Dᴇғᴇɴᴅᴇʀ
Cantonica
The cantina was a far cry from the shimmering opulence of Canto Bight proper. Nestled on the outskirts, just beyond the glittering city’s edge, it was the kind of place where dreams came to die quietly, drowned in cheap liquor and a haze of spice smoke. Maleiah Kozan slipped into the dimly lit establishment, adjusting her chiropteran helm to obscure her Evereni features. The stares she drew were brief, suspicious. A newcomer always meant trouble, but in a place like this, trouble was simply part of the ambiance.
The air smelled of spilled ale and desperation, the hum of muted conversations blending with the occasional burst of laughter or a barked curse. Maleiah moved deliberately, her leather boots soundless on the scuffed floorboards as she approached the bar. She wasn’t here for a drink, though the barkeep’s narrowed eyes made it clear she’d better order something soon if she didn’t want to draw undue attention. She slid a credit chit across the counter, muttering an order for whatever passed as drinkable here, and let her gaze sweep the room.
She wasn’t here by chance. Rumors had reached the Jensaarai—a whisper carried from shadow to shadow—that a Crymorah Syndicate offshoot had been targeting Force-sensitive children. A trade in lives, destinies bartered in secret. It was abhorrent, even for an organization like the Crymorah, whose hands were already stained with a thousand crimes. The rumor had been enough to send Maleiah spiraling back to memories she tried to bury: her own childhood, the terror of being hunted, the faces of those who hadn’t escaped. She wasn’t here to mourn, though. She was here for answers.
A quiet, raspy voice near the corner booth caught her ear. Two figures hunched close together, their faces obscured by the cantina’s dim lighting. Snippets of their conversation drifted her way—fragments about “shipments,” “cargo security,” and the unmistakable mention of a Crymorah symbol. Maleiah leaned against the bar, trying to look casual, but her hand drifted closer to her belt, where her survival knife rested beneath the edge of her cloak. A lightsaber hilt lay just as ready within arm’s reach, though she preferred to keep her allegiances concealed—at least for now.
Her drink arrived, untouched as her senses remained alert. Her focus narrowed on the pair, debating how best to approach without spooking them. The faintest ripple in the Force—an almost imperceptible disturbance—brushed against her awareness. Perhaps this was the lead she sought.
