He had waited.
Three centuries.
Three centuries of killing, surviving, listening, planning. Of silence. Of enduring. Of watching the monster from the inside.
And now... everything was burning.
The Emperor, in his madness for absolutes, grew increasingly unstable. Paranoid. He probed the minds of his servants, and even Scourge could feel that frigid gaze slicing over him like a blade.
There would be no more hiding. Not for long.
He had to act.
And fast.
He had noticed a detail. A strange link. With every flicker of resistance in the minds of the broken Jedi... the silence around Illaoï deepened. As if her light had shifted elsewhere. As if she was focusing on them.
It might be madness. An intuition. A fool's hope.
But if all was doomed—if the galaxy was to burn—then what difference did the timing make?
So he took a risk.
He gathered the Jedi's personal items. Their sabers. Journals. Robes. And hers as well: her journal, her pendant, the small pieces of life she had carried.
He hid them aboard his own ship. Where no one could reach without paying dearly.
He would wait until the Jedi were onboard again. A transfer. A shared mission. A strategic gathering—whatever pretense sufficed.
And while he waited...
He went to see her.
The Kolto chamber was bathed in soft blue. Silence hung like a heavy cloak. Her body floated, unmoving. Her hair—golden, nearly silver—drifted like sleeping seaweed around her face.
Scourge approached. Slowly. For once, without armor. Without his saber.
He stood there for a moment, just watching. Then he spoke.
— "I know you can hear me. Maybe not with words. Maybe not here. But somewhere in that damned maelstrom of the Force where you're hiding... I know you hear me."
His voice didn't shake. It was cold. Steady. But it carried weight—one he had never shared.
— "You know what he's preparing. This isn't war. It's not empire. It's the end. The end of everything."
He paced, arms crossed.
— "He doesn't want to rule. He wants to consume. Every living thing. Every thought. Every soul. And once he's done... he'll remake the galaxy in his own image. A still sea of ash. Eternal silence."
He turned toward her, locking his gaze on her even though her eyes remained closed.
— "I waited three hundred years. Killed on command. Served without fail. Became his shadow—his Fury. But I always knew. I saw a face. A man. A Jedi. The chosen one. The one who would end it."
He paused.
— "I found him. I saw him fall. But he's not dead. I saw him rise again, in my dreams. He'll return. And I will help him. That's why I stayed."
He clenched his fists.
— "And you… I know nothing about you. Not your name. Not your story. Not your goal. But I know this: you're here for a reason. You didn't remain in my wake by accident. I believe… I believe you're tied to the Jedi's resistance. I don't know how. But I feel it."
He stepped closer.
— "You told me... 'the time is not yet.' So now, listen to me."
He leaned in, almost level with her.
— "When that time comes—no matter what you think of me. No matter what you are. Help us. Help him. Give him a chance. Give me a chance to fulfill what I was meant for. And if you must leave me after that… then do it. But not before."
Silence.
One heartbeat.
Nothing.
No flutter. No breath.
Scourge closed his eyes. And for the first time in his long existence, he whispered:
— "I've always despised faith. But maybe… it's time I grant it a moment."
He turned and left.
Unaware that deep in the currents of the Force, something had already begun to stir.
In a bubble of silence, Illaoï was not sleeping.
She was listening.
She saw. She felt the cracks she had carved into the minds of the Jedi. Small. Invisible. But real. She heard voices, memories, drifting fragments of lost souls. And among them, that deep, resolute voice, speaking of a broken future.
She didn't understand all of it. Not yet.
But she knew one thing:
The moment was coming.