielding in place. All passages leading to the Undercity have been locked down, and the ventilation shafts have been sealed and shielded per anti-chemical warfare protocol. The Temple is now cycling its own atmosphere. Nothing gets in or out.”

Drallig nodded fiercely, “Every civilian staff member has been taken into custody as a precaution. We have Temple Guards at all critical junctions. No one enters the Temple. Not even Jedi who were caught outside when the attack began.”

Barriss frowned, “Homeworld Security could use captured Jedi to try and force their way in. I wouldn't put it past them.”

“We are prepared for that eventuality. Even if they bring a hostage to our gates, the answer will be the same,” Jurokk’s mouth thinned, “You say help will arrive in eighteen hours? What have you arranged, Barriss?”

Barriss exhaled. The so-called ‘help’ that was en route would hardly put her fellow Jedi at ease. Separatist warships, loaned to her by one of the most infamous admirals to ever serve the Confederacy, were hardly the saviors they would expect. Even now, she could feel the weight of the deception pressing against her.

She forced herself to meet Jurokk’s gaze.

“Help is coming from Empress Teta," she half-lied, carefully measured, “We made arrangements the last time we were there.”

Cin Drallig tilted his chin in thought, then nodded, “Eighteen hours… yes, that would make sense. Master Plo and Master Gallia have been maneuvering far ahead of us all. Their foresight has always been remarkable."

"You have no idea…" was Barriss' melancholy reply.

Another impact. Louder. Closer. The monitor flared with blinding light as something heavy detonated against the Temple's deflector shield. The soft glow of dawn was drowned beneath the flash of cannon fire.

They stepped back, deeper into the Temple. Around them, masked Temple Guards stood silent vigil, their white robes untouched by the layers of dust swirling in the air. Lightsaber pikes gleamed in the dim light, unwavering as the sentinels maintained their positions at key junctions and choke points.

They would not yield. Not while the Temple stood.

And yet Barriss knew, deep in the pit of her stomach, that this may be the last time it ever would.

The halls of the Temple trembled with each distant impact, but within these walls, the Jedi held their silence. The air was thick with tension, charged like the telltale moment before a lightsaber was forced to be drawn.

They moved swiftly through the corridors, passing ranks of Temple Guards, their white masks impassive beneath the flickering glow of emergency lighting. Barriss could feel the weight of their duty pressing upon them. These were Jedi who had sworn to stand their ground, who would fight and die to the last rather than let the enemy breach their sanctum.

She wasn’t sure if that made her feel reassured or sick.

They reached the antechamber of the Room of a Thousand Fountains. The doors slid open with a hushed whisper, and the three Jedi stepped inside.

The space was vast, a tranquil oasis at the heart of the Temple, where water cascaded in endless silver veils, pooling into glassy lakes and meandering streams. Here, the Living Force was almost tangible–life flourished in vibrant bursts of green, the very air thick with the scent of flowers and mist. It was a place of peace. Of meditation.

And now, it was filled with younglings.

Hundreds of them, their small faces tight with worry. Older Padawans had gathered them in loose clusters, whispering reassurances, keeping them calm. Knights moved among them, their robes dampened by the ever-present mist, speaking softly but firmly. Some younglings clung to their elders, others sat cross-legged on the stone floors, their training keeping them composed in the face of terror. Each and every tremor sent the underbrush creatures scattering, the birds aloft with squawks and frantic wingbeats.

Barriss took it all in with a glance. Her heart clenched.

“They’ve brought them here,” Cin Drallig murmured.

“It was the safest place,” Jurokk said, his voice quiet, “No matter what happens, this chamber must not fall.”

Barriss exhaled sharply, “That’s exactly why this is the worst place to put them.”

The two Jedi turned to her, frowning.

Barriss gestured around the chamber, to the waterfalls, to the towering stone walls, to the great durasteel-reinforced doors that sealed this place from the rest of the Temple, “We’re in the dead center of the Temple. Surrounded on all sides. If the enemy breaches the gates, if they push into the halls, where do these children go?”

She shook her head, “There’s no way out.”

Jurokk’s frown deepened, “I understand. We will be trapped here. And these younglings will have no escape.”

Cin Drallig met her gaze evenly. “You’re suggesting we prepare an evacuation route. To a designated hangar bay.”

“I’m suggesting we secure all evacuation routes, to all of the hangar bays,” Barriss corrected, “The hangars are shielded, but if the enemy gets that far, we need a way to move the younglings out. We need to have transports ready, corridors cleared, and Jedi prepared to escort them.”

“If we split up–”

“More of us have a chance of surviving,” Barriss said, almost desperate, “We know the Temple better than they do, but they have more men. The moment they break in, do you think they’ll immediately begin their manhunt? Those men are clonetroopers. In a search and seizure, what do you think they’ll do?”

“Secure all egresses…” Master Jurokk’s forehead creased.

Drallig nodded slowly. “It will be difficult. The Temple Guards are already stretched thin. But we can try.”

Barriss almost laughed, a bitter and mocking thing; “At this point, trying is all we have left.”

Master Cin Drallig left promptly then, to secure those escape corridors. And for a long moment, there was only the sound of falling water and swaying branches.

Because what words were there left to speak of the Jedi Temple, save for its eulogy?

Indeed, the halls of the Jedi Temple were silent.

Not the peaceful, meditative silence that once filled them, nor the hushed reverence of a student kneeling before their Master. This was an absence, a vacuum where life had once thrived. Every step echoed too loudly. Every shadow stretched too long. The war had stolen many Jedi from these halls, but never before had the Temple felt so empty.

Cin Drallig walked through the corridors alongside a handful of Temple Guards, their footsteps lost in the vastness of the once-bustling stronghold.

They passed the Grand Hall, where once, the Jedi Council had addressed the Order in times of crisis. Now, its high ceilings and sweeping columns loomed over an expanse of vacant space. He imagined the hall as it had been–hundreds of Jedi gathered, standing shoulder to shoulder, their robes a sea of brown and cream, the air thick with purpose and unity. But no such gathering would happen today. There was no council to speak. No knights to call upon.

They passed the Jedi Archives, the great bronze doors sealed. Chief Librarian and Jedi Master Jocasta Nu had refused to leave her post, choosing to remain with the knowledge she had dedicated her life to preserving. The Temple Guards had not argued with her.

They passed the Grand Refectory, where laughter and conversation had once filled the cavernous dining hall. Long communal tables stretched across its breadth, empty save for a few scattered trays left behind in the rush of evacuation. The air still carried the lingering scent of the last meal served here–stewed nerf, fresh greens, warm bread. A normal meal, on what should have been a normal night. How many Jedi had eaten here, unaware that it would be their last?

They passed the Temple Dojo, where the echo of clashing lightsabers had once filled the space. The smell of sweat and training mats lingered in the air. How many Jedi had sparred here countless times, testing their skills against fellow Padawans, fellow Knights, and fellow Masters?

They passed the silent meditation chambers, where countless Jedi had once sought clarity before battle, seeking the Force’s guidance before embarking on missions that took them to the farthest corners of the galaxy. Now, the only presence that lingered was a heavy, suffocating dread.

They passed the contemplation gardens, where Jedi had once sat beneath the Coruscanti sky to meditate among exotic flora gathered from across the galaxy. Now, the sky above was thick with gunships, their dark silhouettes cutting through the dawn, and artillery fire, streaking through the twilight like falling stars. The waterfalls that had once trickled musically down the tiered rock formations now seemed too loud in the stillness. The trees, carefully pruned by Jedi hands for generations, swayed gently in the artificial breeze, unaware of the coming storm.

Finally, they arrived at the northern hangar bay.

Normally a place of frantic motion, filled with Jedi starfighters being prepped for departure or returning from distant battlefields, the bays now sat eerily still. The shields holding Coruscant’s atmosphere at bay flickered with a soft blue shimmer, framing the vast durasteel platforms where sleek fighters, shuttles, and transports rested in neat formations.

Cin Drallig watched as Temple Guards and a handful of mechanics worked swiftly to prepare the ships for departure. Fuel lines were connected, navicomputers double-checked, astromechs loaded in place. A single glance confirmed what they had feared–their options were limited. Many of the best ships had been taken by Jedi dispatched to the front lines. What remained were mostly older, slower transports and personal shuttles. They could carry out the evacuation if the worst came to pass, but they would be vulnerable.

“This will have to do,” Cin Drallig muttered, arms crossed as he surveyed the preparations, “We’ll station guards at every access point along the route from the Room of a Thousand Fountains to here. If the Temple falls, we need to hold that corridor long enough for them to launch.”

Everything depends on how and when our help arrives.

Meanwhile, the Room of a Thousand Fountains had become the heart of the Temple’s last stand.

It was the only place left where voices still whispered, where movement still stirred. The air was thick with humidity, the constant murmur of flowing water masking the occasional sniffle of a frightened youngling or the low murmurs of Jedi strategizing in the alcoves.

Some of the older Padawans had begun taking shifts, keeping watch at the entrances while others sat with the younglings, telling stories of the Jedi of old in voices just loud enough to be heard over the cascading falls. They spoke of old legends; of Nomi Sunrider and Ulic Qel-Droma, of Satele Shan and Thon, of legends from an era before the Republic had ever imagined turning on its defenders.

It was a distraction. A fragile one. But it was better than nothing.

Barriss moved through the chamber, watching the tension in every face. Some Jedi meditated, but their brows were furrowed in concentration, the Force humming with their quiet unease. Others knelt with the children, speaking softly, offering reassurances they barely believed themselves.

Master Jurokk stood with a cluster of Temple Guards, speaking in hushed tones. Every so often, one of them would glance towards the ceiling, as if expecting it to crack open at any moment.

The children did not yet understand the scale of what was coming. Some were old enough to know that the war had reached their doorstep. That the men who had once fought beside them were now the enemy. But the youngest among them still reached for their masters’ hands, still clung to the belief that the Jedi were invincible.

They did not know that this night would decide whether the Jedi Order lived or died.

Barriss closed her eyes. She had done all she could. The corridors to the hangars were secured. The escape routes mapped. The shields were holding. For now.

And yet.

Something deep in her gut told her it might not be enough.

The Jedi Temple had never felt more like a tomb.

Barriss exhaled, pressing forward, her pace steady despite the weight in her chest.

Two hours have passed since she had called for help.

–SIXTEEN HOURS REMAIN–

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!