Chapter Text
STAR WARS
The Stories of Korrin Attis
Season 1: Fracture
Episode 1: Trials
Treachery!
Former Jedi Knight Dooku of Serenno sows the seeds of distrust throughout the Outer Rim, and countless downtrodden systems threaten to break away from the Galactic Republic if increasingly unreasonable demands are not met by the Senate.
In these stressful times, the Republic looks to the Jedi Order to preserve what semblance of order and unity remains in the galaxy…
The Jedi Temple breathed with quiet dignity in the hour before nightfall. High above Coruscant's endless roar, the ancient stone corridors caught the last light of the sun, channeling it through towering windows in long, amber ribbons that stretched across polished floors. Outside, repulsorlane traffic streamed like rivers of fire, speeders and aircars threading the skyline in tireless motion—a galaxy rushing forward, whether ready or not.
Korrin Attis walked those corridors no longer as a Padawan.
The weight of it pressed on him in subtle ways: the way his shoulders sat straighter beneath his gray robes, the unfamiliar ease with which the Force settled around him, the faint but undeniable sense that something had closed behind him even as something vast opened ahead. He could still feel the Trials in his bones—moments of doubt, resolve, fear, and clarity braided together until he had emerged… changed.
Changed far beyond the shedding of the braid that all Padawans were required to wear.
Beside him strode Master Plo Koon, his presence steady and grounding, as constant as the Temple itself. The human and Kel Dor moved at an unhurried pace, the echo of their footsteps swallowed by stone and history.
"So… you did it. Passed on your first try, and with flying colors. Congratulations."
Korrin let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. "Thank you, Master. It doesn't quite seem real to me, yet you don't seem very surprised. Saw this coming?"
Plo Koon's masked gaze remained forward, but there was warmth in his voice. "I don't have the gift of sight the same way that Master Yoda does. But I knew very early on that you were destined for greatness."
Korrin glanced sideways, eyebrow lifting. "Is that so?"
"Yes—I remember it like yesterday. Master Cordova brought you to the Temple and presented you to the Council. You were a bit older than most initiates, but strong in the Force and a gentle soul. Master Yoda suggested I take you as my Padawan, and that's when I knew. You had too good a teacher not to become a great Jedi Knight."
Korrin laughed then, the sound echoing softly down the hall. "Well, the 'great' part… we'll have to see about that. You're right about me having a good teacher, though."
Plo Koon slowed, just enough to turn his head. "You should be happy. What's troubling you?"
The question landed gently and precisely, as the Master's questions always did. Korrin's steps faltered. Outside the windows, a cluster of freighters roared past, bound for worlds whose names filled Senate chambers with arguments, fear, and anger.
He hesitated, running a hand through his short brown hair. He couldn't wait to grow it a little longer, now that the Padawan braid was gone.
"Korrin?"
"I still don't understand it," Korrin said at last. "We're supposed to protect the Republic, but one of us is tearing it apart."
"Dooku…"
"His betrayal has caused people across the Republic to be skeptical of our Order. The Senate, they're slowly turning on us. And yet… I can't help but…"
Plo Koon nodded, already hearing the unspoken thought. "I know, you are quite astute in political matters, and he is a skilled politician. You admire him for this."
"His political skill, yes. Look, part of me understands why the more outlying and poorer systems—systems we're struggling to serve well—are frustrated. But what Dooku's doing, it can't be the answer."
They resumed walking, the light thinning as the corridor curved inward. "Well," Plo Koon said, "that's why the Council lets you have your own starship. You're someone who understands these things, these people. You're someone who can go and speak to them, considering their concerns while representing those of the Republic and the Jedi. You'd make a good politician yourself if the Code didn't forbid it."
Korrin shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. "Master, you and I both know I'm far too scrupulous to be a good politician."
Before Plo Koon could answer, Korrin's communicator chimed sharply against the quiet. He lifted it, thumb brushing the activator.
"Korrin, we're here at the Jedi Temple. We're going back to my place to celebrate. Hurry up and get out here before they ticket my speeder again. Tessik out."
Korrin smiled openly now. "Guess I'm headed out."
Plo Koon stopped, turning fully to him. "You are a strange Jedi, my apprentice."
"Good strange or 'expelled from the Jedi Order' strange?"
"The kind of strange that, I sense, the galaxy needs right now."
Korrin's smile softened, something thoughtful settling behind his eyes. "I don't know about all that. But I think it's a problem that friendship makes you a strange Jedi."
Plo Koon inclined his head, just slightly. "I'm inclined to agree… Enjoy your celebration; you've earned it."
Korrin bowed deeply, then turned and walked toward the Temple's exit—toward friends, toward the city, the heart of a galaxy beginning to fracture.
Tessik Varn's apartment sat high above the lower skylanes, where Coruscant's noise softened into a distant, constant murmur—more a heartbeat than a clamor. The space was expansive without being ostentatious, furnished with the quiet confidence of someone who valued comfort over display. Warm lights glowed from recessed panels along the walls, casting amber hues over polished stone floors softened by woven rugs from half a dozen worlds. A long window curved outward toward the city, its transparisteel alive with drifting traffic and the distant gleam of towers stacked like constellations made solid.
To Korrin, it felt less like a luxury apartment and more like a refuge, a home away from the Temple.
The air smelled of spice and roasting meat, something savory and familiar enough to tug at memories he didn't often allow himself to linger on.
Tessik moved easily through the space, sleeves rolled up, turning skewers over a compact heat grill near the balcony doors. This was his element—not the cockpit, not a blaster fight or a tense negotiation—but this: feeding people he cared about. His dark face carried a deep satisfaction, even before dinner was served.
They were all there. His crew—his best friends.
Kaela Roska leaned against the counter, drink already in hand, eyes flicking between the sizzling kabobs and the city beyond the glass, her expression relaxed in a way Korrin rarely saw planetside. Calo Brinn occupied a chair that looked like it had been reinforced at some point specifically for him, one heavy arm slung over the back, posture loose but alert out of habit. He was the only non-human present; though he wasn't too different in appearance, sporting a humanoid form with pale orange skin.
And Korrin stood among them, robes discarded in favor of something simpler, the title of Jedi Knight feeling suddenly lighter in this room—almost as if it was a burden he could share with the people around him.
Tessik glanced over his shoulder, grinning. "It is weird. You have friends, your own ship."
Korrin snorted softly. "Plenty of Jedi have friends, okay? It's not as uncommon as people think."
Kaela raised an eyebrow. "People including your masters. Remember when Master Windu interrogated us to make sure you weren't getting too close to us?"
Calo chuckled, lifting his glass. "They only let you hang out with us and keep the ship because we're so damned effective together."
Tessik turned one of the skewers with a flourish. "He probably would've broken up the crew if we hadn't literally just come back to Coruscant from foiling an assassination attempt on Senator Antilles."
Korrin sighed, but there was no heat in it—only affection. "Alright, I get it. I'm not saying the Order is right on this issue. It's just… some people can't have friends like this. It can make them selfish, jealous. Greedy. It becomes a temptation to the dark side. But for me… I feel like you guys help me remember that peace and justice isn't about systems and orders. It's about people, friends. That's what should ground us all."
For a heartbeat, the room was quiet except for the low hiss of the grill and the distant traffic beyond the window.
Tessik broke it with theatrical impatience. "For once, can we eat before the philosophical lecture? Because these kabobs are finally done!"
He passed them out with practiced efficiency—thick cuts of meat and vegetables charred just right, wrapped in flatbread and paired with chilled drinks pulled from a discreet cooling unit. They clustered naturally, close enough that shoulders brushed, laughter coming easier with food in hand.
Tessik lifted his glass.
"Not many people in the galaxy can say they're best friends with a Knight of the Jedi Order, but we can. It's hard to sum up what this guy means to us, right?"
Kaela took a long sip and smirked. "Can you try so we can start eating?"
Laughter filled the apartment, warm and unguarded.
Tessik shook his head, smiling. "Alright, then. Well, a toast to Korrin, Jedi Knight… and our friend. Congratulations."
Calo raised his glass without hesitation. "Cheers, to Korrin!"
"To Korrin!" Kaela echoed.
Korrin looked at each of them and felt something warm settle deep in his chest.
"And," he said softly, lifting his drink, "to friendship."
Outside, Coruscant burned with endless light. Inside, for a little while, the galaxy felt small, kind, and whole.
Five months had passed since Korrin Attis became a Jedi Knight.
The Senate rotunda buzzed with arguments that never truly ended—tariffs, blockades, exemptions, threats. Entire sectors spoke now in the language of departure. The name Dooku was whispered like a curse in the Senate chambers and as a savior on disenfranchised planets. And in the narrow margin between unity and fracture, the Jedi struggled to keep the peace.
Amid what many feared was to be a permanent rift in the Republic, the Senate had created the Diplomatic Initiative to Outlying Systems to give voice to those suffering and hungry systems in the Mid and Outer Rim and convince them to keep paying their taxes and cooperating with the Senate that had neglected them.
The initiative was slow-working (missions carried a 12% success rate of convincing systems to cooperate), but Supreme Chancellor Palpatine was convinced that the piecemeal results were worthwhile.
Korrin and his crew were part of the initiative, and they had just received a new mission. The Jedi Knight quickly made his way through the halls of the Senate Building, headed for the hangar where he would rendezvous with his crew and set out.
The hangar beneath the Senate Building was all durasteel and echoes, vast enough to swallow voices and make even large ships feel small. Repulsorlifts hummed along the ceiling rails. Senate-crested transports came and went with practiced order.
And there, resting on its landing struts with deceptive humility, waited the Stellar Envoy.
At first glance, it was nothing remarkable—a Corellian YT-1300 freighter, weathered just enough to look like a real workhorse. A ship you might see hauling grain, spare parts, or desperate passengers between worlds that barely appeared on a nav chart.
But Korrin knew better.
Beneath the hull plating painted with blue accents lay engines tuned beyond civilian tolerances. Redundant shield arrays nested where cargo space should have been. Hyperdrive safeties stripped down and rebuilt by someone who believed escape was sometimes the only form of victory. The Envoy had been designed not to intimidate—but to survive.
Tessik was already halfway up the boarding ramp, hand running fondly along the hull as if greeting an old friend. Kaela lingered near the landing strut, datapad in hand, eyes flicking over diagnostic readouts. Calo stood a few steps back, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the ship rather than the hangar—jaw set, unreadable.
"Do you think Orren Tal will really leave the Republic over this tariff thing?" Tessik asked as he disappeared inside.
Korrin paused at the foot of the ramp, glancing toward the cavernous hangar doors. "Hard to say. But they want the Senate to think they will. Leverage."
Kaela snorted softly. "You know I always research these places before we go. Religious zealots run it, but half the planet doesn't believe in the religion that's ruling them. And you'll never guess which half is richer and holds all the political power, not to mention all the system's representation in the Senate." She looked up from her datapad. "HoloNet says this planet is a civil war waiting to happen."
Calo finally spoke. "Sounds good to me."
Tessik leaned back out of the ramp, frowning. "Come on, man. Civil war is exactly the kind of thing the Senate commissioned us to prevent."
"No," Calo retorted, "they commissioned us to cover Korrin's ass while he convinces them not to leave the Republic. Nothing to do with a civil war in the job description."
At that, Korrin and the others present collectively shot Calo a flat look.
"Look, I grew up there," Calo said, voice cold. "There's a reason I left for Coruscant. Let it tear itself apart, I say."
Korrin's expression hardened—not angry, but firm. "Leave that attitude in this hangar, Calo. We're going there to advocate for people who are oppressed like your family was. If Orren Tal leaves the Republic, the Senate won't have the leverage of tariffs to keep the tyrants in line, and the oppression gets ten times worse. And then the hundred or so systems in the sector follow suit, because Orren Tal will have proven that the Senate has no teeth."
Calo exhaled through his nose. "I know, I know… I know the stakes. I just wish we were helping a different planet."
They boarded in silence after that.
The cockpit wrapped around them like a familiar embrace—low ceilings, scuffed panels, controls tuned to the crew's muscle memory. Kaela slid into the navigator's station, fingers already dancing. Tessik settled into the co-pilot's chair with easy confidence. Calo took the seat behind Korrin in the pilot's chair, back straight, eyes distant, ready to race to the gunner's station if necessary.
"Coordinates locked," Kaela said.
Korrin eased the ship free of its berth, guiding the Stellar Envoy out past the traffic lanes and free of Coruscant's gravity before pulling the controls back. Stars stretched, light folded—and hyperspace swallowed them whole.
"Can we get a brief on the people we're talking to?" Tessik asked.
Kaela didn't look up. "Already queued."
Her voice took on that clipped precision she used when facts mattered more than feelings. "Orren Tal is populated by a single sentient species—the Orrs. Humanoid. Skin tones range from pale yellow to dark red. Our friend Calo is a fine example from somewhere in the middle."
Calo, his own skin pale orange in tone, snickered despite himself.
The holoprojector flickered to life, showing rotating figures, cityscapes scorched by industry and ritual flame.
"The dominant religion is called the Path of Flame. Core beliefs: the galaxy was birthed in fire, and indulging in comforts distances one from that primordial fire's warmth. Only through purification—suffering, denial, and obedience—can one return to divine favor. And," she added pointedly, "the Jedi in particular are heretics for harnessing divine power rather than submitting to it."
Calo's jaw tightened.
"The faith is centered in the capital, Vhor-Kareth," Kaela continued. "Ruled from the Temple of Flame by the Grand Matriarch. Those outside the faith are labeled 'Ashen Ones.' Marked for persecution or exile."
Korrin said nothing. He already knew where this was going.
"They're technically free to leave the planet," Kaela said, "but the government makes it nearly impossible for Ashen Ones to earn enough to buy a starship or otherwise pay for passage off-world."
A new set of images appeared—industrial sectors choked with smoke, dimly lit settlements far from the glow of temple cities.
"There's a sharp class divide. The faithful live in temple cities, dominate the economy, and control the Senate delegation. Non-believers are full citizens on paper—second-class in practice." Kaela paused. "Industrial output's high, but the distribution is totally uneven. Looks like the cities get surplus while the production colonies are rationed."
Calo's voice was low. "If you don't pray to the flame, they think you don't deserve warmth."
Tessik shook his head. "Damn. Calo, I see why you're always pissed off."
"I'm not always pissed off," Calo said quietly. A beat passed. Then: "But if I was, it wouldn't be because of Orren Tal. Today is the first time I've thought about that planet since it starved my parents to death."
Hyperspace roared around them, infinite and indifferent.
Korrin closed his eyes for just a moment, feeling the weight of the mission settle into place. Orren Tal was not just a tariff dispute. It was a fault line.
And the Stellar Envoy was headed straight for it.
Orren Tal emerged from behind the veil of hyperspace like a wound in the stars.
The planet's surface was a study in endurance—windswept mesas rising like broken teeth from high desert plateaus, stone valleys carved thin by centuries of abrasive storms. No green dared take root here. The land was bare, angular, and unforgiving, its every line shaped by erosion and austerity. A mineral-heavy atmosphere stained the sky a faint, ever-present crimson, as though the world itself were perpetually flushed with heat or shame.
From orbit, the cities looked deliberate rather than organic. Structures were clustered with ritual intent, not convenience. Temples were cut directly into cliff faces, their silhouettes looming across the horizon—immovable, watchful, oppressive.
The capital, Vhor-Kareth, rose at the planet's heart like a blackened crown. Spires of obsidian and crimson glass pierced the dusty sky, their surfaces catching the light in sharp, blood-hued reflections. Smoke drifted endlessly from ceremonial pyres, curling around the city in slow, suffocating coils.
"It gives me the creeps," Tessik muttered from the cockpit as the Stellar Envoy descended through turbulence. "And I've been to a lot of creepy places."
Korrin studied the city through the forward viewport. "This is a delicate mission… I don't want them to think I'm bringing a posse to intimidate them."
Kaela nodded immediately. "Got it—we'll stay on the Envoy."
The ship settled onto a landing pad of scorched stone a short walk from the Flame Temple. The heat lingered even through Korrin's boots as he descended the ramp alone, robes stirring in the hot wind.
Three Orr guards awaited him.
They stood tall and motionless, skin ranging from deep ember-red to pale yellow, their bodies wrapped in brilliant red and orange robes that shimmered faintly with black embroidery. Each carried a ceremonial spear—ornate, ritualized, and unmistakably capable of violence.
Without a word, they turned and led him forward.
The Flame Temple dominated the city's skyline, an obsidian monolith ringed with ever-burning pyres. Smoke rolled continuously from its base, thick with incense that stung the eyes and clung to the lungs. As Korrin walked, he took in the people around him—Orrs bearing deliberate scars along their arms, faces, and torsos. The marks were precise, patterned, inherited. Devotion carved into flesh to mirror ancestral patrons.
Some walked naked through the streets, displaying devotional scars that covered literally every inch of their bodies, even their most sensitive and intimate parts. Those naked walkers constantly flagellated themselves with whips, burning coals laced into the instruments of self-torture. Others bowed as they walked by, showing deference and respect for the naked ones' holiness.
Every hour, a low chant echoed across the city, broadcast from unseen loudspeakers. A call to flame. To submission. To obedience.
Korrin felt the Force here—but muted, distorted, like a hot haze over stone.
Inside the council chamber, the air was dim and close. Crimson light filtered through stained glass etched with images of terrible suffering. The nine ruling matriarchs sat upon elevated seats of black stone, robes layered thick and heavy, their expressions uniformly severe.
Korrin bowed—not deeply, but respectfully.
The negotiations began as most did.
Measured words. Careful phrasing. Jurisdiction and precedent. A bit of only-slightly-propagandized history.
Korrin spoke of tariffs as tools, not punishments. Of how shared contribution allowed the Republic to protect hyperspace lanes, respond to crises, and provide aid during shortages. He emphasized that the Senate's intent was civil equity—that the tariffs would be rolled back in exchange for guarantees of equal rights for all Orren Tal citizens. He also expressed the Senate's hope that an ideological understanding could result in more mutually beneficial trade between Orren Tal and the Core Worlds currently imposing embargos.
The matriarchs listened.
They always listened.
And then they spoke—circling, deflecting.
They spoke of cultural castes under threat, of ancient traditions pushed to the brink. They framed the tariffs as an existential assault on the faithful, carefully talking past the suffering of the Ashen Ones entirely. Again and again, they returned to the same refrain:
The Senate has ignored us for a generation.
Korrin sensed something beneath it all—a tension that did not align with the words being spoken. Pauses held just a second too long. Glances exchanged when certain terms were mentioned. Confidence where there should have been concern. It was more than talking past the problem.
They're stalling, he realized.
But why?
The Force brushed against his conscience, just faintly. Something was wrong here—decided, already in motion—but the shape of it refused to come into focus.
Then the tone shifted.
The Grand Matriarch Varzaen rose abruptly from her seat. Her robes whispered like flame-fed smoke as she descended a step, eyes burning with controlled fury.
"You come here cloaked in serenity," she said, voice carrying easily through the chamber, "and presume to instruct us from your Jedi privilege. You call this negotiation, but it is coercion dressed as mercy."
Korrin raised his hands slightly, palms open. "That is not my intent. Many systems are suffering, including yours. I'm here to find the best solution for your people."
Varzaen's lip curled. "You Jedi dare to speak of suffering?" She gestured sharply, and an attendant brought forward a small brazier, flames licking eagerly within it. "You harness what is divine. You use it. We submit to flame. We are purified by it."
The brazier was placed between them.
"This," Varzaen said, "is truth. Pain embraced. Will you deny yourself, heretic? Return to the flame?"
Korrin felt every instinct urging response—correction, defense, authority.
He did none of it, even as Varzaen's attendant buried his already charred hand into the brazier.
"I won't disrespect your faith," he said calmly when the attendant withdrew his hand. "Nor will I allow this discussion to become an excuse for further harm."
The matriarch stared at him, waiting—for anger, for judgment, for power.
When none came, her restraint shattered.
"Enough!" she snapped. "This council will not be lectured by a Jedi who refuses to acknowledge the flame. This meeting is adjourned."
Guards stepped forward at once.
"You are dismissed from Vhor-Kareth," Varzaen said coldly. "Take your false peace back to the Senate."
Korrin nodded. "I will inform the Senate that you don't wish to negotiate."
As he walked out of the Flame Temple, smoke swallowing him whole, the chant rose again over the city.
The landing pad baked under the crimson sky, heat shimmering off scorched stone as Korrin emerged from the temple square alone.
The Flame Temple loomed behind him, smoke coiling skyward in lazy, eternal spirals. Its chants still echoed faintly across Vhor-Kareth, but they no longer sounded ritualistic; this time, the antiphon was triumphant. Korrin crossed the pad with measured steps, jaw tight, the weight of failure pressing down harder with each stride. The negotiation had collapsed exactly as he'd feared, and worse—it had never mattered at all.
It now seemed clear that the matriarchs never had any intention to reconcile; they only wanted to bait a Jedi into an argument to shore up their excuses for secession, which Korrin was sure would follow promptly.
The ramp of the Stellar Envoy lowered with a hydraulic hiss, and he ascended it silently.
Before he could speak, footsteps thundered from behind.
Korrin turned just as Calo Brinn sprinted up the ramp, chest heaving, eyes wide with something between fury and vindication.
"Calo? What's going on?"
Calo bent over, hands on his knees, dragging in air. Behind him, Tessik and Kaela stood just inside the ship, both wearing the same tight, guilty expressions.
Korrin felt it then—a faint prickle at the back of his neck.
"What did you do?"
Tessik lifted his hands defensively. "I tried to talk him out of it, Korrin. But Calo—"
"I thought this whole thing was fishy from the start, so I did some looking around."
Korrin's voice sharpened, cutting through the heat and smoke. "Are you insane? You could've compromised this mission. If you were caught, there would be no chance—ever—of restoring their trust in the Republic."
"This mission was already doomed," Calo snapped. "I overheard some higher-ups talking; they've already made a deal with Dooku. No taxes, no tariffs, and protection by the Trade Federation's droid army for a tiny fee. They betrayed us; of course they did—this bastard planet!"
He kicked a nearby cargo crate, metal ringing sharply across the pad.
The Force surged.
Korrin's face drained of color. The tingle raced up his spine, a cold certainty crystallizing into dread.
The crew saw it instantly.
Tessik bolted for the cockpit. Calo didn't wait for orders—he turned and sprinted for the ladder to the topside gunner's station.
"We need to get out of here."
The words had barely left Korrin's mouth before the Stellar Envoy roared to life.
Korrin rushed to the cockpit and dropped into the pilot's chair, hands snapping to the controls. Tessik was beside him, already rerouting power. Behind them, Kaela swore as the nav computer crawled through its startup cycle.
"Come on, come on—don't do this to me now—"
The ship lifted off the pad just as red warning lights flared across the cockpit.
A swarm of vulture droids crested the skyline, wings snapping open like predatory insects as they locked onto the Envoy.
Another second—one more second—and the ship would have been pinned to the ground, engines torn apart before hyperspace was even an option.
"Contacts!" Tessik barked.
"I see them," Korrin said, already rolling the ship hard to port as crimson blaster fire streaked past the ship.
Up top, the guns thundered.
Calo Brinn was locked in, every shot precise, every correction instinctive. Vulture droids shattered under his fire, spinning away in burning arcs. But the more he shot down, the more appeared in the sky.
Korrin was an expert pilot—and Jedi reflexes didn't hurt—but there were just too many.
"Calo," Tessik yelled over the din, "I'm starting to share your dislike of this place!"
Calo didn't even look away from his targeting reticle. "How many vulture droids do they have? I've already shot down a hundred of these sons of bitches!"
Another explosion punctuated the sentence.
The Envoy shuddered violently.
"Shields at thirty!" Kaela called from behind them, hands flying as warnings screamed across her console. "We'll be clear of the planet's gravity in twenty seconds!"
A hit rocked the cockpit. A panel sparked. The smell of overheated circuitry cut through the air.
"We don't have twenty seconds," Tessik growled.
Korrin's jaw set. He felt the ship—not as metal and wire, but as motion, resistance, fear. He rode the edge of control, every correction a conversation with catastrophe.
Then another blast tore through what remained of the shields.
"Hull breach imminent!" Kaela snapped.
Korrin took a deep breath. "Tessik—take the controls."
"What?" Tessik shouted, even as his hands moved without hesitation.
With Tessik flying the ship, Korrin closed his eyes.
All around him, there was chaos. All around him, metal, fire, smoke, alarms, yelling, noise, danger.
He drew into himself, but he did not shut those things out. He felt them for what they were: every event was a cog in the grand design that was a living galaxy. Bound together by a living Force.
"The Force is with me," he whispered solemnly.
The crew felt the temperature onboard the ship drop several degrees.
Kaela smirked and quipped, before she could stop herself, "We're getting out of here, guys."
In a hidden command center beneath Vhor-Kareth, a Neimoidian officer stiffened as alarms flared.
"What is happening?" he hissed. "I am losing all control signals—find the glitch! Reboot! Reboot!"
Technicians scrambled, fingers dancing across consoles.
In the sky, the droids went dead.
They didn't explode. They didn't fall apart.
They simply stopped—then dropped, plummeting in lifeless spirals toward the red world below.
A heartbeat later, their systems rebooted.
Too late.
"We're clear!" Kaela shouted. "Do it!"
Tessik didn't hesitate. He pulled every lever, slammed every switch.
Stars stretched.
Light collapsed.
The Stellar Envoy tore free of Orren Tal and vanished into hyperspace.
Silence followed—thick, reverent.
Korrin opened his eyes.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Tessik let out a breath that was half laughter, half prayer.
The Flame Temple was quieter now.
The chants had ceased, the plazas emptied, and the ever-burning pyres cast long, restless shadows across obsidian walls. Smoke clung to the air like a held breath. In the inner sanctum—far below the council chamber where the Jedi had been dismissed—Grand Matriarch Varzaen stood alone before a holoprojector etched with sigils of fire and lineage.
She activated the device.
Blue light coalesced, tall and imperious, resolving into the unmistakable figure of Count Dooku. His hands were folded behind his back, posture serene, expression composed with aristocratic certainty.
"Count, I am pleased to see that your armies have chased the Jedi from our world. I am glad I trusted our safety to your graces."
Dooku inclined his head just enough to suggest courtesy, not deference. "You will not regret your decision, milady. In time, wealth will shower Orren Tal as in its golden years."
Varzaen's scarred lips curved faintly. "I have no doubt you will make good on your lofty promises, Count. When the Republic discovers that the Trade Federation, Techno Union, and Banking Clan are slowly being drawn together… they will make my world and many others rich again for fear of their own demise."
For the briefest moment, something cold flickered behind Dooku's eyes—satisfaction sharpened into inevitability.
"Indeed," he said softly. "Their time of reckoning is coming."
The hologram dissolved.
Hyperspace stretched endlessly beyond the cockpit canopy, stars pulled into long, luminous threads that hummed with impossible speed. The danger was behind them now—engines stable, hull integrity good, no alarms screaming for attention.
Most would say their escape from sudden death should have felt like a victory.
Calo climbed down from the topside gunner's ladder, adrenaline still clinging to him like sweat. He took in the cockpit—Tessik grinning with relief, Kaela leaned back in her chair, fingers finally still—and then his eyes landed on Korrin.
The Jedi Knight stood apart, hands resting on the back of the pilot's chair, gaze unfocused, fixed somewhere far beyond hyperspace.
Calo frowned. "What's wrong with you? We just escaped certain death!"
Korrin didn't look at him. "I failed. I was sent to settle the dispute, and I failed."
The words were quiet, but they carried weight.
Tessik rose and stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Korrin's shoulder. "The fix was in before we even left Coruscant. This whole 'dispute' was a setup by Dooku to give Orren Tal a reason to break from the Republic. It's not your fault."
Korrin straightened, resolve overtaking exhaustion. "I need to make my report to the Council. If Dooku did set this up, and they were fielding Trade Federation vultures…"
He didn't finish the thought.
Instead, he turned and walked out of the cockpit, robes brushing softly as he disappeared down the narrow corridor, swallowed by the ship's dimmer lights.
The cockpit felt smaller without him.
"It's getting to him," Tessik said quietly. "The crisis—the fracture."
Kaela exhaled, eyes tracking the star-streaked void. "It's hard to blame him. He's been raised to do one thing: protect the Republic. And now it's coming apart."
Calo leaned against the bulkhead, jaw tight. "If I ever get this Dooku in my sights, I'm killing him for the chaos he's caused."
Kaela shot him a sideways look. "Fat chance. Even the Jedi can't track him down."
Tessik nodded slowly. "Right now, we just focus on doing our job and being there for Korrin. We've kept a lot of systems from leaving the Republic, but he feels a lot of guilt because he can't possibly visit them all. In his mind, a failed mission like this one means he should've been talking to people on a different planet."
For once, Calo didn't scoff. He stared at the floor, expression grim, voice measured.
"The problem is," he said, "we're running out of systems willing to be talked out of splitting. Pretty soon he will be able to visit all the ones that are left."
No one laughed. No one argued.
Calo said shockingly profound things from time to time to remind the others he was more than a hired gun (not that the others saw him that way in the first place).
While the others talked in the cockpit, Korrin sat at the table in the Envoy's common space, burying his face in one of his hands. The tears came silently and bitterly as he lamented the loss of another piece of the Republic he loved.