The Grand Council of Tython had gathered in closed session in the high chamber of the Citadel. Soft light filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting colored shadows across the polished stone floor. It was an ancient place, filled with wisdom, silence… and today, with tightly held tension.
Illaoï stood at its center, upright, dressed in plain robes, her hair tied back, her clear eyes lifted toward the Jedi Masters seated in their circular thrones.
Satele Shan sat at the center, her gaze sharp, yet fair.
— We owe you our gratitude, Satele said calmly. Without you, I doubt our minds would have regained clarity.
We are not used to owing our freedom to someone who comes from so far… and whom we know so little about.
— I understand, Illaoï replied with absolute calm.
I'm not here to be judged.
But I'll answer what I can.
From a shadowed corner of the room, a mental probe brushed the space around her. A familiar presence—massive, impatient, sharp-edged.
Scourge.
He was listening. Probing. Searching.
And he slammed into a wall of ice.
Literally.
A glacial breath struck his mind like an invisible slap. The link shut down. He hadn't even glimpsed anything—just silence.
Total.
In the chamber, Illaoï didn't flinch. But the corner of her mouth curved—just barely.
Private means private.
The questions came, clear, methodical. And for each, she decided what she would give.
Her name: Illaoï.
Her age: Approximately twenty-eight standard galactic cycles.
Her origin: Another galaxy. A forgotten planet no one here would know.
Were there others like her among her people? Yes.
She said no more.
How long had she been here? About a decade.
Why?
— To mend past mistakes. And to look upon the world without hatred.
Any regrets?
— Just one.
She offered nothing more. The neutral tone gave way to a cold silence. Doubt lingered—was it grief? Guilt? Loss?
Or perhaps… a warning?
When the assassination of a Sith Dark Councilor was brought up, her expression didn't change.
— The healer exists. So does the shadow.
Both stories are true.
— Why that particular Sith? asked one Master.
He wasn't the most powerful, but his seat oversaw galactic expansion. An odd choice of target...
— Perhaps, she replied. Perhaps not.
Sometimes silence is a more honest answer than a lie.
They requested a demonstration.
A wounded Master was brought to her.
She placed her hands. Water flowed from the air—gentle, precise, alive. The flesh closed. But beyond the wounds… she touched the soul.
A deep, ancient peace settled within the Master. He rose with tears in his eyes, unable to speak.
— I have no army, no lightsaber, no allegiance. But I have my gifts.
And if your aim is the fall of the Emperor, then I will follow you.
As an ally.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
The Council deliberated in silence after her departure.
She would not be held. But she would be watched.
She would be allowed to move freely, under the careful gaze of those who knew what silence could conceal.
Loewen would be responsible for her… and for Scourge.
Two additional Jedi would be assigned to the task. A light escort. But constant.
Upon hearing the decision, Scourge made a sound that strongly resembled a rancor with a migraine.
Illaoï, for her part, barely smiled.
Before leaving the chamber, she bowed and said:
— I am not your enemy.
But I do not share your dogma.
I will respect it—as one respects their host.
And the door closed behind her in a murmur of the Force.