The moment that Mace dies, Depa knows.
The Force constricts, a vice around her lungs. She is choking, one hand to her chest, dizzy and nauseous and — and —
HOW?
The Force has never felt like this. It has hurt and it has helped. It has been the deepest shadow and it has been a warm blanket against the chill of night. But never has it been this, driving the air from her lungs in so swift and decisive a blow.
Nearly as long as she can remember, there has been Mace. The warm glow of connection linking her mind to his, padawan to master, daughter to father. He has been a constant presence in the back of her mind for nearly three decades, always there - shielded, certainly, but there nonetheless. Now he is gone. The signature at the other end of the tendril that has brought her such comfort over the years is gone, torn away, leaving a gaping wound in its place. Nothingness. Depa feels as though she must be bleeding into the force.
"Mace," she whispers, and stumbles.
So caught up is she in the shock of this initial blow, she could have missed what comes next. Perhaps it would have been a kinder death if she had.
She can scarcely remember a time before she had been Mace's padawan. But there had been a time before that. There had been friends, crechemates and crechemasters and teachers turned comrades. Their bonds are long since dormant, but in the Force, they are brilliant, twinkling stars against the velvet of the night sky, distant but ever there, a thousand pinpricks of light.
The Force blares a final, terrible warning.
One by one, in swift succession, those lights begin to blink out.
She hears the distinct clicks of thirty blasters behind her.
There is no time to think. No time even to mourn. And there is no need to mourn. She will be with them again soon enough.
"Run, Caleb!" she shouts, and the clones open fire. Green light begins to flash through the air, covering her padawan's retreat. This is all that is left.
Caleb will know the moment she dies, too.