Chapter I

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

The galaxy is stirring. Whispers of rebellion echo across Imperial worlds, as scattered cells unite to stand against the Empire’s iron grip. The Imperial Security Bureau — the ISB — works tirelessly to extinguish these sparks of hope before they ignite.

But deep in the Unknown Regions, beyond the reach of star charts and patrols, lies a system unseen by the wider galaxy: Elasier — a world primitive by galactic standards.

No blasters. No starports. No cityscapes sprawling to the horizon. And no Empire.

Here, years ago, a lone smuggler — an Acolyte in hiding — named Ryu Chikara crash-landed while fleeing Imperial hunters, paying a heavy price for his freedom. On Elasier, he found not just refuge but a chance to become more than the man he was.

In this world, a force older than the Force flows: Mana. Wild, potent, and deeply entwined with the land, it allows the people of Elasier to conjure flame, shape storms, heal wounds, or bend the very elements to their will.

Here, Ryu carved out a new life with his loyal droid, Apollo. Along his adventures, he forged bonds, toppled ancient conspiracies, became father to a rescued catfolk girl named Nikko, and found love in Talia — the woman who would stand beside him against the Shadowfell, an evil long buried in myth.

Through his mastery of Mana and the Force, Ryu discovered the art of Transmutation, rebuilding his ship, crafting new droids, and secretly mapping the hidden reaches of the Elasier system. With these secret hyperspace lanes, he has kept his family free — slipping between two worlds to gather technology, knowledge, and allies.

Eight years have passed since that fateful crash. Though the Shadowfell’s plans were vanquished, remnants linger like a sickness in the dark. Father and daughter now hunt these lost cultists, hoping to unravel their hidden purpose.

But for Nikko, a new trial awaits — one that every Force user must face:

Forging her own lightsaber.

Illum

Hidden Imperial Mining Facility

A long corridor hums with the low, constant rumble of buried generators. Frost creeps along the seams of the bulkhead doors, despite the harsh glow of overhead lights that burn sterile white against the dull gray walls. Deep beneath the frozen surface of Ilum — a world the Empire pretends does not exist — a single corridor feels as endless as the storm raging above.

Two Imperial Stormtroopers stand motionless before the reinforced blast door marked DRILL CORE STORAGE. TK-0525 shifts his weight slightly, the soft creak of plastoid echoing off the bare durasteel walls. Beside him, TK-1977 breathes steadily behind his helmet’s sealed rebreather, his gloved fingers tightening and loosening on the grip of his standard-issue E-11 blaster.

Their armor — the distinctive white Snowtrooper variant designed for arctic conditions — is bulkier than a standard Stormtrooper’s kit. Smooth, heat-insulated plating encases every inch of their bodies, with thick padding around the joints and a reinforced chest piece fitted with a compact climate regulator. Vented exhaust ports around the helmet’s lower rim release wisps of heat vapor, a reminder that this suit is made for sub-zero winds, not stuffy hallways. The elongated faceplate, narrow visor slits, and high neck guard give them an almost insectoid silhouette — faceless, oppressive, yet ironically human in their misery.

Inside the facility, the suit’s brilliance becomes its curse. Where the surface storm can flay a man’s skin raw in seconds, down here, the armor transforms into an oven. Sweat clings to undersuits, drips into boots, and soaks helmet liners. The irony is not lost on either trooper.

“This is ridiculous,” TK-0525 mutters, voice flat through the helmet’s comm filter.

“What is?” TK-1977 shifts again, his boots squeaking on the frost-dusted floor.

“This new policy. Like anyone would attack this frozen pit openly.” TK-0525 tilts his helmet to glance at the blast door they’re guarding — identical to every other blast door in the mining complex.

TK-1977 lets out a muffled grunt that could be a laugh or a groan. “Could be worse.”

“How so? I’m sweating like a bantha in mating season in this bucket,” TK-0525 snaps. “At this point, I’d rather be out in the storm than stuck here cooking my own flesh.”

“We could be on Tatooine. Two suns, nothing but sand in your armor seals. Baking alive at 165 degrees, and sand in places you didn’t know existed.”

TK-0525 turns his helmet slightly, the harsh white of his faceplate glaring in the corridor lights. “But we’d be moving. Patrols, sweeps, market checks. Cool air in the compounds. Not standing here, guarding a door that leads to a crate room. On a planet nobody’s even supposed to know about.”

TK-1977 gives an exaggerated shrug that clinks his shoulder plates. “Don’t complain too loud. Remember TK-0608? Complained a lot too— he’s on Mustafar now.”

A silence settles in. TK-0525 shifts again, flexing fingers inside armored gloves. He wonders if this post is worth the frostbite risk. He wonders if he’ll ever get reassigned to Coruscant — somewhere warm, but not too warm. Somewhere with real food.

The silence is broken by the soft echo of boots on metal plating. Both troopers straighten, their blasters angling forward with trained discipline as a figure rounds the corner — and both freeze.

She is young, 16 perhaps. Her boots are heavy, fur-lined, the kind used by mountain clans on backwater worlds. Blue trousers tucked into those boots are dusty with frost. A chainmail-embroidered shirt glints beneath an oversized fur jacket, the hood pushed back to reveal long, braid-tied blond hair. Two feline ears — sharp, furred, twitching — poke out from the crown of her head. A tail, matching in blond fur with a snow-white tip, flicks behind her like a banner of mischief.

Her bright blue eyes scan the hallway like she’s reading a menu — not a shred of fear in them. Her lips move as she mutters something under her breath. She looks completely out of place. She looks… comfortable.

TK-0525 and TK-1977 exchange a stiff, helmeted glance. No alarms. No security breach. No sudden blaster fire. She’s walking toward them like she owns the place — or worse, like this is all perfectly normal.

Finally, she notices them and her entire face lights up with a brilliant, innocent smile.

“Finally,” she says, exhaling as if relieved to find old friends instead of armored sentinels. “For a moment I thought this place was abandoned.”

Her voice echoes lightly in the corridor. She steps closer, the fur trim of her jacket brushing against the cold wall.

“Could either of you point me to the nearest exit? This place is a maze. No signs, no maps, no anything. Terrible layout, honestly,” she says, hands planted on her hips.

The troopers glance at each other again. TK-1977 tries to find his words first, his blaster angled just slightly upward. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” The bark is standard — clipped, suspicious — but the girl’s calm demeanor throws it off balance.

The catgirl blinks at them as if they’re the ones who are lost. “I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself first. My name’s Nikko Chikara.”

She says her surname with a little extra confidence, like it means something.

“As for what I’m doing here — well, I’m trying to find the exit. I really don’t know how you all find your way around. This place is like a tomb with hallways,” she adds, matter-of-fact.

TK-0525 lets out an incredulous snort through the comm. “Tell me about it. I’ve requested signs for weeks, but the Captain says it’s not in the budget.”

TK-1977 turns his helmet to his comrade, visor tilted just so — if they weren’t behind sealed plates, the look would say What are you doing?

“No, I mean how did you get here?” TK-1977 presses, the confusion now edged with tension. His gloved finger flicks the selector switch on the E-11. The weapon hums faintly as it readies. Beside him, TK-0525’s reaction is slower but he mirrors the motion, raising his blaster so the barrel hovers level with Nikko’s chest.

Nikko’s feline ears twitch. Her tail curls and swishes once, a sign of mild annoyance rather than fear.

“With a ship, of course. But I landed in the wrong place and — well — wandered in. This place is more complicated than my the dungeons,” she says, voice calm, gentle, eyes wide and bright.

“That doesn’t answer our questions,” TK-1977 snaps, his boots scraping as he squares his shoulders.

Nikko tilts her head, then takes a slow step closer. Before either trooper can react, she lifts her small hands, gently resting them on the barrels of their weapons. The E-11’s hum pulses against her palms. She lowers the blasters like she’s handling toys.

“Relax. I’m no threat. Could you two help me find the exit?” she asks, her tone like a teacher explaining something simple to stubborn children.

For a moment, the two helmets remain locked on her. But their grips loosen. A warm, fuzzy sense of compliance trickles through them — like warm tea in a freezing corridor.

TK-0525 breaks first, voice oddly mellow. “I suppose… that doesn’t hurt?”

“Yeah. Sure,” TK-1977 nods stiffly, the suspicion melting from his posture. “Five-Two-Five never bothered to learn the layout, but I did.”

“Perfect!” Nikko beams, her tail curling like an exclamation mark behind her. “Thank you both. You’re so helpful.”

They fall in beside her as if she’s always belonged here, white armor clanking gently with each step. Their boots crunch on the frost-rimmed floor as they walk deeper into the corridor.

A door marked MEETING ROOM 4B hisses open on a tired set of hinges, spilling warm light into the corridor. Out steps Captain Eldrich, Imperial rank insignia dull in the harsh glow of overhead fixtures. His boots click smartly on the gridded floor, echoing a weariness that clings to his every motion.

He draws a long breath through his nose, cold air searing his sinuses, and pinches the bridge of it as if to force out the headache blooming behind his eyes. Two hours wasted — that’s how it feels. Two hours of stiff-backed superior officers barking demands about ore quotas and Core shipments that keep stalling because the drills keep seizing up. He thumbs through the data pad in his left hand, its screen flickering with diagnostic reports. Words blur together: overheated servo motors, coolant failure, core shaft fracture. The same problems, over and over.

Better drills, he thinks. All I asked for were better drills. But no — we’ll just get more of the same, each one another headache waiting to break down in this frozen hellhole.

He stalks down the corridor, boot heels tapping out a steady rhythm against his fraying patience. It’s always the same: Ilum’s mines were never meant for mass extraction, and the higher-ups pretend that the frozen minerals extracted don’t clog up the tunnels. The Empire needs these crystals, but they don’t want the truth written in the ledgers. Everything must be discreet — even if it costs men frostbite, or worse.

Eldrich grunts under his breath, pulling his heavy officer’s coat tighter around his collar. He runs a thumb across the edge of his code cylinder clipped to his chest pocket. He’ll have to call in a favor, maybe bend the rules, maybe reroute a supply run. Anything to keep Krennic’s hounds from tearing him apart in the next status meeting.

He rounds a corner, eyes still glued to his data pad — and freezes. His boots scrape a half-step before planting firm.

A muffled echo of boots and voices catches his ear — not the harsh, clipped comms chatter he expects from patrols, but a normal conversation drifting closer. He frowns, slowing his pace. Two familiar modulated voices… stormtroopers on post. And then — a third voice. Light. Cheerful. Female.

There, strolling down the corridor like they own it, are TK-0525 and TK-1977 — but it’s not the two stormtroopers that make his jaw twitch. Between them, a girl: fur boots, chainmail shirt, furred jacket wide open to the warm air, blond hair in a braid brushing her back, a long, swishing cat tail flicking behind her with lazy contentment. Her furry ears flick as she chats animatedly with the white-armored sentinels like they’re old friends catching up at a cantina.

Eldrich stands there for a heartbeat too long. His mind struggles to parse the image: A girl? Here? Inside my base? With no alarm? No security breach? And no restraints?

He cranes his neck as they approach, catching a sliver of conversation.

“And all we ever get to eat is these terrible yellow nutrition bars,” TK-0525 says, voice muffled but clear.

“Seriously?” the girl tilts her head at him, genuinely appalled. “No variety at all? Not even field rations?”

“None,” TK-1977 answers, shaking his helmet as if the gesture matters. “But it’s still better than that protein sludge they serve on the Outer Rim garrisons.”

Captain Eldrich blinks once. Twice. He tries to process what he’s seeing — but the image remains absurd. This is his facility. His stormtroopers. And they’re escorting this catgirl with the casual air of an old friend heading for the market. No binders. No sidearms drawn. No security alert.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He clears his throat, but the sound is swallowed by the hum of ventilation. He tries again — louder this time, his voice slicing through their conversation like a blade.

“Excuse me!”

The three figures stop in unison. The troopers turn with military stiffness, boots scraping against the deck plates. The animal person turns more naturally, blinking her wide blue eyes at him, ears flicking once as if to greet him.

Captain Eldrich squares his shoulders, tucking the data pad under his arm like a weapon. “Troopers — what in the frozen hell is going on here?” he demands, tucking his data pad under one arm and crossing the other over it, voice dripping with strained patience.

TK-0525’s helmet turns slightly. “Nikko is lost, sir,” he says like he’s explaining a misplaced tool. His voice is calm, almost helpful.

“We’re helping her find the exit,” TK-1977 adds, tone matching — casual, polite, so very wrong.

Eldrich blinks once, twice. That answered absolutely nothing.

“Excuse me?” he says, the words pushed through clenched teeth.

Nikko pipes up with an earnest nod, her furred ears perking. “Yeah. This place is like a maze. You really should put up some signs or a map. It’s confusing.”

“We don’t have the budget for that,” Eldrich snaps reflexively. The absurdity of the reply hangs between them like a blaster bolt frozen mid-shot.

“See? Told ya,” TK-0525 says to Nikko, who giggles softly.

Eldrich feels something in his temple throb. He drags a gloved hand down the bridge of his nose, breathes out the cold air, and snaps his eyes up to the girl. “That doesn’t answer my question!” he barks, stepping closer, boots thudding on the metal.

“Why are you here?” he says, this time to her. “Who are you, exactly?”

He turns his glare on Nikko. Up close, she seems even more out of place — the embroidery on her chainmail, the scuffed boots, the light dusting of frost on her furred ears. A wild thing dressed for the tundra, wandering a place where wild things don’t belong.

Nikko smiles brightly, as if they’re discussing the weather. “I told them already — I’m Nikko Chikara. I just got turned around and — well — here I am.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Eldrich growls, turning to the troopers. “And you — both of you — are supposed to be at your posts. Not babysitting strays.”

TK-0525’s helmet bobs ever so slightly. “Sir, she’s really lost. And — well — it’s more productive than guarding the door, sir.”

Eldrich pinches the bridge of his nose with gloved fingers. This is madness. Did they miss a lockdown? A breach? Did the alarms fail? His mind spins, layering bureaucratic horror over security dread. If Krennic gets word of this…

“Why are you here? Why aren’t you in chains? And you two —” he jabs a finger at his troopers “— why aren’t you at your posts?”

TK-0525 and TK-1977 stand stiff, their blasters at low-ready but their posture utterly unthreatening. Eldrich can practically hear the nerve endings in his forehead sizzling.

“That’s it,” he hisses, grabbing for the communicator clipped to his belt. “I’m calling security. I’m having you two detained for dereliction and treason.”

He fumbles with the communicator, thumb hovering over the activation switch.

But Nikko is already in front of him, soft boots whispering over the corridor plates. Her small, gloved hand presses gently on his forearm, the communicator dipping just out of reach of his mouth.

“There’s no need for that,” she says, her voice calm — impossibly calm. Her blue eyes lock onto his, bright as the kyber crystals buried deep beneath Ilum’s frozen crust. “You seem stressed. Another meeting with the brass? Your superiors breathing down your neck again?”

Eldrich’s mouth opens slightly. “How did you—?”

She leans closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “Work’s been stalling. It’s not your fault. It’s the drills, right? They keep freezing. Can’t handle the core temperature. Nobody wants to send you the good ones because they’re worried about exposure. You’re doing your best.”

His throat feels dry. A distant part of his mind screams how does she know this? but it’s muffled by a strange warmth blooming in his chest, soothing the acid that’s been eating him alive for weeks.

“Why don’t you relax?” Nikko murmurs, her fingers brushing his wrist like falling snow. “Go take a nap. You deserve it. Let your men help me find the exit. They’re being kind. It’s really no trouble.”

He tries to say something but she stops him.

“Shhh.” Nikko’s voice is warm, inviting — the purr of a snowcat in a sunbeam. “Why don’t you rest, Captain? Take a nap. Let it go for an hour. You deserve that, don’t you?”

The weight of his endless reports, the screaming voices of his superiors, the half-frozen drills — it all slips from his shoulders like a discarded coat. His eyes glaze over, the knot in his chest loosening. He feels tired — good tired, like he did before Ilum, before the secret projects.

He nods once, blinking slowly. “I… suppose… but you two — you’ll get back to your post after this, right?”

“Of course, sir,” TK-0525 and TK-1977 say in eerie unison.

Nikko beams at the Captain, ears flicking as her tail curls behind her. “You see? Nothing to worry about. Sleep well, Captain.”

She gives Captain Eldrich’s sleeve a gentle pat, then pivots on her heel and strolls off with her new white-armored escorts. Their boots clang down the corridor, the echo of casual conversation trailing behind.

Eldrich watches them disappear around the corner. His communicator hangs useless at his side, the data pad tucked under his arm feeling absurdly heavy now. He frowns, blinking at the walls — so plain, so cold, so utterly ordinary.

What was I…?

He tries to remember what just happened — the catgirl, the conversation, the security threat. But all that comes to mind is the headache and the data pad full of half-broken mining diagnostics. And the meeting, that damn meeting.

He shakes his head, trudging toward his quarters. Maybe a nap will help. Maybe if he closes his eyes for just an hour, the next status update won’t sting so much. His boots crunch lightly on frost that shouldn’t even be there.

Meanwhile, Nikko and her two loyal stormtrooper escorts continue down the corridor, their steps echoing against steel walls that now seem a little warmer, a little less Imperial — if only for a moment.

On Ilum’s barren surface, the endless white storm howls like a starving beast. Razor-edged winds sweep across the jagged plains, flinging needle-fine snow in whirling sheets that swallow everything — the sky, the ground, any sign of life. Buried in that furious blizzard, almost invisible to the Empire’s far-reaching eyes, squats a sleek ship — its hull an elegant remnant of an older, more regal era.

The Crucible, a Nabooian J-Type Royal Barge by appearance but retooled in secret over years of exile, sits huddled behind a bluff of ice-crusted rock. Its hull plating glows dully in the blizzard’s swirl, half-buried by drifts. The ship’s engines remain cold, hidden, its power signatures scrambled by layers of experimental shielding. To any Imperial scanner, it’s nothing but a ghost, a smear of static lost in the storm.

Standing beneath the open landing ramp, bracing himself against the icy blast, is Ryu Chikara — cloaked in the solemn weight of a man who’s fought too many wars on too many worlds. He’s clad in his old Temple Guard armor, the lines still echoing Jedi design but draped in black rather than the warm tan it once carried. Reinforced plating wraps around his chest, layered over a tunic of thick wool and chain, the edges lined with subtle glyphs of protection woven in his own hand. Over it all, he wears a fur-lined cloak that billows in the storm, its hem snapping at his armored calves. Frost clings to the edges of his pauldrons, the metal biting cold where the heat of his body can’t reach.

His arms are crossed over his breastplate, gloved fingers drumming softly against the cold-hardened metal. Beneath the Templar-style mask — featureless save for a single vertical slit — his eyes scan the storm for any hint of motion, worry gnawing at the edge of his focus. He feels the Force all around him, the pulse of life hidden in the swirling snow, but Nikko’s presence is a flicker — distant, shielded, teasingly out of reach.

Beside him stands Apollo, the HK-50 assassin droid — no longer bearing his usual polished purple-and-gold plating but instead armored in matte Mandalorian-style plates. The design is all sharp angles and rugged utility, repainted in dark gunmetal and iron-gray so he blends into backwater crowds and war-torn outposts without drawing the wrong eyes. His helmet’s visor slot glows faintly through the storm, tracking the distant horizon, twin wrist blasters primed but held in check. Arms crossed, stance steady, the droid watches as Ryu wrestles with the same old fear: the one that creeps in any time Nikko vanishes beyond his reach.

“She’s late,” Ryu mutters, his voice muffled behind the mask.

“Indeed,” Apollo responds, his tone more human than a droid. From a strangers perspective, Apollo looks and acts human, not droid. An effect of his learning software.

Ryu shifts his boots deeper into the snow. He’d known there was an Imperial facility here — rumor had it they’d moved drill rigs to this region years ago — but seeing the massive harvesters ripping at Ilum’s bones had stirred an anger that simmered hot in his chest, despite the cold. Kyber, he thinks bitterly. Always kyber. Always more power to feed their Empire.

The Crucible’s ship scrambling works flawlessly; no stray signal would reach an Imperial scanner. The blizzard does the rest — a natural cloak against eyes and sensors alike. But he can’t shake the itch crawling at the base of his neck. What if they caught her? What if she’s hurt? What if—

He’s tempted — so deeply tempted — to reach for the communicator in his gauntlet. One press. One whisper. But he can already hear her voice in his mind: Have faith in me. He lets out a long breath that fogs in the gap between his mask and scarf. This is what he’s trained her for.

From the ramp behind him, boots crunch across the grated deck. Talia emerges, pulling up the fur-lined hood of her heavy cloak, platinum hair peeking out from beneath its edge, strands whipping against her cheeks. In her arms, she carries a small bundle wrapped in thick wolf-fur: little Erza, only two years old, her scarlet hair spilling out in tufts as she shifts, big green eyes watery in the cold wind.

“Papa!” Erza squeaks, her voice cutting through the storm. She reaches for him with mittened hands.

Ryu’s arms unfold instantly. He takes her from Talia, cradling her close against the cold steel of his chestplate. The tiny warmth of her tiny form softens the iron weight pressing down on him.

Talia stays by his side, one hand resting on his arm, steady and warm even in the howling cold. The twins, Mirajane and Lisanna, appear just behind their mother, wrapped in matching fur cloaks that brush against their boots.

“Papa?” Mirajane asks, her voice muffled by the fur trim. “Any sign of Nikko?”

“Will she be okay?” Lisanna echoes, glancing up at her father, her breath misting the air.

Even Erza shifts in his hold, her tiny brow furrowing with an echo of worry she doesn’t quite understand.

Ryu lets out a slow breath. “No. But have faith in your sister. She’s strong.” His hand rests on Erza’s back as she burrows into his shoulder. “I believe in her.”

“Nikko strong,” Erza says, her tiny voice muffled against his armor, a pure child’s certainty. A small smile tugs at the corner of Ryu’s mouth, hidden by the mask.

“That’s right,” he murmurs. “Nikko is strong.”

He turns to Apollo, who still stands like a statue beside him. The droid’s visor slot glows faintly, scanning the drifting snow. “If she’s not back in ten minutes—”

“—I will retrieve her myself,” Apollo finishes, a touch too smoothly. His armor clinking softly as he adjusts his stance. “Of course.”

From within the Crucible’s open landing ramp, two seeker droids drift out — DP-8, its plating painted Imperial black and Z3-KE, the sleeker, newer model Nikko’s named Zeke. It’s plating painted white and green by Nikko’s choice. They hover in the biting wind, optics flaring green, then flickering in a pattern only Ryu and Apollo know by heart.

“Three life signs approaching. Nikko included,” they beep in sync, their tones distorted by the snowstorm.

“One at a time,” Ryu growls. But then his brow furrows. “Wait — three?”

The droids beep confirmation, their photoreceptors blinking once, then twice. “Yes, three.”

He hands Erza back to Talia, who takes the squirming toddler with a quiet, gentle shush. “Girls, inside. Now,” Ryu orders, voice low but calm.

“What’s wrong?” Talia asks, shifting Erza on her hip as the child tugs at her scarf.

“Nikko’s coming back. But she’s not alone.”

Talia doesn’t argue. She gathers the twins close with her free arm, Erza snug against her side. The ramp pulls back up behind them with a hiss of hydraulics, sealing them away from the storm. Silence, save for the shriek of the blizzard.

Ryu draws his blaster, the familiar hum of its power cell cutting through the wind. Apollo’s wrist-mounted blasters snap open with a soft metallic hiss, emitter lenses glowing faintly blue in the dark.

In the swirling white, three shadows emerge — blurred silhouettes that shift and solidify as they approach. Wind whips their cloaks and armor, flakes dancing around them in tiny whirlwinds. Ryu extends his senses — the Force brushes his mind like silk. No danger. No killing intent. Only Nikko’s flickering, stubborn warmth and two neutral pulses shaped by loyalty and confusion.

And then he sees them clearly: Nikko in her fur-lined jacket, braid loose against her chest, cat ears flattened against the wind — and two Stormtroopers flanking her like old friends walking a girl home.

His blaster lowers by a fraction. Apollo tilts his helmet, optics flaring once in disbelief.

“Don’t shoot!” Nikko calls, her voice fighting the shrieking wind. “They’re not a threat!”

Ryu’s mind flickers through a dozen scenarios in an instant. He holsters the blaster but keeps a hand close to the grip. Apollo’s wrist blasters slide back into their armored slots with a click.

The Stormtroopers step right up to the Crucible’s ramp, snow crusting the ridges of their armor. They nod to Ryu and Apollo — stiff, professional, polite.

“TK-0525, TK-1977 — thank you,” Nikko says brightly, tail swishing behind her, ignoring the sharp wind tugging at her braid. “But you didn’t have to walk me all the way here.”

“Nonsense,” TK-0525 says, his helmet’s vocoder flat but somehow warm.

“These storms are dangerous. Couldn’t let you get lost in them,” TK-1977 adds, his tone almost fatherly for a man who’d shoot them on sight.

Ryu stands there, arms crossed again, the wind biting through the seams in his fur cloak. He looks at the two troopers — then at Nikko — then back at the troopers. His mind races, trying to stitch the image together.

Slowly, the two white-armored men give a crisp nod and turn back into the whiteout, vanishing like wraiths into the storm. Nikko lifts her gloved hand, waving as they go.

When she turns back, her father is still there, arms folded, mask dark and unreadable. She tilts her head, ears flicking forward. He doesn’t have to speak — she can feel the question echoing inside him.

“I got lost,” Nikko says, her tone airy as drifting snow. “Ended up in their hidden base. Instead of shooting my way out, I convinced a couple of troopers to help me. It was easier.”

Ryu’s jaw shifts behind the mask. He opens his mouth, ready to ask what she really did, but she lifts a hand, wagging a finger.

“Don’t worry. They’ll forget the whole thing. I did exactly what you taught me,” she adds, her smile both innocent and devilish.

He exhales. There’s nothing on the Imperial comms — no alarms, no frantic chatter. Just the whine of wind across the frozen plain.

“Were you successful?” he asks.

Nikko’s eyes light up. She reaches into her pocket, the wind whipping at the edge of her jacket, and produces two small kyber crystals that glitter like trapped starlight. She holds them up proudly.

“Two?” Ryu asks, brow raising behind the mask.

“When I picked it up, it split into two. I was disappointed at first, but then I could feel their power,” Nikko beams. Her tail curls behind her boots, flicking snow away like a banner.

Ryu nods once, slowly, a small warmth cracking through the worry in his chest. He lifts a gloved hand, resting it on her head, fingers brushing her cold hair. “I’m proud of you. You did well.”

Her ears perk, tail flicking with delight. “Thanks, Dad.”

He lowers his hand, and the storm howls on. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here. Your next step — your true trial — is forging your lightsaber.”

Nikko’s eyes glitter like the crystals she holds, and for a heartbeat, the storm feels warm.

As they step up the ramp, Apollo closes the gap behind them, servos humming softly in the frozen air. The Crucible’s engines shudder to life, a low hum that vibrates through the snowdrifts. In moments, its silhouette lifts into the swirling white, vanishing into the clouds.

Beyond Ilum’s storms, the galaxy remains unaware — the Empire none the wiser — as father, daughter, and their silent guardian vanish into hyperspace.