Three days.
Three days since the hellish escape from the Absolution, the explosive getaway, the Emperor's mental screams, and the single biggest middle finger the galaxy had ever seen.
Three days since Scourge had slammed the door—through three squadrons.
And for three days, Illaoï hadn't woken up.
She rested aboard the med-ship that Doc had turned into a floating fortress, fussing over her with a mix of clinical obsession and nervous overachievement that unsettled everyone. The crew did their best to assist him, but tension crackled in the air—because Scourge was on Tython.
The Jedi Council had received their long-lost Masters—Tol Braga, Kiwix, and others—with rare, solemn emotion. Quiet embraces, wet eyes, long silences—proof that Jedi, for all their discipline, still bled attachment beneath their robes.
Little was said about what they had endured.
But in private circles, the memories surfaced.
Bloodstained hands.
Voices raised in the service of darkness.
Orders. Atrocities.
They didn't apologize. It wasn't shame that spoke—but lucidity.
There was no room left for illusion.
And in the middle of that storm, Scourge was dropped like a thermal detonator into the Council chamber.
He told the story again. The prophecy. The visions. The grand design. Three centuries of servitude reversed like an hourglass.
But this time, the tone had soured.
— You think three centuries of waiting wipe away thousands of deaths? snapped Master Korrus, eyes burning.
— You're no savior. You're a clock-watching butcher. A monster with a calendar, hissed another.
Scourge… smiled.
A slow, sarcastic, deliciously provocative smile.
— Heartwarming. So much righteous unity. I'm sure if I'd stayed cozy under your Emperor's banner, you'd all be far more at ease.
He folded his arms and drank in their restrained indignation.
— Keep it up. You're leaking emotions so badly your Padawans probably think you've all turned Sith.
Loewen stood silent beside him. Calm. Tense.
He didn't defend Scourge.
But he did remind them the man had saved their lives.
Satele shut the session down with a hand.
Scourge would stay under Loewen's custody.
Strict restrictions.
No student contact.
No teachings.
No disruptions.
Any infraction—and he'd be expelled… or terminated.
Scourge just shrugged. Warnings were an old language to him.
Later, in a smaller audience chamber, just Satele, Loewen, and Scourge remained.
— Tell me about her, said Satele.
— I hunted her for nearly two years. Never stays in one place. Always moving. Always alone. Healing, helping, vanishing. The Emperor noticed her. Wanted to add her to his… collection. Another Fury. I was ordered to bring her in. And I obeyed.
— Why her? asked Loewen.
— Her powers are unique. She heals without tech. Bends water, matter, the Force… but not the way we understand it. And she resists things that should break her. Body and mind. Even asleep, she still radiates...
He paused. Just a beat. Then continued.
— I tried to learn more. Nothing. Her writing's untranslatable. Her past unknown. No records. Nothing. She's… a mystery.
— And you don't know what she really is? Satele asked.
— No, he replied. And I doubt she does either.
Loewen eyed him. Something was off. Not a lie—but not the whole truth either.
Satele rose like a sword being drawn.
— I want to see her. Now.
They left.
But as the ramp descended, a wave of unease hit them.
Doc stood by the hatch, pale, sweating, arms raised in the international gesture of "It wasn't me."
— She… she was here! I swear! Just an hour ago, she was asleep, and I just went to—
— Where is she? growled Scourge, his voice trembling with rage.
— I… I don't know! She slipped out! She's… gone!
He didn't get to finish.
A loud metallic crunch echoed behind him.
A maintenance droid had been slammed into the wall like a wet towel.
T7 beeped a long, distressed trill and rolled back cautiously.
Loewen raised a hand to Scourge's chest in a vain effort to defuse the ticking bomb in armor.
Satele stepped in, arms crossed, as calm as ever despite the inferno bubbling beneath the surface.
— Breathe, Lord Scourge.
He inhaled. Twice. Thrice.
His fists white with tension.
Then he exploded:
— You lose keys! You lose socks! You even lose your damn pants if you're drunk enough—BUT YOU DO NOT LOSE AN ENTIRE HUMAN BEING WHO CAN BARELY WALK WITHOUT NOTICING!
Doc raised his hands in surrender.
The Jedi went silent.
And then… the Force answered.
A ripple. Violent.
A dull scream across the weave.
An echo so loud it silenced everything else.
Tython fell quiet.
Eyes met.
And without a word, they all ran.
Toward the place where the silence had struck.