The Endar Spire trembled beneath Bastila Shan's boots, the familiar hum of the Republic cruiser's hyperdrive a steady undercurrent beneath the relentless storm of her thoughts. She should be meditating. Focusing. Preparing. Instead, her mind looped in an endless circuit, grasping at clarity like a drowning woman reaching for the surface.
She was too young for this.
A Jedi Knight barely into her twenties, leading soldiers who had been fighting since they were children. Boys plucked from the slums of Coruscant, girls who had never known anything but war, all looking to her—to the Jedi—for guidance. It had been this way since the Mandalorian Wars, hadn't it? Jedi who should have been healers and scholars forced to pick up blades and blasters, cast into the ever-burning maelstrom of battle.
She'd never known a galaxy without war.
Even before Malak, before Revan, before the Republic was splintered into the cinders of civil war, her childhood had been shaped by conflict. The Jedi had tried to shield her from it, but it had seeped through the temple walls, whispered in hushed voices and debated in tense Council chambers.
And now, she was here. At the forefront.
She exhaled sharply, pressing her palms flat against the console before her. Her Battle Meditation had turned the tide of countless battles, but she was beginning to understand that it wasn't enough. Malak had grown stronger. He wasn't just a warlord now—he was a tyrant, ruling with fire and terror, carving a path of destruction through the Republic that left behind nothing but the hollowed-out remains of what once was.
She had one chance to stop him.
But it hinged on a gamble—a desperate, precarious hope.
Her fingers hovered over the holo-console, hesitating before pulling up the crew roster. A list of names flickered into existence, rows of soldiers and officers, their assignments noted in stark, official text. She skimmed the list absently, though she already knew the one she was looking for.
Seth Avery.
Her throat tightened. The Jedi had told him nothing. He was walking into this battle blind, a soldier following orders, unaware of the truth.
The ship rumbled again, an ominous warning from the depths of hyperspace. Bastila straightened, squaring her shoulders.
The Endar Spire would soon arrive above Taris.
And so, too, would fate.
Darkness. Then—
Flickers of red and gold.
Seth Avery was three years old, his fingers curled tightly around a smaller hand. A girl's hand. He couldn't see her face—just a blur of brown hair and a whisper in his ear.
"Be quiet," she urged, voice hushed, urgent. "We have to stay quiet."
Before them, two figures stood in the shadows, locked in a battle of words. Their voices rose, angry, heated, words overlapping and distorting as if the Force itself refused to let him grasp them. A saber ignited, crackling with power. The red light of the blade washed over the walls, casting jagged shadows. Then—
A second blade. Gold, burning like the sun. The clash of metal and plasma, the force of the impact sending a shudder through the air. A cry of fury. A voice breaking through the chaos—deep, familiar, yet distant.
Seth's grip tightened around the girl's hand. His heart pounded in his tiny chest. He wanted to turn away, but she wouldn't let him.
"They're going to stop," she promised. "They have to stop."
But they didn't.
The red saber swung in a final, brutal arc. A scream. A voice calling his name.
"Seth."
The scene fractured, as if reality itself had been torn apart. Then—
"Seth! Wake up!"
His eyes snapped open.
For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was. The cold metal bunk pressed against his back. The dull hum of an engine vibrated beneath him. The harsh glow of overhead fluorescents flickered in his vision.
The Endar Spire.
A shadow loomed over him. Draven Melik, his bunkmate, stood with arms crossed, one brow raised in amusement. "Stars, Avery, you sleep like the dead."
Seth exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. His fingers brushed over the short-cropped brown hair that was always just a little too neat for his liking. His green eyes, still clouded with sleep, darted around the room, sharp but weary. His heart still thundered against his ribs, the remnants of the dream clinging to the edges of his mind like smoke. "I was having the best dream," he lied, forcing a smirk. "Had to soak it in."
Draven snorted. "Well, soak it in later. Lieutenant Vren's briefing starts in five. You know how he gets when someone's late."
Seth groaned, swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk and reaching for his boots. His muscles ached—a reminder that despite his lean frame, Republic training had turned him into something solid, something capable. "Didn't take you for the punctual type."
"I'm not," Draven said, already heading for the door. "But I also don't want to get demoted before I even hit the battlefield. Unlike you, some of us have standards."
Seth rolled his eyes but didn't argue. Confidence came easy when it was a mask—one he had worn for so long, it almost felt real. He pulled on his jacket, grabbed his blaster, and ran a hand through his hair before following Draven out into the hallway. The ship's durasteel corridors stretched before them, the familiar sound of boots against metal filling the air. The air held the faint scent of ozone and recycled coolant—an old ship, but still reliable.
Everything felt normal. Yet Seth couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't belong here—not in this uniform, not on this mission. He pushed the thought aside as they neared the briefing room, the faint murmur of voices filtering through the door. Inside, Lieutenant Vren's clipped tones carried over the low conversations of the gathered recruits.
Something gnawed at the edge of his consciousness. A lingering unease. A whisper of something forgotten. But duty called, and the answers—whatever they were—would have to wait. He squared his shoulders, forcing himself into the role he was meant to play, and stepped inside.
That dream—it hadn't been just a dream.
It had been a memory.
The briefing room aboard the Endar Spire was cramped, filled with young Republic recruits, some still adjusting their gear, others whispering about the long-range scanner alert that had called them here.
At the front of the room, Lieutenant Vren stood with arms clasped behind his back, his sharp, lined features unreadable. Behind him, Carth Onasi leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed, scanning the room like he was sizing up every recruit.
The holoprojector flickered to life, displaying the image of a young woman, dressed in the robes of a Jedi Knight, her expression poised but unreadable.
"This is Jedi Commander Bastila Shan," Vren announced, his voice cutting through the hushed murmurs. "She is the reason this ship is in neutral space. We are transporting her to an operation in the Outer Rim, and that is the only part of the mission that concerns you."
Seth studied the projection with mild curiosity, the name unfamiliar to him. Bastila Shan. Some Jedi. Not that it mattered much to him—he'd never met a Jedi in his life, and he doubted they thought much of Republic soldiers, either.
Then Vren's next words made the room shift.
"One of you was handpicked by Commander Shan herself."
The murmurs rose, a few recruits shooting glances around the room. Then Vren's eyes locked on Seth.
Wait. What?
Seth felt the weight of dozens of stares flick toward him. He kept his face neutral, but inside, his mind was turning. Why would a Jedi—someone he'd never even met—handpick him for anything?
Vren didn't pause. "As of thirty minutes ago, our long-range scanners picked up an unidentified vessel moving in our sector. We are passing through Tarisian airspace, which means we are in neutral territory, but that does not mean we are safe. If it's nothing, we continue on course. If it's something, you will be ready for combat."
A Zabrak recruit raised a hand. "Sir, do we know if it's Sith?"
Vren's jaw tightened. "No. But let me be clear—if it is, you don't hesitate, you don't freeze up, and you don't assume they'll let you surrender." His eyes swept the room again, his next words a quiet warning. "We may not get a second chance."
Silence hung over the recruits. No one moved.
Vren turned to the holoprojector and cut the feed. "Gear up. Be at your stations. Stay alert. Dismissed."
Seth barely had time to think before the recruits started filing out, the tension in the air thick enough to cut. He could hear the whispers.
"Why'd a Jedi pick him?"
"No way he's Force-sensitive, right?"
"Maybe he's got connections?"
He ignored them.
Or at least, he tried to—until Carth Onasi stepped into his path.
The veteran Republic pilot had been silent through the briefing, but now that the recruits were scattering, he finally spoke.
"So. You're the one Bastila pulled for this mission."
Seth stiffened instinctively, but Carth's tone wasn't accusatory—just curious. And maybe a little wary.
"Yes, sir," Seth answered evenly. Respectful. Professional. The way he was trained.
Carth studied him, crossing his arms. "You must've made an impression. Can't say I've seen Jedi put much stock in Republic soldiers before."
Seth had no idea what to say to that, because he was just as confused. Instead, he settled on, "I like to think I'm memorable."
Carth huffed a quiet laugh. "Let's hope for the right reasons." His expression shifted slightly, something almost unreadable in his gaze. Seth wasn't sure what to make of it.
Then Carth's voice took on a more serious edge. "I don't doubt your skills, kid, but let's be clear—you're still young. And young soldiers are the first to die in a fight."
Seth didn't flinch. He'd heard worse from drill instructors. But something about the way Carth said it wasn't condescending—it was frustrated.
As if he hated the idea of seeing it happen again.
Seth met his eyes, something unspoken passing between them. Then, with a short nod, he answered simply:
"Understood, sir."
Carth held his gaze for a second longer, then gave a short nod back. "Good. Stay sharp, Avery."
He turned and walked off.
Seth let out a slow breath. He wasn't sure what that exchange was supposed to be—but it felt like something important had just been set in motion.
The first explosion ripped through the Endar Spire like a thunderclap, sending a violent shudder through the ship's frame. Seth barely kept his footing, catching himself against the cold durasteel wall as the emergency alarms blared to life.
"All hands to battle stations! This is not a drill!"
The voice echoed through the corridors, urgent, unrelenting. Overhead, the red emergency lights flared, painting everything in deep crimson. The smell of burning circuitry and smoke seeped into the air, mixing with the metallic tang of recycled oxygen.
Seth's heart pounded against his ribs, but his body was already moving. Training kicked in. Survive first, process later.
He barely made it two steps before rounding a corner—
—and nearly slamming into Trask Ulgo sprinting in the opposite direction.
The older Republic soldier skidded to a halt, sharp brown eyes flicking over Seth in an instant, assessing. "Avery!" he barked. "You still breathing?"
"Barely," Seth muttered, adjusting his blaster grip. His pulse was still hammering, but the presence of someone experienced steadied him.
Trask jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "We've got Sith boarding parties flooding the lower decks. If you're still standing, you're fighting."
A second explosion rocked the ship. This one hit closer—the durasteel bulkheads groaned from the impact, lights flickering dangerously. Seth felt it in his bones.
He swallowed down the knot in his throat. "Where's the rest of our unit?"
"Scattered," Trask growled. "Or dead. We're on our own for now." He glanced down at Seth's blaster pistol, nodding approvingly. "Good. Hope you're a decent shot."
Seth let out a shaky exhale, tightening his grip on his weapon. "Guess we'll find out."
Trask smirked, but his tone was all business. "Stay close. Watch your flanks. And don't try anything stupid."
They pushed forward, Seth shadowing Trask, the rhythmic pound of their boots swallowed by the ship's blaring alarms.
The first Sith troopers appeared as soon as they reached a junction—two of them, blasters already raised. Seth had half a second to react.
They fired.
Instinct took over. Seth dropped low, rolling to the side just as the first bolt seared past his ear, hot enough to make his skin prickle.
His blaster was already up. He fired.
The first trooper's armor took the hit, staggering him back—but Trask was faster. The veteran soldier lunged in, vibroblade slashing across the Sith's chestplate. Sparks flew, and the Sith crumpled.
The second trooper turned his rifle toward Trask—
Seth fired again.
This time, the bolt struck home. The trooper collapsed.
The fight was over in seconds.
Seth stood frozen, gun still raised, heart hammering. His first real kill.
Not a training sim. Not a theory.
Real.
The body wasn't moving.
He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry.
Trask clapped a hand against his shoulder—solid, grounding. "Nice shooting, kid. But don't freeze up now. We don't have time to second-guess this."
Seth forced himself to nod, but the weight didn't lift.
They pressed on, weaving through the smoke-filled corridors toward the barracks, where a few remaining Republic soldiers had formed a desperate last stand.
"Vren's down!" a soldier shouted as they slid into cover behind a pile of cargo crates. Blaster fire rained from the other end of the hall.
Trask didn't hesitate. "We hold this corridor! If they take this position, they cut off escape to the pods!"
Seth's lungs burned from exertion, but he forced himself to focus. He could hear the strain in the voices around him—too many recruits, too few veterans. And the Sith weren't slowing down.
The next push came fast. More Sith troopers stormed the hall.
Seth fired. So did everyone else.
The air filled with smoke and light, with screams and static.
One of the Republic soldiers beside him took a direct hit to the chest—he gasped, stumbled, hit the ground.
Seth flinched. He tried not to look, tried not to think. He fired again.
A Sith trooper collapsed. Another replaced him.
"Keep firing!" Trask shouted over the chaos.
The battle blurred together, adrenaline drowning out everything else. Seth's muscles ached. His trigger finger burned. But they were pushing through, holding their ground—
Until the blast doors behind them shook violently.
The noise sent a sharp spike of dread through Seth's chest. He turned—
A red lightsaber cut through the durasteel.
He didn't realize he was holding his breath until the Dark Jedi stepped through the breach, red blade hissing as it ignited fully.
Seth's blood ran cold.
Trask stepped forward before he could move.
"You two—go. Now."
Seth barely processed it. "What? No—"
"I said go!" Trask barked, pushing Seth and another soldier toward the escape pods. "I'll hold him off!"
The Dark Jedi advanced.
Trask didn't hesitate. He raised his vibroblade, setting his stance.
Seth wanted to stay. He wanted to fight.
But Trask made the decision for him.
He punched the control panel.
The blast doors slammed shut between them.
Seth staggered back, fists clenched. "Dammit!"
For a split second, silence.
Then the sound of blades clashing on the other side of the door.
Seth felt his stomach drop.
Trask wasn't coming back.
Draven grabbed his arm. "We have to go!"
Seth's feet felt like durasteel. But he moved.
They ran.
By the time they reached the escape pod bay, only two pods remained.
Draven stumbled into one, disappearing behind the closing hatch.
That left one.
Carth Onasi was waiting beside it, scanning the carnage behind Seth—assessing, calculating.
No Trask.
No hesitation.
"Avery! Move!"
Seth barely registered climbing in before the pod launched.
The impact hit like a shockwave.
Through the viewport, he caught one last glimpse of the Endar Spire—
Explosions tearing through its hull.
Flames, spreading.
His vision blurred.
Everything went black.