Translation guide from Mando'a:

aruetii = "traitor" or "foreigner"
beskar'gam = "armor" (don't worry I won't use this every time)
braala = "hero"
Cabur'alor = "Regent." Literally means "guardian leader."
demagolka = "monster." Specifically an individual who has done terrible things. Derogatory.
Evaar'prica be Manda'yaim. Al'verde be Kyr'tsad. Cabur'alor be Manda'yaim. = "Princess of Mandalore. Commander of Death Watch. Regent of Mandalore."
Kyr'tsad = "Death Watch" (will only used when a character is speaking Mando'a)
Mand'alor = "sole ruler"
oriya/e = "city." "e" suffix indicates plural form
rugame = "balls"
Ruug'verda = "Ancestors." Literally means "old warriors" but is more commonly used for the former
Solus'alor = "Councilor." Literally means "united leader."
verd/e = "warrior." "e" suffix indicates plural form.

XXX

Bo-Katan Kryze

XXX

Rarely in her life had she ever had the opportunity for genuine leisure. It was one of her earliest memories that her father had placed her in a parlor before an instructor to begin learning Mand'oa in both its current and old forms. Toys vanished and were replaced by packets of makeup, the days to the country to learn how to ride strills lessened while those spent performing recitals for formal dance increased, and the casual, home-cooked meals of her mother set for her at the family table became subducted under rigorous recitals of proper dinner etiquette in the Hall of Pikes.

Evaar'prica be Manda'yaim. Al'verde be Kyr'tsad. Cabur'alor be Manda'yaim.

Precious titles that had been collected like children scooping freshly won marbles from the field. But where had the little girl who playfully squeezed her father's cheeks when she sat on his lap gone to in the meantime? She had felt like that child, blinked, and was then thrust headfirst into the adult realm of politics, subterfuge, and conflict.

It was all so exhausting. But once it started, she could not stop it. This was who she was now, and who she had to be until—

Perhaps there was no "until." Her face contorted in the grim reflection of her holocapture, a dark gray visage until it flickered to life with a colored depiction. The gauntness did not disappear. So be it.

Fenn Rau already looked exasperated, his miniature form pacing back and forth out of view of his holoprojector. "Unbelievable that he had the rugame to pull such a stunt," the Protector ground out, rubbing one eye awake; it was still very early for Concord Dawn, even if it was approaching noon on Mandalore. "Even over here my men are gossiping about it in the mess hall. I don't know why they are—"

"Because it's something different," Primir said quietly. "The people have been yearning for something to upset the status quo of the current election; now they have it."

"You mean the terrorist attacks haven't been doing it for them?" Bo-Katan bit out.

"We are not your antagonists, my lady," the older Mandalorian said. "But that aside, you know that is not what I meant. You have seen the statistics for yourself; the vote lines have almost entirely been split along the lines of the atiil or ori'kar save for you, who is the only one alive with a history of unifying beyond those traditional boundaries."

He tapped something out of a view, and then the secondary viewscreen on her end came alive with a live holo of Saxon's stunt being taken down from the Magister Building. Seeing it again filled her with fresh resentment and perplexity, but also—?

As if I could ever respect the man. Never.

"Gar Saxon is defying those boundaries now, too," Primir was saying. "He is not sponsored by Aurelius or any other meaningful figure of Clan Saxon; instead, it just seems to be himself and perhaps a small party of people. It's entirely grassroots, and such determination and defiance to the classical authority and procedure is exactly what captures the respect of real Mandalorians."

She flinched. "Real Mandalorians would never respect him, let alone vote for him."

"Already they are," he replied darkly. "A fresh poll was held overnight; he's already beat out Silva Skirata."

"Impossible." She hadn't meant to speak her thoughts aloud, but— "Impossible!"

"Believe it," Primir said with a fresh bite of impatience. "Because if Silva had already been admitted to the First Primary, then Saxon must also—"

"Impossible!" Was this forlorn excuse of a man always going to hover in the periphery of her vision now, to haunt her like a flesh-and-blood specter? This man, who had sided with Maul? This man, who had gladly killed so many of his fellow Mandalorians in the name of that aruetii? This man, who no longer even possessed a suit of beskar'gam to claim he was still a Mandalorian?

"My Lady," Fenn said cautiously. "It… I mean, his entrance into the elections is annoying, yes, but you still have the lead. There's no need to be…" He could not finish it; his military discipline forbade he talk back to a superior, even one he called a friend.

Forcing brevity into her voice, it came out only a rung lower than a snap. "He is hardly a Mandalorian anymore. That's why I'm so furious. Why would anyone vote for an aruetii like him? He was just released from prison—twice!"

"Mandalorians loves an underdog." Primir smiled ruefully. "Why else do you think so many chose to serve you after Vizsla's death?"

"Because I was the true representation of Mandalore!" She was shocked he could even question that, and perhaps a little hurt. "What are you talking about with this 'underdog' nonsense. The people will always side with the true incarnation of the Mandalorian tradition. That's been true since Mandalore the Great!"

"There's never been an occupying force on Mandalore, either."

"Why are you—?" She cut herself off, taking a deep breath for another attempt at calm. "What are you trying to tell me here, Primir, Fenn? Should I just ignore Saxon and everything he stands for while he pollutes our culture?"

A sense of unease went over Fenn's face. "I hate Gar Saxon as much as you do, Lady Kryze, but to go as far as to call him aruetii… no, I don't think I could go that far." He looked to the side, as if trying to get Primir's support. But the old man was quiet now, studying Bo-Katan. "I think you're developing an unhealthy fixation with the man," Fenn added at last and with great effort. "He… is a problem, yes, but he is far from your biggest obstacle right now."

"Fenn is right." Primir showed no guilt for having let the other do the hard part; she saw now that both had likely talked about this behind her back. "Now is the time to focus on your campaign, on the First Primary. There is less than a week to prepare for it, when Gar Saxon will hold for much longer!"

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Were they already forgetting what the Siege of Mandalore had cost the planet? The lives, the infrastructure, the history? How it had all come at the behest of Gar Saxon, agent of Maul?

They don't get it because they weren't there, she realized. They didn't experience it directly, what was brought down onto Sundari and elsewhere on the surface.

They don't get Gar Saxon.

"We'll attend to this later. Thanks for listening to me, as always." Both Fenn and Primir opened their mouths to speak before their forms fizzled out. The holocapture faded in color until there was only the dark gray reflection once more.

Immediately she felt she had made a mistake, but as soon as it came over her she could not determine why the feeling was there at all. Was it because she was here in private quarters debating with the two men instead of being down with her Solus'alore below? A twinge of guilt for that stabbed her stomach, but that was an old thought. This was something different.

What, then? She echoed it throughout her skull again and again, but she could find no answer.

Why was it that she could no longer produce those answers? When she had taken over Death Watch and reformed it into the resistance against Maul she had led so coolly, so practically, so rightly? Every step she had taken had put them closer to undermining Maul and his puppet Almec, every battle she had waged had courted the support of the greater populace.

It had all been so easy then. Why was it no longer the case?

The Empire. The politics. Her fists tightened. Gar Saxon.

So what if she was becoming obsessed with him? Saxon was a menace, like a bad cut that never went away, that became infected when you least expected. He represented outdated thinking and disturbing ideals, a Mandalorian who had been compelled to reject the pure cause she had championed in favor of a darker, twisted agenda. To have a man like him in power of her beloved planet was unthinkable!

She stopped pacing; she hadn't even known she had begun. But an ugly thought had snuck into her, taking advantage of the whirlwind of thinking to be caught up in the storm.

What if she was no longer pure?

Absurd. How could I not be? All I have ever done is for Mandalore, and all I ever will do is for Mandalore. The people see that, that is why they vote for me—

Then why were other candidates getting votes at all?

Some Mandalorians can be mistaken. They can see emulations of purity in others.

Then what did they see in an aruetii, a demagolka, a—

WHAT DO THEY SEE IN GAR SAXON?

It occurred to her how crazed she must look, wringing her hands at nothing and pacing all about her room. The image would only be more complete if she was shouting at herself. She counted herself lucky she had decided to not descend into the headquarters with her Solus'alore, who would only pile on her fresh worries, fresh distractions. Even dear Sarri, a confidant she treasured just as much as Primir Wren or his daughter Ursa, or Fenn Rau, or even Kenobi—

Kenobi is dead. Just like Ahsoka Tano. Just like Satine. Just like Father.

I have to figure this out myself.

But the paralysis of indecision and doubt was clouding her. Could she call upon Primir and Fenn again? No, not when they did not understand what was happening. Could she still turn to Sarri, her ally who was also the brother to the enemy of Mandalore? Likely not; she suspected Tiber was certainly colluding in some form with Gar, the incident at his trial still standing out to her. And hadn't Sarri brought up the damning contradiction in her evidence?

Was she also an aruetii, then, for working with one?

The insanity of the conclusion filled her with shame and she held her arms around her stomach. If one possible fact could be unshakeable, it was that there was no possible way a verd as true as Sarri could turn on her. Bo-Katan was her braala, her Cabur'alor. If Sarri were incapable of being trusted, then it could only mean the fabric of Mandalorian society had become undone.

Which could not be the case. Which meant Bo-Katan was wrong; the sense of having made a mistake snuck up on her senses again, though she still did not have an answer.

Father would have had it. Or Satine. I wish… I wish I could talk to you both again. Not even for this, just to…

I just want to be close to you again.

A beep came the terminal, bringing her out of her emotions. Frustration threatened to overwhelm her and she choked it down. She clicked for it to come through. "Yes?"

"Lady Kryze?" It was Sarri's voice, a hint of concern beneath the cordial respect. "We were wondering if you could join us below. We have fresh reports from the Contessa for your review. There's also some concerns raised by some of the oriye about the food rationing procedure that need your—"

More worries. More distractions. Just as she had predicted. She sighed, lowering her head away from the calm. What she would do to be that kid again, sneaking off with Satine to break the rules, to be innocent and free of it all…

And why shouldn't she? She was the Cabur'alor; what other Mandalorian could criticize the very face of Mandalore?

Her finger dipped upon the comm switch. "I'm taken ill today, Sarri," she replied with the perfect rasp. "I won't be joining you today, I apologize."

"I'll send a doctor to check on you right away."

"One already came through," she lied quickly. "Please just… send up the reports. If I have the energy, I'll get a start on them tonight. For now, all I need is rest."

A pause on the other end, some muttered voices. Then: "As you wish it, my lady. Please feel better soon." Another pause. "And if you feel the need to talk to someone, I am available."

"Thank you, Solus'alor. I will remember that." She cut the connection and smiled.

It was high time for a swim.

XXX

Getting past her two guards filled her with little guilt, for she knew they had stomached much worse than something as small as playful deception. They accepted her command to stay at their post dutifully, to which they had her thanks. The remorse faded soon after.

The turbolift took her as far down as it could, leaving her to traverse the many flights of uneven cobblestone steps. Her feet were much larger than when she had first been brought down here as a little girl, but the memories of that youthful time became all the more vivid the deeper she went. Her hand traced along the murals carved into the walls, letting them steady her balance.

Nobody was this deep down in Sundari Palace. She suspected nobody had been down since her last time here with Adonai, Satine, and the few chosen witnesses. This was a sacred place, meant only for the Mand'alor and royal family to come and go from, and even then only on special occasion. These cultural parameters were the only needed guardians for this place.

The faint smell of moss and chemicals wafted to her nose as she continued the descent, as did distant sounds of metal meeting rock. High above her she could see boreholes in the rock, where great mining machines had punched through into the cavern. The Mines of Mandalore were so big as to be utterly immeasurable in size, chewing through much of the planet's mantle as its people dug in search of precious beskar. In a way, their labors were just as sacred as the royal family's; the boreholes stayed uncovered, evidence of their pursuits of the metal that had made Mandalore what it was.

The stairs ended abruptly before a meticulously carved doorway. This, too, was familiar. Her bare hand rubbed over the crude rock before stepping through.

Into a place of memories.

"This was once the den of an enormous, fearsome creature called the mythosaur. Yes, that mythosaur." Adonai Kryze had never looked 'young' to his daughters, the white hair and weathered face characteristics he'd held as if all his life. But they gave him a kindly impression, and the age in his tone often made for great storytelling. Bo-Katan and Satine could scarcely contain their excitement.

He could see their energy and he smiled, but at his side his hand lowered to ask for their patience. "It was hulking, mighty, and those on the surface were held in constant fear and awe of it. But there was one among those above who refused to be held back by either emotion. He came down here and fought the beast with weapons and armor he had fashioned from beskar and defeated the mythosaur in the water."

"He killed it?" Satine asked out of turn. The other attendants immediately hushed her, but now it was Adonai's turn to bid their silence.

"No. He defeated it and then climbed upon its neck. He ordered the beast to obey him, lest he repeat the humiliation he had just given it. The mythosaur, as prideful as the one who had bested it, allowed itself to be tamed. Man and beast emerged onto the surface, where both could be held in fear and awe. And the people anointed him as Mandalore the Great."

Adonai's turquoise eyes went out into the calm waters before them. "Because he had reborn as Mandalore the Great, the waters of this place became known as the Living Waters, and those who came after him came down to bathe, in hopes they do might be reborn into the proper verde they were meant to be. This tradition has been passed down forever, and as I once had my turn in these Living Waters, so is it your turn now, Bo-Katan."

She was eight. The orange hair, bright like her late mother's, was much longer and sprayed out to touch her upper back. A white gown with little insulation covered her from neck to ankle; she shivered in the chill of the cavern.

She was also nervous. She looked back to Satine, who smiled encouragingly to her. To Adonai, who nodded his head with a different sort of smile. One that bespoke to the proudness he felt.

Gulping, she stepped away from Satine's side to dip her first toe in—

SPLASH!

She plunged deep below the surface with her sharp dive, embracing the icy burn of the water on her skin. The memory just as quickly vanished from her mind as she allowed herself to live in the moment, breathing in the stale yet comforting air of the Living Waters. Her gown, this time a pale shade of blue, was sopping wet but she did not care; who would question it?

The Living Waters were the ceremonial right of the royal house. They who bathed in it became awash with the same chills that Mandalore the Great had faced when he overcame the mythosaur, became instilled with whatever vigor and mindset he had had that day. When one emerged from it, they were no longer the unsure soul they had once been.

Decades later she still somewhat believed it. The mythosaur she had long ago decided was an abject myth, the battle a metaphor for Mandalore the Great overcoming great odds to unify the disparate clans under his name. But she saw no reason to discount that he had come here long ago to seek refreshment and confidence in this cave littered with sparkling beskar ore.

But sometimes, well after both she and Satine had had their respective bathes in the Living Waters, they would playfully come down here to swim again. There were pools both at home in Keldabe and when they came to visit Sundari, but swimming in those did not fill the childlike Bo-Katan with wonder or daring. They were "safe" escapes. Satine, ever the timid one, always needed convincing to come with her, but though she complained the whole way she was always just as excited to swim in the Living Waters as her sister.

It was one of the few times they could be genuine sisters, genuine children free of the concerns and duties of the royal house. No one came to look for them down here. They would tell each other stories of the new boy they liked, or how Almec was such a jabbering lout, or that the dress they had worn the night before really didn't match their eyes, but of course Father insisted they wear it because it had once belonged to the daughter of Mandalore the Dissenter—

The adult Bo-Katan smiled, her face half-submerged in the drink. How simple it was then.

She swam a few laps, the chill of the first splash waning as her body became desensitized to it. The robe did not dampen her strokes; she felt lithe and free, more so than when she was out the water. The beskar glinted above her like stars, winking at her.

After some time she swam to the water's edge and heaved herself to sit on the bottom step, so that her lower half would remain submerged. She could feel the sacred waters dripping down her face and back, but now that she was out the robe clung to uncomfortable. With a few moves she stripped it off her back, letting it fall wetly to the ground. Bare skin touched the ancient air.

I miss you, Satine. So much.

There had been only a handful of times it really registered her sister was dead and gone early on. With the revolt against Maul underway, there had been little time to process that and let herself experience the grief. A memorial had been held after the Siege to honor Satine, whose body had been given a merciful casket next to their Father's on Kalevala, the planet of Clan Kryze. They rested with the Ruug'verda, and one day Bo-Katan hoped she, too, would rest there.

But it wasn't your time. Neither of you were supposed to leave me this early. Her arms wrapped around her bare body. Why did you have to leave me to sort this out alone?

Fresh tears came out of her eyes as she held herself. So rare it was to receive any hug, or to even offer herself warm affection. To feel that touch was to remember her family could no longer give it, to know that only Bo-Katan was the last of the royal House of Kryze.

She opened her eyes to wipe away the tear trails. She would take a final plunge to feel the cold and let it wash away the regret, then—

A glitter. Not of the beskar above, but something on the ground near the water's edge. Frowning, she scooped her legs from the water and crawled over to the shine.

It was only a bracelet, silver with the earliest red-brown of rust starting to blemish the metal from its proximity to the water. That spoke to its recency, but who would have been down here if—

The Cabur'alor choked back a sob. She had been wrong: Satine had come down here in her own adulthood, to distance herself from the efforts of leadership and seek the guileless Living Waters.

What did you seek to escape, sister? The day-to-day operations? The backlash from the pacifist clause? She swallowed painfully. My flight from you? I'm sorry if it was that. I'm so sorry. I wouldn't have, if I knew this was the future for both of us. I'm sorry…

She picked up the rusting silver and moved back to the water's edge. Small grooves had been cut into it and her finger traced along them affectionately.

I wish I could speak with you. I don't know what to do.

"Why would speak with her?"

Her eyes shot open and the bracelet tumbled from her grasp; it slid over the edge and vanished into the pool. She looked up to her left, disbelieving. It was impossible, and yet—

"She did not understand what it was to be Mandalorian." Pre Vizsla dipped a gloved hand into the Living Waters, letting it sink up to the flamethrower spout on the gauntlet. He scooped out some of the sacred liquid in his palm and made to bring it to his lips as if to drink, but it all spilled before it made it there. His angular chin jutted in annoyance.

Bo-Katan stared. "You're… you're dead. I saw you." She suddenly remembered her chest was exposed and snatched up the robe to haphazardly cover herself.

The older man made no indication he had seen her nakedness, but his other hand came up to gently stroke his neck. "I am the Mand'alor. As long as this planet breathes, I cannot die."

She shook her head. "You're dead, Pre. I… we all saw it. What Maul did to you. How can you be here?"

"I cannot die." He again tried to drink from the Living Waters, but it continued to drizzle out. He at last turned to look at her, the pale blue eyes so familiar in their intensity. "Why do you continue to ask your pathetic sister for advice? Was I not the one you thought had the answers?"

"I—"

"If that weren't the case, you wouldn't have kept making the trips to Concordia. You would've stayed her lap dog and followed her in her quest to neuter our people." He sniffed disparagingly. "If you had wanted to follow her example, you would be continuing that inane dream of hers."

"Stop, stop." She held up a desperate hand; real or not, she felt the impulsive need to defend herself. "I… I disagreed with her. I didn't want Mandalore to lose its traditions. But she wasn't pathetic; she fought when she had to, and believed that's what was best for Mandalore!"

"But it wasn't. We both know that."

"So what?" she retorted, feeling odd to be conversing with the dead man. "A Mandalorian follows the path they hold correct, even if it goes off the common trail. How else would he have figures like Mandalore the Dissenter, Mandalore the Preserver—you! You… you went off the track she was laying, too, acting as her faithful governor when you were plotting against her the whole time!"

Vizsla nodded at the accusation. "So what if I did? She was not fit to be Mand'alor and she knew it; that's why she never bothered to claim the title. In doing so she invalidated herself as a leader. She's not the one you should be listening to; it should be me! I was the Mand'alor!"

She stood, feeling her body trembling. Pre Vizsla stood up as well, a few inches taller and much bulkier in his armor.

"She's my sister," she whispered. "I didn't mean for her to die. I wanted her to be there to guide us when we overthrew her, to be our advisor."

"But you still wanted her gone," the man sneered. "And you knew deep down that I wouldn't have held her in such a position. She would have rotted in the depths of Sundari's prisons for having betrayed her people and culture in such a way. That is the fate she deserved."

"You're wrong. Nobody deserves that fate."

"Not even Gar Saxon?"

She scoffed dismissively. "He's hardly a Mandalorian anymore. He doesn't count."

"But I imagine he would claim the title of Mand'alor." Vizsla put on a thoughtful expression. "Perhaps I should have chosen him over you to be my lieutenant. He has the grit and desire, after all. All you ever gave me was the royal name and its legitimacy." He paused, musing. "The perfect tool, not so much the Mandalorian I needed."

A stone formed in her throat and gently oozed its way down her chest. "No. No, that's not true, either. You wanted me because I was a true Mandalorian. Because I shared your ideals—"

"Are you one?" His eyes narrowed to slits. "Then claim the title of Mand'alor. Lead the people again against this foreign oppressor. Restore the Mandalore I fought for!"

"That you died for, and that dream died with you! We cannot fight the Empire!"

Vizsla's lips curled into a snarl. "Then my actions were for naught, and my legacy will become ashes to mix in with those of your failure."

"What are you—no!"

But he was blackening, the armor and skin losing its color as if an internal virus was suddenly activated. Little by little the armor began to crumble and break off, sloughing off the sides into black clouds. The eyes burned with fiery intensity and malice until they, too, lost their color and humanity. A black statue of the former leader of Death Watch wobbled uncertainly before her.

Disbelieving, she reached out a hand to touch it—

It exploded into a dark storm of ash, blinding her. She fell onto her back, choking the air from her lungs—

The black cloud eased somewhat, but not because it had gone away. It had spread out before her, covering the whole expanse of the hill she now stood on. The sky was a sickly orangey-red where intimidating dark clouds of smoke did not blot it out. Fresh air evaded her; her lungs breathed in an acrid imitation of oxygen, scalding them and making her retch.

In the distance, a figure.

Her eyes squinted through the murky air. Armor as dark as the ash encased them and gave their human form a bulky outline, though their head was without the smooth top of a helmet. But she could not make them out—

The figure moved, their right arm slowly drawing out so that it was perfectly horizontal to the body. Something was in their hand—

A black bar emitted from the object, further projecting out horizontally. She gasped and immediately doubled over from the toxicity of the air, falling to a knee. Armor she had not known she was wearing, scarred and damaged, clanked pitifully around her. If she could only have the strength to aim her gauntlet, kill the other and claim it—

The Darksaber.

An ancient lightsaber, made thousands ago by Tar Vizsla. It passed through the hands of many Mand'alore, though in the end it had found its way into the hand of another of Tar's descendants: Pre Vizsla. But he had lost it—no, more than lost it, been executed with it—to Maul, and it had not been found since his disappearance.

The helmetless figure had no horns upon their head, and Maul had never worn beskar'gam of any kind. Who, then, was wielding it?

The Darksaber began to swing upward. Her eyes tracked it as it finished its motion to now hover vertically above the figure's head. It stayed there for a long moment, then suddenly cut down to stab straight ahead of its wielder, whose back was turned to her.

So focused she had been on first the dark specter and then the weapon it carried, she had not realized what was in the background. Her eyes widened as she recognized the dome, the tall prick of white light that stood tall within it—

Sundari.

An unfamiliar whine began to be heard overhead. With great effort, for her head now felt so heavy with the lack of oxygen in her system, she craned her eyes up.

A pair of wide bombers passed over head. She could tell that was their designation by the slowness of the fighters rushing past them, as well as by the second ordinance payload to the right of the cockpit. Its wings were black and silver and bent, bearing similarities to solar panels. It glided overhead in the direction of the Darksaber—

Another pair flew overhead. Then another, and another, until it seemed like a flock of massive birds of prey were suddenly descending upon the glorious city.

"No—!" But the words came out raspy and quiet as the putrid, contaminated air crushed the strength of her lungs. She rolled over onto her side, holding herself again as the pain in her chest increased. In the distance she began to hear the horrific sounds of explosions as the payloads began to fall. Sundari's dome was not meant to withstand such a beating, she had to stop this—

Footsteps crunched close to her. Bleary eyes opened to look up at the figure standing over her. Her vision was fading and the darkness of the ash seemed to blend with the other's skin, but she could not be sure. All she could truly make out was the Darksaber raising, high into air, and then coming down to her. It struck and she cried out, rolling her body away from the blow—

Water filled her nostrils and mouth. For a moment an even greater panic overtook her, but her body was already reflexively reacting and trying to escape the sudden drink. She took control of her limbs and began a steadier swim. She could see hundreds of twinkling lights just above—

With a gasp she broke the surface. She was back in the rocky chamber of the Living Waters. The air was stale but not toxic, the lighting dim but not clouded with ash. Desperately her fingers found the bottom stair at the edge and she hauled her entire body free of the pool, taking long and shaking breaths.

A nightmare? A vision?

She swept her gaze around the small standing space; no sign of Pre Vizsla, either. Another apparition.

Why? What was that supposed to tell me?

She knew that the Jedi had been keen to visions, both of the past and future. Ahsoka had explained them as vivid, as if the Jedi themself was being transported into the scene to experience it.

But the Jedi always operated through the Force. Bo-Katan believed the Force to be more real the mythosaur, but she knew she did not have that power.

How then? She swallowed. Father? Satine? She hesitated. Kenobi? Are you trying to show me something?

No response. Vizsla?

Dead quiet, save for the gentle lapping of the pool at the edge.

Who was the figure with the Darksaber? I need to know. Tell me how to stop this from coming to pass!

No response. "Tell me!" she shouted, losing what little sense of calm and integrity she had left in her shivering body. She walked all about the chamber for a sign, a glimmer, the blue robe trailing unceremoniously behind her. "What am I supposed to do! Who am I meant to stop!"

No response. "Please!"

But there was nothing. She was alone.

The quickened breathes gradually returned to normal, even ones. She took refuge in the air, but the sense of unease refused to leave.

But she knew she had to. Who knew how long had passed; what she had meant to be a short escape below had extended into who knew how long. They would be searching for her. It was time to leave the safe haven and return to the world she had been groomed for.

A final tear came from her eye. No, she did know when the innocence of her childhood had died after all. She had just not wanted to remember it was her own Father that had insisted it be taken from her.

She cast a final look around to try and pick out Satine's bracelet. But with a grimness in her heart, she knew that been real and not the vision; the Living Waters had claimed her sister for good.

Alone, she quietly began to ascend the stairs to the surface.