Chapter One - Epilogue
In Transit
The hum of the transport was a gentle, steady thing — like the breathing of a sleeping giant. Ilaria sat alone by one of the narrow viewports, the pale blue swirl of hyperspace bathing her features in shifting light. She hadn't spoken since departure. There was nothing to say, really. Her fellow Padawans were scattered throughout the vessel, some in soft discussion, others curled into meditation or sleep. The masters were forward, distant, their presence like faint stars through fog.
She leaned her temple to the durasteel wall beside the window, eyes half-lidded. Outside, the galaxy moved. Behind them was Coruscant — familiar, golden, loud. Ahead was Tython, quiet and strange. She should have felt excited. Hopeful, even. But instead, she felt...
Weight.
Like the feeling that settles on your shoulders just before the air changes. Before the storm arrives.
A whisper brushed the back of her neck.
She turned.
No one.
A shiver danced down her spine, but she blamed it on lack of sleep. She returned to the viewport. The ship felt too still. Too calm.
And then — everything changed.
A jolt, violent and sharp, threw her against the wall. Alarms blared a heartbeat later. The lights flickered. Shouting erupted down the corridor, muffled through bulkheads.
"We're under attack!"
She scrambled to her feet, fingers brushing the hilt of her saber — not drawing it, not yet. Discipline before fear. Training before panic.
The ship shuddered again, harder this time, as something impacted the rear hull. The overhead lights sparked once, then died completely, plunging the hallway into crimson emergency illumination. Ilaria stepped into the corridor, senses stretched outward like spider-silk. Somewhere far down the ship, she felt it: a cold presence, jagged and thin, like a blade held at the edge of awareness.
The Force whispered danger.
She moved quickly, feet silent, every lesson from the Temple playing out through motion. Screams echoed faintly now. Blaster fire. A clash of sabers?
And then, footsteps.
Not hers.
Heavy. Slow. Deliberate.
She turned a corner and found the lights there dead completely — pitch black. Her saber ignited in a pale beam of blue, casting shadows across scorched walls. She pressed forward, heart steady despite its rhythm. A shape lay slumped in a doorway ahead — another Padawan, unmoving.
She knelt beside them, reached out—
A presence behind her.
Too close.
She spun—
But a hand was already on her shoulder, shoving her backward with unnatural strength. Her blade arced wildly, cutting air.
And there it was. The figure.
Cloaked in black. Armor that gleamed wetly, like obsidian dripping with oil. Their face hidden beneath a mask— not bone, but smoothed iron, featureless and cold. No words. No sound.
Only motion.
The dagger gleamed in their hand, black as shadow, pulsing with purple.
It came down toward her, and she raised her saber to block — but too slow. Too late.
