The wind didn't reach them, and the walls oozed slowly, drop by drop, with a warm condensation born from the storm three days prior.
The only light came from a cluster of crystals scattered here and there, charged with daylight particles. A dim, bluish glow pulsed softly, like quiet breath. The scent of moss, wet stone, and human sweat filled the air, not unpleasant—just thick. A blend of silence, exhaustion… and desperate hope.
Illaoï was kneeling.
Her haori rolled up to her elbows, her arms barely trembled as she slowly lifted a sphere of pure water above the chest of an unconscious boy.
The droplet held nearly two liters, perfectly spherical, hovering thirty centimeters above the feverish body. Her palms didn't touch it, but her fingers danced around it, guiding like a silent conductor on the verge of collapse.
She lowered it slowly, carefully pressing it onto the open wounds—still swollen from a rakghoul's bite. The surface of the sphere shimmered, as if tasting the infection… then began to glow faintly.
A hushed breath ran through the crowd. The villagers, huddled against the walls, clinging to their injured loved ones, watched as if witnessing a divine vision.
No one spoke.
Every chest held its breath.
The water vibrated.
Then slowly, it sank into the skin.
The wounds vanished. No scar. No cry.
The boy opened his eyes.
He no longer hurt.
Illaoï did not smile.
She only nodded and lifted her eyes, signaling for the next one.
Her voice was gone. She didn't bother trying to speak.
She was at her limit. She knew it.
She hadn't eaten since dawn. Hadn't drunk since midday. Her head buzzed faintly. Each sphere cost her more. But there were only three left.
Three, and she could leave before nightfall.
Before the wind changed.
Before the Force whispered something else.
She finished another healing, hands burning with fatigue, arms heavy as stone.
And that was when everything turned.
The noise came first like a rumor, then a deep, mechanical rumble.
A metallic click.
Bootsteps.
Dozens. Organized.
Illaoï turned sharply toward the cave's entrance. She saw nothing yet, but she knew.
Every muscle in her back went taut. Every thread of the Force screamed the same word:
Run.
"No…" she breathed, just for herself.
She should have left yesterday. The day before.
She had waited too long.
Screams echoed. At first distant. Then—blaster fire.
And finally, that unmistakable sound:
The high, vibrating hum of a lightsaber.
The villagers panicked.
Several stood, carrying their wounded, stumbling toward the side tunnels.
Illaoï rose as well, swaying, grabbing her half-open satchel.
She pressed one last water sphere onto the chest of an old woman, groaning from sheer exhaustion.
Then she turned to face the entrance.
They were rounding the last corner.
She saw them through the kicked-up dust and flickering light.
Black armor. Red visors.
And him, at the center.
Tall. Massive. A war-made silhouette sculpted from metal and silence.
Illaoï raised her arms. The ground trembled beneath her.
All the water scattered through the cave—in the cracks, in the condensation—rushed toward her in one sweeping movement.
In a blink, a wall of ice surged up between her and them.
Solid. Translucent.
And through it…
their eyes met.
Scourge froze.
His lightsaber hummed beside his arm.
Color.
Why is she in color?
Her eyes were turquoise. Bright.
Burning with fear, fury, clarity.
Her face was drawn with exhaustion—yet still striking. Still alive.
Through the icy pane, her features were distorted, like a dream or a drowned memory. But her eyes… they stayed clear. Piercing.
Illaoï looked at him like one looks at an old nightmare returned.
She stepped back.
And ran.
Scourge struck.
His saber shrieked against the ice. Cracks spidered outward.
"Not this time," he growled. "You're not running again."
He struck again. And again.
The soldiers opened fire—their shots ricocheted, useless.
Then the wall shattered.
A burst of pale shards, glimmering like frozen tears.
Scourge lunged forward.
His prey—no, his target—slipped through the tunnels like wind.
But not this time.
Not after months of pursuit.
Not after humiliation.
Not when—for the first time in centuries—he could feel something.
They burst into the open air.
And Illaoï stopped dead.
What she saw froze her blood.
The village. Her village.
Those she had saved. Watched over all week.
All on their knees.
Surrounded by soldiers, blasters drawn.
Children. Women. Elders.
Trapped.
Scourge and his men flanked her.
"Illaoï Vareïsh," he said, his voice obsidian.
"You're coming with us. No discussion."
She took a step.
Not toward them—but toward her people.
"You won't kill them. I won't let you—"
She didn't get to finish.
A rumble.
Deep. Terrifying. Approaching.
Then they saw the wall of water.
A flood.
The dam had broken.
The soldiers screamed. Some ran.
Others froze, unable to believe their eyes.
Illaoï ran.
Not to escape—but to stop it.
Scourge reached for her.
His hand brushed her arm.
She froze him.
Literally.
A flick of her hand. A shiver in the air.
The ground beneath him turned to ice, trapping him thigh-deep.
He roared.
She screamed:
"GO! RUN! GET THEM OUT!"
And she planted herself between the wave and the village.
She raised her arms.
Her legs buckled with the strain.
The water reared.
A massive arch of ice began to form—slowly, painfully.
A colossal shield.
The flood slammed against her. Pushed. Tried to break her.
She held.
Every breath was a scream inside.
Every creak of ice, a warning.
She could no longer hear. No longer see.
Only noise.
Only pressure.
Only cold.
Scourge shattered his prison.
He rushed to her. Grabbed her.
His arms crushed her.
"You're not leaving again," he growled.
And the water consumed them both.