One Week Later...
Lord Vader, Baylan Skoll, and Luke Skywalker —had recently uncovered a revelation. During Vader's visit to Wayland, they discovered that Force entities, such as the ancient and mysterious Wutzek, were immune to the effects of the Ysalamiri.
The Ysalamiri, strange creatures native to the Mid Rim planet Myrkr, were known for their unique ability to create a Force-neutral bubble, severing any connection to the Force within their proximity. Files from Wayland confirmed that Myrkr had become a hub of Ysalamiri harvesting, with rumors pointing to Talon Karrde as one of the key suppliers. Han Solo, ever the opportunist, had passed this intel to Luke, suggesting that Karrde might be selling these creatures to Yuuzhan Vong allies scattered across the Outer Rim—peasants and guerrilla fighters who opposed both Imperial and New Republic forces.
One of the systems implicated in these rumors was the frozen desert world of Mirial. Remote and desolate, it had drawn attention not only for its strategic location but also for whispers of its inhabitants aiding the Vong. Reconnaissance was needed, and for this mission, the responsibility fell to Spectre Seven—otherwise known as the former Seventh Sister—and her partner, Ezra Bridger.
It wasn't their first visit. Years earlier, the pair had traveled to Mirial on a more personal journey: to reunite the Seventh Sister with her family. That trip had been a hopeful attempt to bridge the gap between her dark past and the life she was building alongside Ezra. Her parents, Varus and Velna, had welcomed them warmly, as had her younger brother, Ygnacio Rusis. Since then, the family had kept in touch, mostly through holocalls, and even visited Ezra and the Seventh on Chandrila about a year and a half ago to meet their grandson, Ygnacio Bridger. Named after his uncle.
This time, however, the mission was professional. There would be no leisurely strolls through the capital, and certainly no long, heartfelt conversations over tea. The stakes were higher. Mirial's rumored alliances with the Vong meant danger lurked in every shadow, and the Seventh, or Yalara Rusis, knew better than to put her family at risk.
Yalara and Ezra approached the mission with quiet resolve, their ship cutting through hyperspace like a blade through the dark. The destination was clear, the objective straightforward: gather intelligence.
The cockpit was quiet, save for the steady hum of the ship's systems. Ezra Bridger leaned back in the pilot's seat, his eyes scanning the hyperspace tunnel ahead. The console beeped, a crisp interruption to the stillness.
"We're arriving," he said, his tone casual as he reached for the lever.
Behind him, the Seventh Sister—Spectre Seven—stood up from her seat. She moved to the cockpit, her hands gripping the back of Ezra's chair as she gazed forward. Her presence was steady, the kind of calm that Ezra had come to rely on over the years. He didn't say much—didn't need to. They worked well that way.
With a pull of the lever, the ship snapped back into regular space, stars streaking into pinpricks against the darkness. The Illisurevimurasi Sector stretched before them, and there, in the center of it all, was Mirial.
The frozen desert planet loomed in the viewport, its surface a stark palette of whites and grays. Vast plains of snow were broken by jagged mountain ranges, their dark peaks casting sharp shadows across the landscape. Wisps of clouds swirled in the atmosphere, moving with the kind of restless energy that only a frozen world could hold.
Mirial glowed. The sun of the system sat just behind it, casting light across the surface and refracting through the planet's icy atmosphere. It sparkled faintly, as if dusted with stardust, a divine aura radiating outward. It was hauntingly beautiful, the kind of sight that made even the most hardened warriors pause.
The Seventh stared, her eyes transfixed on the planet. Words failed her, a rare occurrence. She barely noticed Ezra glancing up at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he returned his focus to the controls.
"This time, are we going to land near Drenok and Chesulo?" she asked, her voice breaking the silence.
Ezra chuckled lightly. "Oh yeah, I remember. We landed in the forest near the capital the first time. Hard to believe it's been a few years already."
The Seventh nodded, her gaze still locked on the planet.
Ezra, sensing the gravity of her mood, added awkwardly, "You remember the place where they had that farmers market?"
"Yeah," she replied after a moment. "If we're doing reconnaissance, I prefer we stay somewhere away from my family. Don't want to put them too much at risk."
Ezra tilted his head toward her, his tone softer now. "But we'll see them, right?"
"Of course," she said. "Just not tonight. It's getting late. We'll visit them tomorrow."
Ezra leaned back, hands behind his head. "I sure am a fan of Mirialan accommodations," he said with a grin, clearly remembering their last visit.
The Seventh allowed herself the faintest smile. "Let's just hope they're as good as you remember."
XX
The ship descended smoothly, breaking through the swirling clouds of Mirial's atmosphere. Wind buffeted the hull, the sound of it a low, mournful whistle as they neared the icy plains below. Ezra guided them toward a modest outpost on the outskirts of the capital.
The landing zone was quiet, lit by soft blue lights embedded in the snow. As the ship settled, the Seventh pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.
Ezra exhaled sharply as the ramp lowered, his breath visible in the frigid air. "Yep, just as cold as I remember."
"Keep moving. It doesn't feel as bad if you don't stand still," she advised, stepping out onto the snow.
The outpost was small but functional, a cluster of buildings made from dark stone and reinforced durasteel. It was utilitarian, blending into the snowy backdrop as if designed to be overlooked. Perfect for their purposes.
Inside, the warmth was immediate, a sharp contrast to the cold outside. The innkeeper, a stoic Mirialan woman with faint green markings across her face, greeted them with a nod. Ezra handled the exchange, his easy charm coaxing a small smile from the otherwise reserved woman.
Their room was sparse but comfortable. A single window overlooked the snowy plains, the glow of the capital visible in the distance. The Seventh stood by the window, her arms crossed as she watched the lights flicker.
"You okay?" Ezra asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
She nodded. "It's strange to be back here."
"You mean Mirial, or..."
"My family." She turned to face him, her expression unreadable. "It's been a while since we've seen them. Our little Ygnacio's grown since then."
Ezra smiled. "Yeah, and your brother is probably running circles around your parents by now."
The Seventh allowed herself a small laugh. "Probably."
The evening passed quietly. They shared a simple meal, talking about nothing in particular—old missions, inside jokes, and the oddities of takeout Mirialan cuisine. It was easy, familiar, the kind of moment that reminded them both of how far they'd come.
As the night deepened, the Seventh stood by the window again, her gaze distant. Ezra watched her from where he sat, sensing the weight of her thoughts but choosing not to press.
Outside, the winds howled softly, carrying with them the promise of a new day and the challenges it would bring.
XX
Frosted landscapes stretch endlessly as the rented speeder hums along the frozen terrain.
Ezra squinted against the winter sunlight, adjusting his scarf higher on his face. "I thought Mirial was cold, but this is ridiculous. My face is freezing off."
Seventh Sister—Yalara, here on Mirial—smirked as she steered the speeder. "You're the one who chose the open model. What did you think would happen?"
"I thought someone would pack a heater." He tapped the dashboard, which offered nothing but a faint hum. "This thing's as cold as your humor."
"Keep complaining, and I'll park us in a snowdrift."
Ezra muttered something under his breath, earning an amused glance from her. They'd reached the outskirts of Drenok, where the fields of frost-draped crops came into view. Snow glistened on rows of sturdy winter vegetables, the muted greens and whites blending into the serene landscape.
"There it is," Yalara said, slowing as the Rusis farm came into view.
The main house stood proud, its timber construction and soft-hued paint blending perfectly into the frosted scenery. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, a promise of warmth inside. A smaller guest house sat adjacent, its quaint design adding to the homey atmosphere. Beyond them, the farm fields stretched out, dotted with droid workers and occasional patches of icicle carrots and frost potatoes.
Ygnacio Rusis stood outside in a thick coat, arms crossed, watching a droid struggle to stack crates. His dark hair was dusted with frost, but his sharp features bore a welcoming grin.
"Sister!" he called out, his voice booming across the yard.
Yalara couldn't help but smile as she parked the speeder. Stepping out, she pulled her hood down, and Ygnacio was on her in moments, sweeping her into a bear hug. "About time you came home."
Ezra stepped out next, offering his hand. Ygnacio clasped it firmly, pulling him in for a quick, brotherly back-pat.
"Ezra, huh?" Ygnacio smirked. "I assume you're still good enough to keep up with my sister."
Ezra grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"Come inside before you freeze your faces off," Ygnacio said, gesturing toward the house.
As they walked, Yalara gave her brother a pointed look—serious, calculating.
Ygnacio caught it immediately. "You're here for business, aren't you?"
She nodded. "You've heard what's been happening."
"Our parents have, too," Ygnacio said, voice low. "They'll fill you in over dinner. For now, relax. We'll talk when the time's right."
XX
The aroma of Mirialan spices filled the rustic kitchen. Velna Rusis was a force of nature in the kitchen. She moved with practiced efficiency, her hands working quickly to chop frostroot and toss it into the bubbling pot of stew. The rich scent of herbs, smoked fish, and icicle carrots filled the room, making Ezra's stomach rumble loudly.
"You're going to scare the stew away with that noise," Yalara quipped from her seat at the table.
"Blame your mom," Ezra shot back. "It smells too good."
Velna turned, smiling warmly. "Well, it's not every day my daughter comes home. I had to make it special."
"Special is putting it lightly," Ygnacio said, entering with a tray of flatbread. "She's been preparing this all afternoon."
"Stop exaggerating," Velna said, swatting his arm playfully.
The table was set with care: handwoven Mirialan cloth, polished utensils, and flickering candles. The stew was the centerpiece, served in a clay pot that radiated warmth. Flatbread and frostberry preserves lined the sides, completing the feast.
"Let's eat," Varus, Yalara's father, said, taking his seat at the head of the table.
They bowed their heads briefly in prayer, the soft glow of the candles casting shadows on the walls.
The first few minutes of the meal were filled with the quiet clinking of utensils and satisfied murmurs of appreciation. Yalara's family didn't rush through meals—they savored them.
Ezra dipped a piece of flatbread into his stew, nodding appreciatively. "This might be the best meal I've ever had. Rivaling your Beast Bake from a few years back."
Velna chuckled. "Good food takes time and care. Something ration packs will never have."
Ygnacio leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Speaking of time and care, Yalara, we've been hearing things at the farmers market. People are restless. They're talking more about how the New Republic hasn't done enough to support struggling farms. Some are even blaming them for the thefts."
"Thefts?" Ezra asked, his tone sharpening.
"Supplies have been going missing," Varus explained, his deep voice steady. "Tools, crops—sometimes entire crates. It's not just here; it's happening across the region. And the complaints are growing louder."
"People are frustrated," Velna added. "When times get tough, it's easy to look for someone to blame."
"Do you think the thefts are connected to the complaints?" Yalara asked.
"It's possible," Ygnacio said. "But no one's pointing fingers directly. At least, not yet."
After dinner, Yalara and Ezra joined Ygnacio outside near the barn. The cold air bit at their skin, but the privacy was worth it.
"I didn't want to say this in front of Mom and Dad," Ygnacio began, lowering his voice. "But I've seen tracks near the fields—ones that don't belong to any of us."
"What kind of tracks?" Yalara asked.
"Boots. Heavy ones. And they lead toward the forest."
Ezra frowned. "You think someone's scouting your farm?"
"I don't know," Ygnacio admitted. "But it's strange. No one around here wears boots like that."
Yalara exchanged a look with Ezra. "We'll check it out tomorrow."
The following morning...
The forest loomed ahead, its dense trees casting long shadows over the snow.
Yalara and Ezra moved quietly through the trees, their breath visible in the cold air. Ygnacio had stayed behind to tend to the farm, trusting his sister and her companion to handle the investigation.
They followed the tracks Ygnacio had described, leading deeper into the forest. Ezra knelt to examine one of them, brushing snow away to reveal a clear imprint.
"Definitely not local," he said. "These boots are military-grade."
"New Republic?" Yalara asked.
Ezra shook his head. "Could be, but… they're too heavy. Feels more like merc gear."
A rustling sound broke the silence. Both of them froze, hands instinctively moving toward their weapons.
"Did you hear that?" Ezra whispered.
Yalara nodded, her eyes scanning the trees. "We're not alone."
The rustling grew louder, closer. Ezra gripped his lightsaber hilt, ready to ignite it at a moment's notice.
From the dense underbrush, a figure stumbled into view—a Mirialan man, thin and shivering, his tattered clothes clinging to his frame. He collapsed to his knees, his voice barely more than a rasp. "Help me."
Ezra stepped forward without hesitation, crouching beside him. "You're safe now," he said gently, slipping off his cloak and draping it around the man's shoulders.
Yalara crouched nearby, handing over a flask of water and a small packet of rations. "Who are you, and what happened?"
The man gulped down the water, his trembling hands clutching the flask as if it were his lifeline. "I've been... following them. All night," he said between breaths. "A group of armed men. They've been scouting farms... through the valley."
Ezra frowned. "Why would you follow them alone? That's dangerous."
The man's eyes darted up to meet Ezra's. "Someone has to. No one else will. The others here… they're too afraid."
Yalara tilted her head, studying him. "Fair enough." Her voice softened a fraction. "What can you tell us about these men?"
XX
The farmhouse looked abandoned, its wooden shutters hanging loose and the paint peeling from years of exposure to the harsh elements. But the signs of recent activity were unmistakable: fresh footprints in the dirt outside, a faint trail of smoke still curling from the chimney, and a speeder bike hastily hidden beneath a tarp in the barn.
Ezra pushed the door open cautiously, lightsaber in hand but unlit. The air inside was musty, carrying the faint scent of stale sweat and cooked food.
"Looks like they left recently..." Yalara muttered, her saber at the ready.
They moved room by room, their search methodical. In the kitchen, they found discarded wrappers and a small datapad left on the counter. In the living area, a holo of a Mirialan family hung crooked on the wall, untouched despite the apparent departure.
Then they found the basement.
"Well, this is subtle," Yalara remarked dryly, kicking aside a rug to reveal a trapdoor.
Ezra pried it open, revealing a set of rickety wooden stairs leading down. The space below was cramped, dimly lit by a single overhead lamp. Crates lined the walls, some marked with familiar military insignias, others bearing symbols neither of them recognized.
"Hidden weapons cache," Ezra murmured, pulling the lid off one crate to reveal blasters and thermal detonators.
Yalara crouched beside another crate, her brow furrowing as she traced a finger over its markings. "These aren't standard Republic issue."
She flipped open the lid. Inside were neatly folded fabrics, their colors vibrant and alien. "This… looks like Outer Rim trade. This might be the Vong."
Ezra snapped a quick photo on his datapad. "We'll report this. For now, let's note the coordinates and keep moving."
Later that afternoon...
The farmers' market buzzed with life, a stark contrast to the eerie stillness of the farmhouse. Stalls lined the square, filled with everything from freshly harvested crops to handwoven baskets. But as Ezra and Yalara weaved through the crowd, something felt... off.
"Do you see it?" Yalara asked, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.
Ezra nodded. "Yeah. A lot of this wasn't here before."
Fruits with glossy, unnatural skins that shimmered in the sunlight. Fabrics so smooth they seemed to flow like water under the vendors' hands. These weren't Mirialan goods.
Ygnacio's voice crackled in their earpieces. "You're not imagining it. Market data shows a sudden influx of trade, mostly from other sectors in the Outer Rim. It's weirdly concentrated here and a couple of neighboring towns."
Ezra stopped at a stall selling the strange fruits, picking one up to examine it. The vendor, a wiry Mirialan man, smiled nervously. "Exotic imports," he said quickly. "Good price. Five credits."
Ezra set the fruit down. "Where's it from?"
The vendor hesitated. "Outer Rim, I think. Don't know exactly. Just… good business, you know?"
Yalara leaned in, her voice a low whisper. "Last week, mom overheard dissidents here. They were speaking in code—something about Ochi and freedom from the Core."
Ezra's grip tightened on the edge of the stall. "Then we're probably in the right place."
XX
As the day wore on, Ezra and Yalara continued their quiet surveillance, noting symbols and phrases scrawled on the walls near the market. The tension in the air was palpable, as if everyone knew something was coming but no one dared to speak of it.
It wasn't until they returned to their speeder that things escalated.
A group of men emerged from an alley, their movements deliberate and coordinated. They carried makeshift weapons—staffs, blasters, even farming tools.
Ezra stepped forward, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "We're not here to fight."
The leader, a broad-shouldered Mirialan with a jagged scar running down his cheek, scoffed. "You're here to spy. You think we don't know who you are? Jedi aren't welcome here."
Yalara smirked, her hand resting lightly on her blaster. "Funny, considering we just found your stash of weapons. Care to explain how those got there?"
The man's expression darkened. "You wouldn't understand. You live in your shiny temples while the rest of us scrape by."
Ezra's voice softened. "We do understand. And we want to help. But arming yourselves and taking on the New Republic? That's not the way."
The leader's jaw tightened, his grip on his weapon unyielding. "The Core doesn't care about us. Even after the Civil War. If we don't fight for our freedom, who will?"
Before Ezra could respond, evacuations rocked the market square, sending a plume of smoke into the air. Shouts erupted as chaos unfolded around them.
Ezra ignited his lightsaber. "Looks like we're out of time."
Yalara pulled her saber free, her smirk fading into a grim line. "Guess the negotiations are over."
The farmers' market, usually bustling with the everyday rhythm of Mirialan life, was now a chaotic mess. Stalls lay overturned, their colorful wares scattered across the ground. Vendors and shoppers had fled at the first sign of conflict, leaving the square eerily silent save for the hum of Ezra and Seven's ignited lightsabers and the shouts of the approaching dissidents.
There were six of them, each clad in Vonduun crab armor, their movements deliberate and coordinated. The organic armor glistened in the afternoon light, its chitinous plates undulating as if alive. Each carried cloaked biotech grenades, faintly pulsating with alien energy.
Ezra stood at the center of the square, lightsaber held in a defensive stance. Beside him, Yalara—once known as the Seventh Sister—had her dual-bladed lightsaber ignited, its white glow casting sharp shadows across her face.
"This isn't going to end well," Yalara muttered, her tone laced with frustration.
"They won't stand down," Ezra replied, stepping forward.
The dissidents fanned out, forming a loose semicircle. Their leader, a broad-shouldered Mirialan named Tezrin, stepped forward. His armor was more ornate than the others, with sharp, ridged edges and faint blue bioluminescence streaking across its surface. He held a staff-like weapon with a living, writhing appearance.
"You Jedi come here, claiming to help," Tezrin said, his voice echoing unnaturally from beneath his helmet.
"We're not your enemies," Ezra countered, lowering his lightsaber slightly. "The New Republic wants to help—"
"Enough," Tezrin interrupted. "We've seen what their 'help' looks like. The subsidies to small farms under the Empire are gone. It's getting harder for us to survive."
Ezra's jaw tightened. "The Vong will use you and destroy everything you have. You don't know what you're dealing with."
Tezrin raised his weapon. "I disagree, Jedi. The Vong have done more for us than your New Republic ever has. They offered us strength and support when no one else would."
He sneered. "And might I remind you about the hyperspace attacks your government launched? Millions died."
Ezra faltered, unable to respond. Defending Thrawn's actions would only reinforce the dissidents' grievances.
With a sharp gesture, Tezrin signaled his comrades. The dissidents sprang into action, their movements unnervingly fluid for beings clad in heavy armor. Two hurled their cloaked grenades, the orbs vanishing mid-air before detonating in bursts of corrosive energy that splattered the ground with sizzling acid.
Ezra and Yalara leaped apart, the explosions barely missing them. Ezra landed near an overturned stall, slashing his saber to deflect a follow-up blaster bolt. Yalara, with her training, spun her lightsaber in a wide arc, deflecting another shot and sending it careening back toward its source.
"Warch the grenades!" Yalara shouted, vaulting over a cart to engage one of the dissidents in close combat.
Ezra nodded, darting toward a pair of dissidents who were advancing together. The first swung a spineray weapon, its writhing organic form firing barbs at high speed. Ezra deflected them with quick, precise movements of his saber, each impact sparking against the plasma blade.
The second dissident lunged with a jagged, organic blade. Ezra sidestepped, catching the weapon's edge with his saber and twisting to disarm the attacker. The blade clattered to the ground, but the dissident was relentless, slamming into Ezra with the full weight of his armor.
On the other side of the square, Yalara faced a dissident wielding twin daggers, their curved, living edges dripping with venom.
"Cute," Yalara quipped, dodging a swipe and countering with a low kick that sent her opponent stumbling.
She pressed the attack, her lightsaber spinning in tight, controlled arcs. The dissident's armor absorbed several glancing blows, the organic material rippling but holding firm. Frustrated, Yalara switched tactics, using the Force to yank one of the daggers from her opponent's grip.
"You're outmatched," she said, her voice cold.
The dissident snarled, pulling a concealed grenade from his belt and activating it. Yalara reacted instantly, kicking the weapon from his hand and hurling it into the air with the Force. It detonated harmlessly above them, showering the square with faintly glowing particles.
Meanwhile, Tezrin watched the battle unfold, his presence commanding. He stepped forward, raising his staff. The weapon unleashed a pulse of energy that sent Ezra sprawling.
"You're strong, Jedi," Tezrin said, advancing. "But strength won't save you."
Ezra rolled to his feet, his lightsaber humming. "I've faced worse than you."
The two clashed, Tezrin's staff crackling with bioelectricity as it met Ezra's blade. Each strike sent shockwaves through the air, the clash of technology and biology creating a discordant symphony.
Tezrin's armor absorbed every blow, its living surface shifting to counter Ezra's attacks. But Ezra's skill and precision began to tell; he found gaps in the armor, small but telling, and exploited them.
The battle raged on for what felt like an eternity, but eventually, the tide turned. One by one, the dissidents fell, incapacitated by precise strikes and clever tactics.
Yalara stood over her final opponent, her lightsaber pointed at his throat. "Yield."
The dissident hesitated but finally dropped his weapon.
Ezra, panting, deactivated his lightsaber. Around them, the square was littered with unconscious or groaning dissidents. Only Tezrin remained standing, though barely. His armor was cracked and sparking, and his weapon lay broken at his feet.
"You've lost," Ezra said, stepping closer.
Tezrin dropped to his knees, his head bowed. "Do what you will. At least I fought for my people."
Ezra and Yalara bound Tezrin with stun cuffs, securing him to a sturdy bench near the square's edge. They examined the fallen dissidents, peeling back pieces of their armor to reveal the truth.
"These markings," Yalara said, pointing to the bioluminescent patterns etched into the armor's interior. "They're Vong. No doubt about it."
Ezra nodded grimly. "And this tech... it's not just weapons. It's altering them. Enhancing them."
He looked at Tezrin. "Where did you get this?"
Tezrin glared at him. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me," Seventh said, her tone firm but not unkind.
Ezra crossed his arms. "The Vong don't care about you."
"And why do you think the New Republic cares?" Tezrin shot back. "You're just another pawn of the Core Worlds. They were willing to kill millions in the Outer Rim to protect themselves. You show up, wave your lightsabers around, and act like heroes. But you'll leave, just like the Empire did. Just like the Republic before it."
Yalara leaned against a nearby stall, her expression unreadable. "He's got a point. We've seen it before. The galaxy doesn't care about places like this."
Ezra frowned. "That doesn't mean we give up on them."
Tezrin scoffed. "Spare me the moralizing. At least the Vong gave us the means."
Despite their differences, the three continued talking. Slowly, grudgingly, they began to understand each other's perspectives.
Tezrin spoke of the hardships his people faced: droughts, raids, and the New Republic's inability to provide meaningful aid and Hyperspace Attacks. Ezra countered with stories of the Vong's atrocities, painting a vivid picture of what would happen if they were allowed to gain a foothold.
Yalara, ever pragmatic, played devil's advocate, forcing both men to confront uncomfortable truths.
XX
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, the tension in the market square softened into a strained, uneasy quiet. The remnants of the battle were evident in the scorched stalls, scattered debris, and the faint smell of burned materials lingering in the air.
Tezrin sat slumped against the bench where he had been cuffed, his once-defiant posture now tinged with exhaustion. His comrades, still bound and subdued, remained silent, their earlier fervor replaced by wary glances.
Ezra exhaled deeply, stepping closer to Tezrin. "I don't have all the answers. And I won't pretend the New Republic is perfect."
Tezrin's eyes met Ezra's, the fire in them dimmed but not extinguished. "And what is the solution, Jedi? Words won't fill our bellies or improve our people's socioeconomics."
Ezra hesitated, glancing at Yalara, who was observing quietly from the side. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.
"We start by working together," Ezra said finally. "You have a voice. We can bring your plight to the people who can help. It won't be easy, and it won't be immediate, but it's better than giving the Vong a foothold."
Tezrin let out a bitter laugh. "The Core won't listen to us. They never have."
Yalara pushed off the stall she was leaning against, her saber hilt still in her hand. "Maybe not. But they'll listen to him." She gestured to Ezra. "He's been a rebel, a soldier, and now a Jedi. If anyone can make allies, it's him."
Tezrin's gaze shifted between the two, skepticism etched into his features. "And if they don't?"
Ezra crouched down to meet Tezrin at eye level. "Then we'll find another way. But it has to start with trust. Trust that we're here to help—not as enemies, but as allies."
For a long moment, Tezrin said nothing. The weight of his people's suffering, his own doubts, and the battles they'd fought hung heavy in the air. Finally, he gave a small, reluctant nod. "You'll have one chance, Jedi. Just one."
Ezra stood and turned to Yalara, who gave him a faint smirk. "You really know how to work a crowd, don't you?"
"Not exactly what I'd call a crowd," Ezra muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Yalara's smirk widened. "Close enough."
Before the night ended, Tezrin finally gave them something useful.
"There's a shipyard," he said reluctantly. "Pii III System. That's where the Vong tech comes from."
Ezra exchanged a glance with Yalara. "Then that's what we will look into."
Tezrin's eyes narrowed. "Be careful, Jedi. You're walking into something far bigger than you realize."
Yalara smirked. "We'll take our chances."
And with that, the seeds of their next mission were planted.
Unbeknownst to the pair, a lone figure stood at the edge of a nearby ridge, their silhouette illuminated by the faint glow of distant fires. Clad in the same organic armor as Tezrin and his followers, the figure watched the town with unblinking eyes.
A large creature perched on their shoulder chirped softly, its bioluminescent eyes flickering in the darkness.
"They've interfered," the figure murmured on a comm, their voice low and gravelly. "But it changes nothing. Our plans are already in motion."
Turning away from the town, the figure disappeared into the shadows, leaving only the faint sound of footsteps and the promise of what was yet to come.