Since leaving Tython, several days had passed aboard the ship — days steeped in an almost eerie calm. After the farewell performance in the Twi'lek village, something had shifted. Illaoï, with her grace, warmth, and that uncanny ability to stitch people together without saying a word, had managed to scrub away even the most stubborn doubts. Even the Jedi Council — renowned for their austere caution — had dropped their guard, if only slightly.
On board, everyone reacted to her presence in their own way.
Kira, of course, had launched into full tornado mode. Illaoï, though quiet and unaccustomed to such affectionate chaos, had surrendered — albeit shyly — to the raw joy of her friendship. The ex-Sith was loud, over-the-top, occasionally exhausting… but utterly lovable. And when she laughed, the war vanished.
T7 had morphed into a full-blown superfan. He beeped, recorded, archived. He already knew the harp's first melodies by binary heart and had labeled his favorite ones with personalized tags. He clung to her side — much to Doc's mounting despair.
Speaking of Doc… he hadn't given up. Not even close. He doubled down — at every mealtime, hallway crossing, fake injury. A phrase. A compliment. A remark heavy with suggestion. Illaoï, smiling and kind, seemed to either miss the signals entirely… or (far more likely) masterfully pretend she did. That drove him mad. And made her all the more unreachable.
Loewen, meanwhile, meditated. A lot. Because he had to. Because something in him had split open. A stranger with a calm voice and an endless gaze had taken root in his mind, and never left. And when he lost track of a padawan during training or let his focus drift during tactical briefings… it was always to check, quietly, where she was.
It wasn't rational. It wasn't allowed. But it was.
Rusk stayed Rusk. Methodical. Cold. Focused. And yet, Illaoï had taken a curious pleasure in dissecting tactics with him — siege simulations, ambush theory, planetary insurgencies. He had to admit: she had a ruthless, crystalline clarity of thought. Their conversations grew frequent. Almost scheduled. She was earning his respect. Not just as a civilian. As a strategist.
And Scourge?
Scourge watched.
There were no words between them. Barely gestures. But they shared a space. And in that silence, Scourge learned more than he ever had with a thousand blades.
He saw the restless nights. The silent weeping. The endless writing. The way she stared out at the stars for hours without moving. She drew everything. Everyone. He had seen his own face — sketched in ink with soft precision — on the corner of a page. A Scourge he didn't recognize. Less brutal. Almost… human.
And that shook him.
So he began digging. Pattern hunting. Searching the symbols in her strange language. And he was getting closer.
He even… struck a deal.
A pact with T7.
"You help me crack her writing, I give you everything I've gathered. Footage. Sounds. Sketches. Every bit of data. Fair deal?"
T7 beeped like he'd won a lottery. And so, the oddest duo in the galaxy was born. The Fury and the fanboy.
The dreams returned, too. Sharper. Shared. No words, but feelings. He still couldn't reach her. Not truly. But she never pushed him away cruelly. Just… distantly. With grace.
And he waited.
Because sooner or later — he knew — the conversation would come.
And maybe... so would the truth.