A/N: Thank you to angie for the review and the kind words! Really appreciative of the amount of readership and support over the last several chapters; I'm thankful for all who are following along!

There are moments to the life of any great thing—a nation, a family, a man. Moments like thresholds, moments on the knife's edge, moments along which pasts teeter and futures hunger to charge across. Moments which the world watches with baited breath, wondering how they will end. Moments like storms, where in their passing a new world will be born—either one of devastation or one of rebirth.

Padme knows she is watching one of those moments in play now. But she does not know if the moment is the Republic's—or Anakin's.

Tarkin blots out the news holo here in her Coruscant apartment. He thunders a speech before journalists and holocams and selectively-picked crowds chanting support; he demeans those senators like Padme and her band of ragtag political rebels who refuse to show up to senatorial sessions, a band that grows in number by the day as more and more demoralized senators, incensed by the turmoil engulfing the Senate, find their last spark of courage and blow upon it in a desperate attempt to rekindle the fire. These dissidents are not protestors, not even senators, Tarkin bemoans for the media. They are nothing less than traitors. And if the Jedi Order had any sense left in them, they would join Tarkin in condemning this political stunt.

Dereliction of duty. Contempt of the Senate. Rebellion. The charges Tarkin hurls about for the cameras grows into a list that would drive a senatorial neophyte into the fetal position. But to Padme it's par for the course: It's nothing she hasn't heard from more experienced politicians and opponents over the years. Senator Burtoni has called her worse, and now they're working together. For all of Tarkin's military prestige and his obstructionist gamesmanship, he's done nothing but talk. It's what he and Amedda and Senator Aak have not done, rather than that they've actually achieved, that's harmed the Republic so.

But she is not the only one watching her own public condemnation. And the simmering fury in Anakin's eyes only grows with every word that leaves Tarkin's mouth.

"Did Tarkin know?" Anakin mutters to himself, so quiet that Padme can only just make it out. Her husband has only just returned from the invasion of Sullust, but it took her no time at all to see that something in him has changed. Some dagger has driven deep and twisted. "Someone else had to have known. Did he?"

"Are you okay?" Padme says, watching Anakin with questioning eyes. He even sits on another couch, away, alone, as if putting up a wall between him and the billions of souls of Coruscant. "You're a little quiet over there."

At first Anakin says nothing. Then he looks up as if noticing Padme for the first time. He attempts a smile, shakes his head, and says, "It's nothing. Just thinking."

"You've done a lot of that since you got back," says Padme. "You want to talk about it, or is it something for the Jedi Temple?"

"I haven't been back to the Temple."

Padme frowns. "Er…are you sure everything is all right?"

He stands and stretches. "Look, forget that stuff. We should…" he starts, letting the suggestion hang. He waves at the holo and switches the news off. "We should shut this thing off. All it does is talk. It's no good for anyone."

"Not supporting Tarkin anymore?"

"I was never supporting him."

"You liked him as an admiral, and I seem to remember you thinking the Jedi leading the Senate was a good thing."

Anakin turns away towards the foyer and the Coruscant skyline. "Well. I was wrong. Wasn't I?"

Padme stops herself from pressing. She always wants to debate, to test his ideas and see what he thinks, but this is clearly not the time. "If you want to be alone—"

"You know what we should do?" Anakin says, turning about, his face oddly lively. Unlike himself. Like he's putting on an act, although whether it's to convince her or himself she cannot say. "We should get out of here. We haven't had much time together. Just the two of us."

"Outside of Dantooine?" Padme says.

"Yeah, but there, you know…it was an assignment and all. And the trip back we were stuck on a ship. Look, you've been stuck here on Coruscant, and I've been out on the battlefield. Way too long. Let's go to Naboo."

She almost laughs. "What?"

"You want to go back. You always say so. So?"

"Right now? Out of the blue? Right as the Senate's on the verge of blowing up and the war's escalating every day?"

"What better time is there?"

She looks down at her feet and smiles. A sad smile. "Ani, we're not kids. We are way too old to be stupid," she murmurs. "We can't just run away when we feel like it."

"Why not? Sure we can."

"Why not? Because we have obligations. Me to the Senate, you to the Jedi, both of us to the Republic. And, again, there's a war on. We can't just walk away when so many people are counting on us."

Anakin waves off her concern, but it only heights her nervousness. "It doesn't matter, Padme. It never did."

"Doesn't matter?"

"We matter. You matter. To me. Us. That's what matters," he says, turning once more to the skyline and the setting sun, his back to her. "The rest of it…this war's just a game that's gone too far. There's nothing that says we have to play it forever. We can stop now and then. Relax. It'll be fine."

"No. Enough. Ani, you can play the tough, unconcerned guy, but I can tell when something's bothering you," Padme says, hurrying to his side. She puts her hand on his forearm and leans into him. He is a stone; he does not budge. "Something happened when you were away, didn't it?" When still she receives no response, Padme circles to his front and presses her cheek to his chest, her eyes closing. "I want to help. I love you. I just want to know how I can help."

She opens her eyes to catch him glancing down at her; glancing away. His façade falls; his emotion flares away, embers in the breeze. She has seen him angry, furious; she knows how hot his temper can run. But that's the thing about anger: It burns hot and burns out, and when the fire fades and the smoke dies down, what is left is free to look about with clear and steady eyes. That sparking rage settles and takes shape, crystallizing, growing hard as it cools. The heat dies; the cold settles in and ice glazes those clear blue eyes. And when it is at last frozen, dagger-sharp truth cuts through and settles into the sundered spirit, the wound too deep to heal. It is then that a man begins to hate.

She follows where his eyes stare. Out there past the towers and the skylanes filled with speeders. Out to the Senate building, and beyond it the Jedi Temple. As if there is something out there that Anakin has grown so angry at that he no longer burns when he thinks of it. As if all he wants now is to see that something die.

Director Krennic swallows hard. It's not that he's here in the Republic's Military Center with Mas Amedda—former Vice Chair Amedda, he'll even call him. Amedda is a mirthless man, but he does not overlook loyalty. And Krennic, if he can say as much, is a loyal man. He knows who rewards him. Chancellor Palpatine may have vanished, but Krennic knows why he's the director of the Special Weapons Group and not still an underling.

It's the meetings with Tarkin that always set his nerves crackling, and it's to Tarkin that they go now.

These gray halls, plain artificial lightning that no one would mistake for natural. There's nothing natural about the Military Center; it's a blemish on Coruscant, ugly, obscene. But Krennic can't deny the efficiency of this place—and with little intrusion by the clones, fortunately. The old Judicial Forces men know more than simple robotic, vat-grown obedience. They know it's men like Krennic who shield them from interlopers like Bail Organa and the senators, or Obi-Wan Kenobi and the Jedi. Just like him, they too know where their loyalties lie. And in times like these with the Republic at a crossroads, there is nothing more important than determining friend from foe.

"I imagine Tarkin is going to want an update on the weapon," Amedda muses as they walk past bowed-head subordinates and Judicial Forces soldiers. All grey uniforms here; not a single flash of white armor. "The victory at Sullust aside, the Separatists will not stay on the defensive for long. And no doubt the Jedi will grow bold from their triumph."

"Even with Tarkin holding back his Sector Fleets," Krennic notes.

"Even so. We cannot account for luck. Sometimes fate breaks wrong," Amedda says. "Between that and Organa and Amidala's little traitorous coalition of senators growing bold, we need a plan for our next steps."

Tarkin waits for them in the bowels of Military Center, down in the deepest command vault designed for officers and staff to coordinate military movements even during a direct, groundside attack on Coruscant itself. No windows, obviously—they are more than two kilometers below the Federal District's cityscape, covered by so much steel and infrastructure. Yet here is all they need: A communicator linked to the Holonet, maps and galactic positioning of friendly forces and last known locations of opposition, archival data and personnel listings, more, more, more. Coruscant's very own keep. A place where Krennic is sure no one will be listening in.

Tarkin does not stand from his seat when Krennic and Amedda enter the chamber. "Gentlemen."

"Grand Admiral," Amedda and Krennic say in unison.

With a wave of his hand Tarkin trips the motion sensors and shuts the secure door behind them. There is only the three of them in here, three in a minute world cut off from the rest of the planet. Anything could happen in here and no one else on Coruscant would know.

It is Amedda who speaks first: "The Senate is becoming a problem."

"The Senate has always been a problem. Nothing changes now," Tarkin muses.

"I am referring to public opinion," Amedda pushes on. "Organa and his group of senators are drawing too much media attention. My operatives and contacts have secured as much media loyalty as we can, but no one can silence everything. Too many people are beginning to note the standoff between our side and the Jedi and their senators. Too many senators are noticing too, and having their own discussions. We're losing ground here, Tarkin. We've held strong for now, but we can't keep the senators and the Jedi from pushing for a vote on a new chancellor eventually."

"This was never meant to be indefinite. You were tasked with ensuring that a qualified candidate who suits our needs would rise to succeed Palpatine," Tarkin says. The flicker of irritation in his eyes is obvious. "So far I am seeing a distinct lack of results."

Amedda scowls. Krennic holds his tongue. Three is a crowd, and he knows well by now to let Amedda and Tarkin duel each other; so long as he says nothing, they will not pile onto him. The last thing he needs is to draw attention away from Amedda's failures by informing Tarkin that the Ultimate Weapon's development has experienced yet another labor-related delay. And, frankly, until Tarkin delivers him the workers he promised—Wookiees, Mon Calamari, as if—this will keep happening. Krennic needs more than mere Geonosians to build a superweapon of this scale.

But if today's meeting was to discuss that, Tarkin has clearly forgotten it as his eyes lance Amedda despite the latter's protests. "There is only so much I can do," Amedda says. "I am no longer vice chair. I don't have the sheer authority I once did, and too many senators are…idealistic. They don't even consider the idea of a favor for a favor."

"They are only people."

"Ones with particularly loud voices. Charismatic voices."

"That can change."

"Not easily. Not at all easily. The public favors you, Tarkin. Not me. But that favor is fading the longer you preside over the Senate. People, media, perception—it's about what you've done lately. And lately we've had little success besides holding our ground and preventing the Jedi and senators from ousting us entirely."

Tarkin barely so much as blinks. "Very well."

"I—I beg your pardon?"

"If your plans require action from me, then I can deliver it," Tarkin says.

Amedda looks to Krennic as if lost for words. Krennic averts his eyes. No need to get swept up in the Chagrian's failure. Between Amedda and Tarkin, Krennic knows who really wields the true power. "What do you have planned, Grand Admiral?"

"Inform the Senate—all the senators, including Organa's people—that I will make a statement of concessions to the body politic as a whole," Tarkin says. "I will relent on my position and allow for the immediate proceeding of a vote—on your successor. A new vice chair. One who I consent to naming a Supreme Chancellor Pro Tempore to act as a single leader with all the powers of the chancellorship until a formal voting period shall occur. And inform those senators that I will, once the vice chair is named, resign from all further political duties."

Amedda is slack-jawed. "You're surrendering? To Organa and Amidala's little stunt?"

"I did not say that."

"That's exactly what your move implies. They haven't even achieved anything tangible yet, Tarkin; they only just managed to break quorum in the last session, and if we can sway enough senators back to our way of thinking, we can—"

"Amedda, this is not a debate," Tarkin says, rising from his seat, curling around his desk, and stepping towards the Chagrian. Amedda steps back. "My instructions were clear. I have a strategy, and it does not require the left hand and the right hand knowing what the other is up to. Know that I am not leaving you to fend for yourself; you will be taken care of. Unless you doubt me."

"No, I…I never…"

"Then see to it that my instructions are carried out. That will be all. You are dismissed."

Krennic feels a wave of relief. A whole meeting and he never had to speak. Who knows why Tarkin needed him, but all the better that—

"Not you, Director."

Damn. Krennic freezes as Amedda leaves. He turns slowly, eyes inching up to meet Tarkin's stare. "Ah…yes, Grand Admiral?"

Tarkin waits for Amedda's departure and the hiss of the secure door closing behind him before carrying on. But he does not speak: He pulls a small sphere out of his pocket and lobs it on the ground. It stretches out three metal legs like a caltrop, extends and steadies—and then above it a life-size hologram of a woman shimmers to life.

Krennic grimaces. The damn Arkanian again.

"Lady Hosha," Tarkin says as the hologram materializes and Hosha Tath's unblemished face radiates in digital gleam. "I presume you are still on schedule?"

"Tarkin. Of course," Hosha says. She has no need for Krennic and Amedda's honorifics. Hosha looks about—Krennic cannot say where, exactly, given those accursed blank white eyes of that near-human species—and she frowns when her head turns towards Krennic. "I see the former vice chair is not with us. Hello, Orson."

Krennic clears his throat. "Lady Tath. A pleasure."

"A lie. You despise me, I can see it," Hosha says, smiling. To Tarkin she adds, "No problems on my end. I'll be touching down on Coruscant within forty-eight hours."

"And the report about your cousin? Solan? Will he be a problem?" Tarkin asks.

Hosha shakes her head. "He was growing suspicious ever since our business on Taris," she says. "He began asking questions. I hated to get rid of him, but I did what I had to and had my people dispose of him. Like with Ternon when he tried to go to Count Dooku with his suspicions. Everything I have is now under my authority alone. And at your disposal."

"You have what I asked for?"

She nods and pulls a weapon hilt from her cloak. Tubular, metal. Obvious what she holds now. It does not take a Jedi or a Sith to hold a lightsaber. The blade is just a weapon, after all. "Thank you for your team on Dantooine finding this in those old Jedi ruins, Orson," she says. "I'll put it to good use."

"Doing what, exactly?" says Krennic.

Now Tarkin turns to him. "Director, it is clear to me that Amedda trusts you," he says. "I am counting on you to maintain that trust."

"For…what?"

"For our solution," Tarkin says. He looks between Hosha Tath and Krennic, his lips pressed together, his eyes steel, his jaw stone. "Lady Tath, your organization has served the interests of the Republic in secret for thousands of years. Krennic, you lead a team that the Jedi Order and the Senate would immediately disband if they knew the details of it. Our enemies are clear. What is also clear is that the Republic is on the verge of failure. With one stroke we must clear away all our opposition and shine light again on the Republic's future, lest the Separatists continue to capitalize on our weakness. Our own military is divided on this war's priorities—the clone armies and the Jedi on one side, the veteran officers and soldiers of the Judicial Forces and the Sector Fleets on another. And this division will kill us if we do not close this gap."

"Even with the Jedi's victory at Sullust, we are far from on the offensive, and it is only time before the droid armies strike out at us again. Without unification—without a single, clear vision—the Republic will fold. We must act now. We must save the Republic—from its enemies beyond, and from itself." He raises his head. "So listen closely, both of you. From this point on, there can be no turning back."

Bo-Katan's rebel camp on Concordia is every bit the resistance holdout Tamri imagines. No fortress is this, no walls, no shield generator, no watchful gun turrets eying the sky. Only tents and prefab huts thrown together in the shadow of a mountain range, a makeshift hanger dug into a hill—and dozens upon dozens of armored Mandalorians. Everyone here looks ready to kill at a moment's notice. They train with a dedication and discipline to rival the Jedi, no questions or complaints from the soldiers, orders carried out perfectly and in unison, every man and woman throwing their full weight behind even mere training. When ordered to shoot a target, every blaster bolt sails forth in the same direction. When ordered to stand at attention, a hundred guns snap together with a snare drum blast. It's beautiful.

Then there is Saw Gerrera. He looks every bit the killer the Mandalorians are—but he is anything but beautiful.

"Different planet, and same story. I keep running into Jedi," Saw says as Bo-Katan and Ursa Wren lead Tamri, Korkie, and Ventress to a command tent fitted with a holoprojector and a series of active radar scanners pinging the nearby area to ensure no roving Separatist occupation droids see what they aren't supposed to. "Is the Order running out of Knights, or something?"

Tamri scrunches up her face at Saw's question. "I beg your pardon?"

"Fought with a Jedi Padawan during the liberation of Onderon. Two other Jedi left us halfway in the middle of the fight. Stuck us with a kid to fight the rest of the way," Saw says. "Girl named Tano. Can't say she was bad, but things ended…they didn't well."

"Ahsoka?" says Tamri. "I…see."

Saw scowls. He's a burly one, brutish, strong, a fresh scar on his face—too fresh to have been from a fight on distant Onderon. There's nothing kind about his face. A warrior, through and through. Men like him have fought these battles since the dawn of warfare; they aren't soldiers, not loyal to hierarchies and ideologies and commitments. They simply fight. Nothing so simple; nothing more dangerous. "If you're from Onderon, liberating your home makes sense. But why come to Mandalore?" asks Korkie.

"Saw has a whole group with him. They're, well, hungry," says Bo-Katan.

"You can say that again," grunts Saw. "Droids did a number on my home. I'm itching to return the favor, and then some. No matter how long that takes and no matter how many planets I've got to go to."

"Bold talk, but I don't see much of a chance. You'll be drastically outnumbered by even an average-sized Separatist occupation army," Ventress says, holding back from the group, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowed. "There can't be more than a few thousand of you in total."

Ursa Wren—fit, strong, youthful, with an almost-noble appearance; a Mandalorian warrior with all the moxie and determination needed for someone who looks to be Bo-Katan's right hand, as far as Tamri can tell—sparks the holoprojector, and images of Mandalore and Concordia blur to life. Red and blue dots spot each planet, along with arrows indicating troop movements and recent actions. "We have outlying forces and pockets of resistance both on Concordia and Mandalore itself. The Separatists have started routing more and more of their forces lately to the moon, and in response we've concentrated as many people as we can on Mandalore to take advantage."

Tamri frowns as she examines the map. "They're all in the cities, your people on Mandalore."

"The deserts are a wasteland. No food or water, blasted by the sun. There's no chance out there," says Bo. "The cities are all that matter, anyway. There's nothing in the desert. No one needs nothing."

"Not according to Fen'leyn's coordinates for the vault," Tamri says. "That was right in the wasteland."

Ursa inputs the Bothan's supposed positioning for the secret Mandalorian war vault. A new pinpoint on the map—a green light—flashes on the image of Mandalore, more than three hundred kilometers west of Sundari. "Not just nothing out there, apparently," Ventress murmurs.

"Yeah, but calling that inhospitable is putting it lightly," Saw says, pointing to the projection. "Just dunes. Dunes and sand and emptiness for miles and miles. Set up camp out there and you'd die of thirst in days. Let alone how long it'd take to excavate a vault that's thousands of years old."

Korkie shakes his head. "It's not quite just dunes," he says. "There's an old, dried-up riverbed that cuts through that area, along with a load of huge ventifacts out there. If you wanted to hide a secret entrance, it's not horrible."

"A load of what?" Tamri says.

"They're rocks. Big rocks that were cut into weird shapes by the wind."

"If you've had enough of your geology, there's this, too," Ventress says, pointing out a red blip on Mandalore.

Saw looks to her and raises his brow. "Huh. Not a bad target."

"Not at all," Vnetress murmurs. "A fighter refueling depot for droids on aerial patrol. Not even a hundred kilometers away. An easy target that could distract every roaming Separatist eye in the region, should you attack it. And an even better distraction to buy time to explore this vault."

"If it exists," Ursa Wren growls.

"We don't have any better leads," Bo says. "We're holding our own, but we're not making serious progress anywhere. Not on Concordia, not on Mandalore. It's worth a diversionary attack on this fuel depot if it buys us at least a look."

Saw shrugs. "Can't hurt."

"Then we're in agreement, Saw?"

"Sure. Yeah. I can lead the attack against the depot."

"Your men, maybe. I can't tell you what to do, but I'd rather have you checking out the vault with us."

"Fine. My men can handle it, then. They'll do the job."

"I want to see it, too," Korkie interjects.

Bo shakes her head. "Out of the question."

"Why? Aunt Bo, you know I can fight. I fought all sorts of horrors in that lab, as well."

"He did. And he's seen a Basilisk in action, too. He deserves a look," Tamri says quickly. She looks between Bo and Ursa. "He's a Mandalorian as much as anyone here."

"Exactly. And I'll fight for Mandalore until I don't have another breath to give. You know it. I fought for Aunt Satine. I won't stop now."

Bo closes her eyes and sighs. "Fine. But I'm not sparing anyone to look after you," she says. She jabs Tamri in the shoulder. "You. You come with us too, then, Jedi. And you better make damn sure you keep an eye on Korkie, got it?"

"I'll do it," Tamri says. "I can handle it."

Ventress snorts. Tamri shoots her a look.

"If the plan's decided, then, I'm going to see to my men. Hash out plans for the attack on the depot. Make sure the few fighters we've got are ready to go," Saw says.

"You do that," Bo says. "Ursa, go make sure our teams are ready. Give everyone who's not on watch the night off. And Korkie—you come with me right now. We have things to discuss."

Korkie looks to Tamri and nods before following Bo away. Just like that they disperse, the plan decided. No bureaucracy, no lengthy arguments. All action. It's a lot smoother a meeting than the Jedi Council felt like when Tamri went before it. There's no bullshit here. Everyone knows the stakes.

The time passes quickly. The sun cuts across the sky and dips below the mountains, the sky streaking with yellow, orange, red, violet, until twilight blue blots out the light and the last glow of day clings to the mountain peaks. It's chilly here: Tamri wraps her traveler's cloak about her shoulders and huddles beside a portable heater, looking out into the gathering night. There's a pulling on her heart, a shudder in the Force. Something is closing fast—an occurrence, a meeting, a fight, she doesn't know, but she has the feeling that the exploration of the Republic weapons lab was only the prelude to what's to come. The bright golden glow of Mandalore hangs gibbous in the darkening sky. Thousands and thousands of battle droids down there. A whole occupation fleet in orbit. It feels impossible to make a dent against that, even with old Mandalorian war tech on their side—if it's even there and the Bothan's data is on point.

Truthfully, there's no need for her to be here, she thinks. The Jedi—no, Obi-Wan—told her to investigate the vault. She has, and she's learned plenty, more than enough to report back to Coruscant with her findings. Korkie was never afraid of striking out on his own to defend his home. She's under no obligation to stay for his benefit. Duty would call her home if she listened. The Order would tell her to return. And yet she's still here.

"Making good use of your time, I see. Staring off into space."

With that greeting Ventress plops down beside her, a jug of drink in her hand. She takes a swig, scowls, and says, "The boy is still with the Mandalorian woman?"

"They've been away all day," Tamri says. "I spoke with everyone else on my team. They're going to go with the ship and join Saw's people in the attack on the fuel depot. Korkie and I'll go with Bo directly to Fen'leyn's coordinates."

"What ever happened to the Bothan?"

"I think one of Saw's people is going to help him get off-world. I dunno."

"Who cares, I suppose," Ventress murmurs before taking another drink. "Why're you here, Jedi?"

Tamri frowns. "What do you mean? You heard Bo, she wants me to go to…well, keep an eye on Korkie I guess. Make sure things go smoothly."

"You're a Padawan. Still a child."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you shouldn't be wasting your time running errands and listening to orders," Ventress mutters, staring at her jug as if considering attacking it. "I fought for something once. Only too late did I find out that it wouldn't fight for me."

"Dooku?" Tamri says. She coughs. "The Dark Side always betrays its own."

"Don't talk like a Jedi. I don't want to hear it, and you're not the zealous type."

"What type am I, then?"

"Someone who's desperate for affirmation," Ventress growls at her. "I could see it the moment I met you. That's why you're following Kenobi's orders, isn't it? Your master's gone, so now you're eagerly grabbing on to the first Jedi who will take you on. Eager to please, eager to have someone tell you 'Good job.' So here you are, trying to do the right thing. Even if you have no idea where that path's going to lead." She spits and digs her heel into the earth. "Here's a tip, girl: Figure out your own way in this life. And do it fast, before life eats you up first. You won't make it if you keep following the Jedi's orders like the ideal little Padawan you so desperately want to be."

Tamri grits her teeth. "And what's wrong with that?"

"Everything's wrong with that. It's a horrific way of living."

"Like you would know, following the Dark Side. I have no idea why Master Kenobi trusts you, but I guess you haven't killed me yet, so there's that," Tamri mutters. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to be a good Jedi. Jedi are…protectors. Light-bearers."

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't know. Not serving the Dark Side. Following the will of the Force. I don't know."

"See? You just repeat what you've always been told. You've spent so much time trying to become what you think you're supposed to be that you don't even know who you should be," says Ventress. "You're not protecting anything. The people of the galaxy? Almost every single intelligent being will go their entire life without meeting a Jedi. There's quadrillions of them and only thousands of you lot. The Republic? It's dead already. Whether it wins the war or not, there's no going back. Everything has changed. Not that the Separatists are better, but if it's a contest of who's worse, why argue at all? You saw what was in that lab. That was a Republic facility; you want to protect that?" She shakes her head and takes another drink. "Loyalty is a fool's game. Everyone disappoints you in the end. Either they betray you, or they die, or they simply…leave. You'd better figure that out before you end up on the wrong end of a betrayal like I did."

"So why don't you just leave? Why are you still here? Didn't Master Kenobi pay you already?"

Ventress rises and frowns, her eyes tracing the outline of Tamri's face. "Before my master died—my first master, my original mentor, not Dooku," she says, "I thought just like you. I was so eager to please. I did everything I thought was right. And I wish, I wish, I had had someone tell me to do anything else but that. I wish I had known how much it hurts to be used."

She turns to leave, then hesitates. "I don't particularly like you, Dallin," she says, "but I do understand you. Maybe more than you understand yourself." She sets the jug of drink down beside Tamri. "I think you'll need this more than I do."

Then she is gone, taken back by the night. Tamri looks out into the dark. She waits, as if expecting an answer to the questions buzzing in her mind. Nothing comes. She takes a drink.

The hour is late; the Jedi Archives are empty. The working Padawans and younglings dispersed to their dormitories, the studying Knights and Masters back to work or to well-deserved rest for the night. Even Madam Jocasta Nu has departed for the evening. It is just Obi-Wan here now, Obi-Wan slumped over at a data terminal with scrolling readouts blurring together on a screen before him. He doesn't even know why he came down here. No, no—he knows. Anakin's revelation about Chancellor Palpatine has shaken him to his core. He wants to find something, anything that will give him proof, closure. Anything that could point to a way the Jedi could have seen this coming. For while the Council might still doubt Anakin's information, Obi-Wan does not. He knew what that turmoil in his former apprentice meant. He knows what the hard truths can do to Anakin.

But he finds nothing in the Archives. Palpatine, Sidious—he hid his tracks well, executed his plan and orchestrated his war to perfection until Dooku somehow caught him at just the wrong moment. And all the while Obi-Wan and the Jedi have been blind. Are still blind.

He rubs his eyes. If they can't see deception so close to the heart of the Republic, all the way at the top of the pyramid of power, they will never beat back the Dark Side.

But in this late hour a feeling stirs inside of Obi-Wan. A strange churning, a shuddering. A feeling he knows. A feeling he had once before, not long ago in the Hall of Knighthood on a night full of turmoil and uncertainty.

He steps up from the desk and turns. There is a light coming from one of the archival stacks, a light not of the datadisks, not that eerie electric blue. A light organic, a light pure. Obi-Wan approaches.

Alongside one of the stacks, a man appraises the datadisks as if any ordinary visitor to the Archives. But he is not a man—he is a ghost. Qui-Gon Jinn is very much dead, after all, and yet this is now the second time Obi-Wan is seeing him again. It wasn't a vision at all, that first time. He knows, he knows—it is his master.

Qui-Gon—or his ghost, at least—looks up at Obi-Wan's arrival and smiles. There is a youthful vigor to that face, energy to the way he gathers his spectral Jedi robes around him. A longing in Obi-Wan's heart. "It is far, far too late to trouble yourself so," Qui-Gon says. "I can feel the turmoil in you, Obi-Wan."

Just like last time, Obi-Wan closes his eyes. When he opens then, Qui-Gon remains. No need to question his sight now. A will of the Force, a quantum manifestation, a phantom from what lies beyond, whatever it may be—there is so much to this world that Obi-Wan does not know. "I…" he begins, but he stops. It doesn't feel right. So many things he wants to say to Qui-Gon, and none of them fit. "It's…it's not the turmoil in me that troubles me."

"Anakin," Qui-Gon says, the spirit drawing closer. "The boy, is it not?"

"Yes, Master. Anakin," Obi-Wan says. "I am losing him. This revelation about Darth Sidious, Palpatine…the betrayal is killing him, and I am losing him. I don't know what to say. I don't what to do. But I have to do something."

Qui-Gon shakes his head slowly. "No. No, you don't."

"What?"

"It is easy, I know. Too easy to see the Force as a battle of wills, as the tug of Light and Dark at odds," Qui-Gon says, "but that is such a simplistic view. Reach out to the Living Force. Feel it as it connects you to life, not just to the Jedi and the Sith and the Light and the Dark but all life, simple life and complex life, peaceful life and militant life. There is a lesson to be learned from the smallest insect, just as there is from a Jedi Master. There is so, so much life in this galaxy, Obi-Wan, and so little of it will ever know the Jedi and the Sith. Yet all of it is connected through the Force. The power of our orders, it is of politics, of war, of arms. But that is not the Force. The Force is life. It is unity. It is every minute of every day across every life-bearing planet. Every cell, every cradle, every deathbed. You have not lost the boy at all. You have only just begun to find him."

Obi-Wan shakes his head. "I don't understand."

Qui-Gon leans back, a warm smile on his face. "There are so many things I wished to teach you. So many things to say that I never had the chance to speak," he says. "But I can tell you this now, and I can only hope that you'll listen to an old fool's words: If the Dark Side is pulling on Anakin, let it pull."

"I can't. I can't let Dooku turn him, twist him into a monster."

"It isn't about can or cannot. It is about what you must do. Anakin must face the Dark Side. He must know what is inside him. Look it in the eye. See the Force for all that is, not just a contest of wills between Light and Dark," Qui-Gon says. "Only then will he be able to bring balance to the Force. It isn't about strength, the prophecy. It has nothing to do with Light and Dark. Balance is a union. A marriage of all things, all life. Not a line, but a circle. That is what Anakin must see. And you must let him see it. For his sake—and your own."

"My own?"

Qui-Gon's smile dies. "The Jedi will not be forever," he says. "Not in its current form. Not as you know it. All things die, and the Jedi are not immune. Among all the lessons I wished to have shared with you, there is one I cannot ignore. One I must teach you still, even as I am, even from beyond your physical world. And I can only hope you are ready when the time for that lesson comes, Obi-Wan—because like the Jedi, you are not forever, either. Just as I was not."