CHAPTER ONE

OBI-WAN COULD only remember being scared lifetimes ago, under Qui-Gon. Since then he had engaged darkness face-to-face, submitted to loss, and nearly died in the line of duty on innumerable occasions—all in accordance with the Jedi code. That was his life's work and he understood it would carry onto his final moments, whenever they might be.

There existed one exception to this seemingly inflexible reality: Anakin.

He was so much more than a promising Jedi—in fact, beyond Obi-Wan's preferred admittances, the man was so far from that destiny. His heart was a furnace that set wildfire upon anything that threatened it, a thing that responded to fears in ways that any other Jedi would frown upon. But Obi-Wan couldn't imagine a better galaxy without it. This flaw, though reprehensible it was in the eyes of his order, thrived off of beautiful values: love, passion, empathy—brotherhood. It was the stuff of a good man.

Today, the very fabric of the galaxy conspired to break that heart. Anakin's love worked against him; his passion to carry the light forward in his life, in the lives of others, was burned out; his empathy was rendered all but meaningless by the apathy of those he wanted to trust in.

And his brother failed to stand by him, and by Ahsoka.

Failure. That's what made Obi-Wan recall fear.

NO NIGHT ON Coruscant failed to carry on a certain everlasting density—the weft of millions upon millions of people, the stench of constant industrialization, the shimmer of lights that helped promote this and that . . . That was the machine of Republic civility.

For as long as he could remember, Anakin never stopped seeing it all for the first time. Finding a greater calling, finding freedom, finding progress—this place immortalized those desires for him, for his mother. This was the grand castle that granted significance and conscience. For Anakin this was the heart of hopes and dreams, and he gave everything he could for it.

How he longed for the charming simplicity of the days that came before Christophsis; before Ahsoka. Maybe he was his best self then. Maybe there was no presence strong enough to turn everything he had come to feel and understand about the galaxy and what he did for it on its head—not even Obi-Wan's classic penchant for red-faced criticism.

To say the least, Ahsoka was a . . . stifling reminder of what it was like trying to prove his own worth, trying to live up to a standard that hounded him with every step. He could see that if not for the war and its constant demand for his service in guarding against evil, he would never have been "good enough" for Jedi Knight-status—and at her core she was no different; without him, she wasn't long for a career within the order. So, painstaking though it was, he had taken her under his wing and done his best to drill responsibility, discipline, and discretion into her—and many times, she found a way to turn the lessons back on him in muddied moments. They had a friendship—a concept that Anakin was no stranger to—but they also had so much more, something sacred, something that just made any horizon . . . brighter. Despite his long-standing accolades of bravado and courage, they mainly existed to temper a darker side that he couldn't dare to let anyone see—but more often than not, it was having her around that actually helped him work through it. For Anakin, there was no longer a better self that existed without her.

But she walked away, because the castle of hopes and dreams that they fought and bled for together—the one that he vowed to prove his worth to—revealed its gut-wrenching truth: that it wanted nothing to do with what they had. It didn't think twice before turning away from its own, didn't believe in its own foundation, didn't hold a smidgeon of trust. To Anakin, nothing was more insidious.

Oh, so dense Coruscant turned one of the galaxy's most wholehearted men empty.

A hand fell lightly—too lightly—on Anakin's shoulder.

He closed the sight of the Temple steps out of his vision, only to find himself heaving and inhaling the toxic winds wafting about the air.

"Anakin," he heard his master say.

"Don't—" He shrugged him off. "Just don't."

Of all the people he could be having words with, Obi-Wan was on the farthest end of that list. Where was he when Anakin needed him? When she needed him? But still he felt the man like a raincloud, struggling to reconcile his loyalties to Anakin and to his, as Ventress would say, precious Jedi Order.

A light drop of water pattered onto Anakin's hair. It served to disturb faintly.

After a moment of silence: "Please, Anakin—just hear me."

Anakin found himself snapped into a fiery turn to face him. "Hear you? So you've finally got something to say, huh? Now that the Council's verdict is set in stone? No thanks to you."

An irritable grimace formed on Obi-Wan's stern features. "It was her decision, Anakin. You know that."

"Maybe because they turned their backs on her! Is this what we are now—too proud to admit when we're at fault, to stand up for our own when they need us more than ever?"

"Any other course of action would've gone against how we are to conduct ourselves. I understand these circumstances have been trying, but—"

"But what, Obi-Wan? What excuse would you be making if it had been me?"

That struck deep. Obi-Wan fixed him with a look that expressed so clearly the war that was being waged within. He tried, but he couldn't find an answer.

"Nothing?" Anakin uttered an expectant huff. "What a surprise. Maybe there's only one way to find out."

Holding his master's gaze, he removed his lightsaber from its fixture on his utility belt and tossed it absently. The hilt skittered across the polished ground, landing at the toes of Obi-Wan's boots.

The older man's mouth unhinged in desperation. He eyed the weapon, looked back to its iconic handler.

He espied him walking away.

Obi-Wan was quick to recollect the saber with his left hand. Reaching out with the other as he strode forward, he began to plead. "Wait. Anakin—hold on."

Of course, those words were feeble. His pupil only quickened his pace.

"Stop!" he exclaimed, unleashing an unseemly turmoil.

Anakin stopped in his tracks. In this scene, both men were heedless of the distant thunder and quickening rainfall.

"Look at me."

Begrudgingly, Anakin obliged. Obi-Wan without his typical mask—that's what he would respond to. Nothing less was acceptable—not now. As he turned, he looked into the eyes of a man being broken by the idea of failing.

Failing as what—my master, or my friend?

"I'm . . ." He was battling tears. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?"

"That I couldn't put you first. That I've never been prepared to do it for anyone." Disgrace rolled over Obi-Wan. He resigned himself to looking away, his fingers fumbling for a nonexistent remedy.

The two were monuments of hurt in the splattering night, twenty meters apart. Both eyed the ground between them.

Obi-Wan felt Anakin begin to close the distance between them. His heart raced just as much as his mind did with wonders of what was about to happen, each idea falling apart like shrapnel.

Anakin stood abreast him now, eyeing the side of his inclined head. Leaning lower, he dared to say: "Like Satine?"

Thoughtlessly, Obi-Wan's hand went for a jab at the other man's face. Though reckless the move was, it found its mark, causing its target to stagger back.

—and ever so quickly Obi-Wan was pulled back into reality.

He hit Anakin.

He hit Anakin.

He hit Anakin.

Obi-Wan's eyes settled on his shaking hands, wondering just what he'd been reduced to.

The shock was cut short as soon as he felt a metal fist pummel his face, sending him into the black.