Chapter 20: There Is No "Try"
The first thing I learn is that Sith tombs have back doors.
Which, in hindsight, should not surprise me. Anyone who builds a monument to eternal domination and galactic supremacy probably also plans an emergency exit. Or twelve. Preferably hidden behind ominous murals so that archaeologists—and idiot Jedi children—don't immediately notice them.
The wall behind the holocron dais does not open so much as decide to stop being a wall.
There's no dramatic explosion or lightning strike this time. Just a deep, resonant thrum that I feelmore than hear, like the planet clearing its throat. The carved stone splits along seams I hadn't noticed before, sliding apart with mechanical precision that absolutely should not still function after several thousand years.
Cold air pours out.
Not dusty air. Not stale.
Cold. Clean. Surprisingly decent smell.
Maris's grip tightens on my sleeve. "Oh. That's not good."
"That depends," I say faintly, staring into the newly revealed passageway, "on whether or not this will scar us for life. Personally, as long as it's not a collection of baby skulls, I'm pretty open-minded."
"That was… specific."
"Don't read into it."
The tunnel beyond slopes downward at a gentle angle, lit by thin red lines embedded in the walls—dim at first, barely more than veins of dying embers. The floor is smooth beneath my boots, worn not by time but by use. This place wasn't abandoned in a hurry. It was sealed carefully. Reverently.
Behind us, the holocron hums.
The Wrath's presence presses outward, subtle but undeniable, like a gravity well tugging at my spine.
"You may proceed," he says, voice echoing not just in the chamber, but in my head. "Try not to embarrass yourselves immediately."
Maris snorts and steps forward without hesitation. "No promises."
I hesitate for half a second longer.
Not because I'm scared.
Okay, that's a lie. I'm terrified. But it's the good kind of terrified. The kind that comes with footnotes and diagrams and a strong urge to document everything in a very illegal journal. It's like watching a horror movie or riding a roller coaster. It's horrifying and enthralling, all at once.
The Force here doesn't push me forward.
It expects me to follow.
So I do.
The moment my foot crosses the threshold, the tunnel lights brighten—just a fraction, but enough that I notice. Enough that my stomach drops.
"…Maris," I say quietly.
"Yeah?"
"I think this place just noticed me."
She grins over her shoulder. "Congrats. You've been adopted by a murder hallway."
We descend deeper, the tunnel widening gradually until it opens into something that makes my brain stall out completely.
The Sith Academy is not a ruin.
It is a fortress.
Massive stone arches stretch overhead, ribbed with dark metal supports etched in Sith runes that glow faintly as we step into the space. Walkways branch off in every direction, suspended over a vast central chamber that drops into darkness so deep my lightsaber can't find the bottom. Towering spires rise along the cavern walls, stacked with balconies, training platforms, and sealed doorways.
Dormitories. Lecture halls. Sparring arenas.
Infrastructure.
I've seen holos of Jedi temples long lost to time—crumbled, hollowed out, half-buried. This place feels… paused. Like someone hit a button and told it to wait.
As if it knew someone would come back.
"That's," Maris breathes, eyes wide and shining, "so much bigger than I thought."
"Same," I whisper. "I was expecting… you know. Rubble. Dramatic decay. At least one skeleton pointing ominously."
The Wrath's hologram materializes beside us, larger now, his armored form casting a red reflection across the stone.
"You were taught," he says coolly, "that the Sith were destroyed."
There it is.
The Jedi version of history. Clean. Tidy. Victorious. Wrong.
"Yeah," I admit. "I mean—yes. That's the official stance."
"And yet," he says, gesturing broadly to the Academy, "you stand within the heart of our legacy."
I frown, looking around again. "So… this place just… what? Got hidden away?"
Wrath's helm tilts, ever so slightly.
"No," he says, irritation creeping into his voice like a crack in glass. "It was preserved."
The lights along the walkways flare brighter in response to his mood. Doors along the far walls unlock with a chorus of clicks and hisses. Somewhere deep below us, massive mechanisms grind awake, ancient systems reconnecting after centuries of dormancy.
Maris lets out a delighted, borderline feral laugh. "Oh, I love a planned apocalypse."
Wrath ignores her.
"The Sith did not fall by accident," he continues. "Nor did we allow our institutions to rot into useless monuments. This Academy was rendered inactive by design. Its masters dispersed. Its archives sealed. Its wards maintained by systems you do not yet comprehend."
He turns his gaze back to me.
"We planned for resurgence."
That… shouldn't unsettle me as much as it does.
I was raised on the idea that the Sith were a cautionary tale. A closed chapter. Something the Jedi overcame through patience and balance and the moral high ground.
Even having all this meta knowledge.
Knowing about the Rule of Two, of the Bane Line. Papa Palpatine, and the Grand Plan. I assumed that the Jedi at least had good reason to believe the Sith were gone forever. The least they could have done was torch and burn these places.
"So," I said, carefully, "you're saying this place was… waiting."
"For someone worthy," Wrath replies flatly.
Maris beams. "We're worthy!"
"No," he snaps. "You are present."
Ouch.
He floats closer, his presence sharpening. The Force tightens around my chest—not painful, not threatening. Evaluative.
"You are unacceptable," he says, turning slightly toward Maris. "Undisciplined. Excessively volatile. Your anger lacks direction."
Maris puts a hand on her hip. "Wow. First impressions are overrated anyway."
Wrath shifts his attention to me.
"You are unqualified," he continues. "Untrained in the true applications of power. Shackled by Jedi restraint and moral indecision."
That one lands harder.
"And yet," he says, voice lowering, "you are useful."
The word echoes.
Useful.
Not chosen. Not destined.
Useful.
I should be offended.
Instead, something in my chest twists—not resentment, but recognition. The Jedi don't talk like that. They don't frame people as tools, even when they absolutely are. There's a brutal honesty to it that feels… refreshing. Disturbing. But refreshing.
Let's be honest, I'm a hop and a skip away from getting shipped out to the Corps. The odds of me getting to be a Padawan, let alone a Knight get lower every day. It wouldn't kill me to have some sort of fallback plan.
Besides, I can't exactly go anywhere without a ship. Might as well hear him out.
Wrath gestures, and a nearby platform lowers itself with a smooth hum, aligning perfectly beneath my feet. The moment I step onto it, the runes along its edge ignite.
The Academy responds.
Not to him.
To me.
I suck in a breath. "Okay, I know I've got… vibes. But this feels like a lot."
Maris hops onto the platform beside me. The runes flicker—but don't brighten for her.
She notices immediately.
"…Oh," she says softly. Then, louder, with delight, "Oh, that's fascinating."
Wrath watches this exchange with keen interest.
"The structure recognizes authority," he explains. "Not lineage. Not allegiance. Intent."
I tilted my head. "That seems… complicated."
"Yes," he agrees. "Now you are beginning to understand."
The platform carries us forward along a central causeway, gliding smoothly over the abyss below. As we pass, more systems awaken—training droids powering up, holoprojectors flickering to life, sealed doors unlocking one by one.
This isn't a tour.
It's a handover.
"You will remain here," Wrath says suddenly.
Maris and I speak at the same time.
"Wait, what?"
"Awesome."
Wrath does not seem phased. Most impressive.
"Not as prisoners," he clarifies, clearly annoyed that he has to. "Nor as students. You have earned neither distinction."
I wince. "That's… comforting?"
"You are candidates," he continues. "For now. There is much to be learned from you before decisions are made."
"Decisions about what?" I ask.
His gaze lingers on me.
"About whether you are worth the effort."
The platform comes to a stop before a massive set of doors, far larger than the one we entered through. The runes carved into them pulse slowly, like a heartbeat.
The Academy hums around us, awake and aware and very much no longer abandoned.
Maris looks at me, eyes bright, grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Ben," she whispers, reverent, "we own a Sith Academy."
"We do not," I hiss back. "We are unsupervised minors on a murder planet."
Wrath turns toward the doors.
"Welcome," he says, "to Korriban's true legacy."
The doors begin to open.
And somewhere deep in the Force, I get the very distinct feeling that I've just crossed a line I can't uncross.
...
The first thing Wrath does after welcoming us to Korriban's "true legacy" is not try to kill us.
This should have been reassuring.
Instead, it's deeply unsettling.
He doesn't lead us to a sparring ring or unleash training droids or even do the classic Sith thing where he tries to provoke us into attacking him so he can prove a point about our weakness. No, he guides us into what appears to be a lecture hall—tiered stone seating, a central dais, ancient holoprojectors lining the walls like unblinking eyes.
Desks. Actual desks.
I feel cheated.
"Sit," Wrath says.
Maris drops into a seat immediately, boots up on the desk in front of her like she's daring the furniture to complain. I choose a seat closer to the front, mostly because the Force feels… denser there. Like the Academy is watching to see where I'll put myself.
Wrath does not sit. Given he's a Holocron Force Ghost, that makes sense.
What he does do is pace.
Slowly. Deliberately. The way a predator paces when it already knows where the exits are and is mostly just killing time.
"This," he says, gesturing around us, "is not a trial."
Maris raises a hand. "Aw."
He ignores her.
"You have not earned that distinction," he continues. "Nor is this training. Training implies investment. This is an evaluation."
"Like an interview?" I offer.
Wrath stops pacing. Turns. Fixes his helm on me.
"If you interrupt me again," he says calmly, "I will begin with you."
"… Touchy," I mutter.
He resumes pacing.
"The Jedi," Wrath says, with a disdain that feels practiced, "test aptitude through obedience. Through repetition. Through adherence to rules designed to prevent failure rather than cultivate success."
Maris nods. "Yeah, pretty much. The system doesn't always work, though. Case in point." She pointed at herself. And at me.
"Indeed. But their purpose remains clear. They teach you what not to feel," he goes on. "What not to want. What not to become. And then they wonder why their initiates fracture the moment reality refuses to conform."
I think of the Corps.
I do not say anything.
Wrath stops in front of Maris.
"You," he says. "Your anger is loud."
Maris tilts her head, unimpressed. "Golly Gee. You don't say. You've only brought it up like three times."
"It is inefficient," he snaps. "You lash out without direction. You indulge emotion for its own sake. That is not strength. It is noise."
Her smile sharpens. "You gonna tell me to meditate about it?"
"No," Wrath says. "I am going to ask you a question."
He lifts one hand. The air in front of Maris ripples, and suddenly she's not sitting in a lecture hall anymore.
She's standing in the crèche.
So am I.
The memory is vivid enough that my chest tightens—the smell of disinfectant, the low hum of Coruscant traffic far below, the way the lights were always just a little too bright. We're younger here. Smaller. Ahsoka's there, too, sitting cross-legged with her montrals tucked in close, pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.
Wrath's voice echoes through the illusion.
"Why are you angry?"
Maris doesn't hesitate. "Because the galaxy's a mess."
"Vague."
"Because people lie."
"Pathetic. Dig deeper."
She clenches her fists. "Because no one ever means what they say."
Wrath circles her like a vulture. "Better. And when you strike out—when you hurt others—what do you hope to accomplish?"
Maris opens her mouth.
Closes it.
For the first time since I met her, she looks… unsure.
"…I don't know," she admits finally. "I just don't want to be small."
The illusion shatters.
We're back in the lecture hall. Maris exhales sharply, jaw tight.
Wrath nods once. "There it is. Anger born of fear. Untempered. Wasteful."
He turns away from her and points at me.
"You," he says. "Your loyalty."
Oh. Great. We're doing this.
The room shifts again, but this time the Force doesn't drag me into a memory. Instead, it splits the space.
On one side: the Temple. The Council chamber. Yoda's patient gaze. Mace Windu's disapproval. The quiet, suffocating pressure of expectations I can never quite meet.
On the other: Mandalore.
Not the politics. Not the throne.
Just her.
Satine Kryze, kneeling to adjust my cloak, her hands gentle, her smile sad. Obi-Wan Kenobi, laughing softly as he corrects my stance. Korkie, being insufferably cheerful. A life I was never fated to have. And yet, I dream about it constantly.
I wonder about it a lot. What I might be, who I might be, if I was reincarnated without my memories. Would I still live on Mandalore? Would I be a better Initiate? A worse one? There's so much to consider, too much for me to ever really know.
Wrath's voice cuts through it all.
"If ordered to choose," he says, "which do you abandon?"
My throat goes dry.
I think either one of them would press me to sacrifice the other. The Jedi hate attachments. Mandalore hates the Jedi. It's less a hypothetical, more of an absolute certainty that to actually live my life, I'd need to make a choice.
A sacrifice.
"I wouldn't," I say finally.
Wrath's helm tilts. "Incorrect."
"I'd find another way," I insist. "Or I'd break the order."
The Force hums, curious.
Wrath studies me for a long moment. Then—He laughs. It's sharp and humorless, but unmistakably real.
"There," he says. "That."
The illusion dissolves.
"The Jedi call that defiance," Wrath continues. "The Sith call it ambition. Both are wrong." He steps closer, looming. "It is clarity."
I swallow.
"Sith training," Wrath says, "is not about rage. Rage is fuel, not purpose. We do not lose ourselves to emotion. We hone it. Direct it. Strip away sentiment until only intent remains."
Maris leans toward me, whispering, "I think he's pitching us a management position."
Wrath hears her anyway.
"This Academy," he says, ignoring her, "does not need students."
The walls seem to listen.
"It needs caretakers."
The word lands heavy.
"Someone must maintain it," Wrath continues. "Someone must decide what knowledge is preserved. What is discarded. What is rebuilt."
My stomach twists.
This isn't a lesson.
It's an offer.
Not of power. Of responsibility.
An inheritance.
I think of the Jedi archives—locked, restricted, curated by committee. I think of the Corps, of being useful but never chosen. I think of the Academy responding to me not because of who my parents are, but because of what I intend.
Maris, of course, grins.
"So," she says brightly, "do we get, like, a renovation budget? Because I have ideas."
Wrath stares at her.
Then, after a pause, he says, "You will begin with the west wing. It is structurally unsound."
Her grin widens. "I love this job."
I should be horrified.
Instead, I realize—far too late—that I'm already thinking about where I'd start reorganizing the archives. And that scares me more than any lightsaber battle ever could. I wonder if that was his intention?
...
Ahsoka Tano learned very early in her Jedi education that the Temple did not actually run on the Force.
It ran on schedules.
This was, frankly, more terrifying.
She stood in the Hall of Meditation with three datapads balanced in her arms, a fourth hovering in the air beside her courtesy of a repulsor clip she'd "borrowed" from Maintenance and absolutely intended to return someday. The hum of Coruscant traffic filtered faintly through the transparisteel windows, a reminder that the galaxy was continuing to exist whether or not the Jedi were ready for it.
Right now, the Jedi were very much not ready.
"Ahsoka," Master Plo Koon said gently, appearing at her side with the quiet grace of someone who never seemed rushed, "have you seen Initiates Kryze and Brood today?"
Ahsoka smiled.
It was an easy smile. Practiced. The kind she'd been honing since the moment she realized adults responded better when you looked cooperative.
"Of course," she said without missing a beat. "They were in the south gardens earlier. Group meditation."
Plo Koon nodded. "I see. They were not present at the mid-morning count."
"Yes," Ahsoka agreed. "They… left early."
"For what reason?"
Ahsoka tilted her head, thoughtful. "Personal reflection?"
There was a pause.
The kind of pause that made it very clear that Plo Koon did not believe her.
But he also did not push.
"Thank you, Ahsoka," he said finally. "Please inform them that Master Yoda expects their attendance this evening."
"I will," she said brightly.
He moved on, robes whispering softly against the stone floor.
The moment he was out of earshot, Ahsoka exhaled and tapped furiously at one of her datapads, pulling up the Temple's presence logs.
Initiate Kryze: Present.
Initiate Brood: Present.
She duplicated the entries across three different systems, cross-referenced them with a meditation report she'd forged earlier that morning, and then—just to be safe—scheduled them both for a "voluntary physical conditioning session" in one of the auxiliary gyms no one ever checked.
She was very good at this.
That realization sat… uncomfortably.
Ahsoka hadn't set out to become an expert in falsifying Jedi records. It just sort of happened, the way all survival skills did. The Temple was a maze of procedures and exceptions and overlapping authorities, and once you understood how the pieces fit together, it was surprisingly easy to… nudge things.
She told herself she was helping her friends.
Which was true.
She was also, objectively, committing several ethical violations that would get her lectured for hours if anyone ever found out.
Her comm vibrated.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
She didn't check it immediately. That would look suspicious. Instead, she walked calmly down the hall toward the Archive Annex, nodded politely at Jocasta Nu, and only ducked into a quiet alcove once she was sure she wasn't being watched.
She opened the channel.
BEN: Hey.
Ahsoka frowned.
AHSOKA: Hey?! That's all you have to say?!
MARIS: Right. Sorry. Hi, Ahsoka. How are you?
Ahsoka leaned her head back against the wall. "Stars help me."
AHSOKA: Where the heck are you guys?!
There was a pause. Longer this time.
Then—
BEN: Korriban. Still.
Ahsoka froze.
Not outwardly. Years of Temple life had trained her out of obvious reactions. But inside, something went very still.
AHSOKA: You said you were just going to look around. That you'd be right behind me!
BEN: We did look around. Thoroughly.
MARIS: You might've taken the only ship on this entire planet.
Ahsoka pinched the bridge of her nose.
AHSOKA: This was a terrible plan!
She pushed off the wall and started walking again, letting her body move on instinct while her mind raced. Korriban wasn't just forbidden—it was categoricallyforbidden. The kind of place Masters referenced in lectures with ominous pauses and very clear warnings about what happened to people who went poking around Sith ruins.
AHSOKA: Are you okay? Do you need me to pick you up!
BEN: Define "okay."
Her montrals twitched in irritation.
AHSOKA: Ben.
BEN: Yes. We're okay.
MARIS: Mostly intact.
Ahsoka exhaled slowly through her nose.
AHSOKA: Send me your exact coordinates. I'm coming to get you.
BEN: That might not be a great idea… we might've accidentally turned the Sith Academy on?
She stopped walking.
That was… not good.
AHSOKA: You what?
MARIS: You know, this is kinda your fault for leaving us alone. Just saying.
Ahsoka closed her eyes.
This was no longer a prank.
It hadn't been one to begin with, not really, but she'd treated it like one because that was easier. Ben and Maris got into trouble. She covered. That was the rhythm. That was how it worked.
This was different.
AHSOKA: Can you power the Academy down?
BEN: Maybe?
That answer wasn't very reassuring.
AHSOKA: What's your plan?
Another pause.
Longer.
BEN: We're… evaluating our options.
Ahsoka opened her eyes and stared out at the Temple corridor, at the steady stream of Jedi and initiates moving about their day, blissfully unaware that two children were currently squatting in a Sith Academy like it was a summer internship.
AHSOKA: This is bad.
MARIS: It's interesting.
AHSOKA: No, it's just bad. Don't get yourselves killed. I will figure something out.
She ended the transmission before they could say anything else.
For a moment, she just stood there.
Then she straightened her shoulders and went back to work.
The Council meeting was a disaster.
Not because anything went wrong—if anything, it went too smoothly—but because Ahsoka found herself fielding questions that were clearly circling closer to the truth.
Master Mace Windu wanted updated attendance metrics. Master Yoda wanted to know why several initiates had logged identical meditation reflections. Master Shaak Ti asked, very politely, whether the Temple's internal tracking systems had been experiencing errors lately.
Ahsoka smiled. Explained. Redirected.
She blamed outdated software. Overlapping schedules. Human error.
Technically accurate. Just… selectively framed.
By the time the meeting adjourned, she had three new tasks, two follow-up reports to file, and exactly one chance to make sure Ben and Maris did not get declared missing.
She retreated to her quarters and pulled up the Temple's long-range communication logs, fingers flying as she masked outgoing signals and rerouted incoming ones through half a dozen innocuous relays.
This wasn't just hiding them anymore.
This was shielding them.
The realization hit her harder than anything else that day.
Ahsoka sat back on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
She trusted Ben. She trusted Maris. But she didn't trust Korriban. Whatever they'd found out there, wasn't going to let go easily.
And the Jedi?
The Jedi wouldn't understand.
They'd react. They'd intervene. They'd send Masters and warnings and ultimatums, and whatever fragile balance Ben was walking right now would shatter.
Ahsoka didn't know if she was doing the right thing.
But she knew what would happen if she didn't do something.
Her comm buzzed again.
She hesitated.
Then opened it.
BEN: Hey. Again.
AHSOKA: You're in so much trouble.
BEN: I know. Still love me?
She smiled despite herself.
AHSOKA: I can cover for you. For now. But this is bigger than sneaking out of the Temple.
BEN: Little bit. Thanks, Ahsoka. I promise, I won't do anything stupid.
AHSOKA: Now, why don't I believe you?
BEN: Have a little faith.
AHSOKA: I did. Look where that got us. Stay. Put. I mean it!
Ahsoka stared out at the endless cityscape of Coruscant, at the heart of the Republic, at the place that thought it was the center of the galaxy.
It might very well be.
But it didn't feel that way when the most important people in the galaxy were entire star systems away.
...
Ahsoka finds Anakin Skywalker sulking in the Temple sparring hall.
This is not unusual.
What is unusual is the level of sulk.
He's seated on the edge of the mat, elbows on his knees, staring at absolutely nothing with the intensity of someone trying to Force-choke reality into behaving differently. His lightsaber is beside him, deactivated. His robes are rumpled. His hair—usually a carefully cultivated state of controlled chaos—is a mess.
The air around him practically hums with grievance.
Ahsoka slows her steps, observing from a safe distance.
She knows better than to interrupt immediately. Anakin sulks the way a storm system forms: dramatic buildup, escalating pressure, and eventual emotional lightning strike if provoked too early.
She clears her throat anyway.
Nothing.
She waves a hand in front of his face.
Still nothing.
"…Wow," she says. "You're really committing to the bit."
Anakin blinks. Looks up. Scowls. "What do you want?"
Ahsoka grins. "I was hoping to spar. But I see you're busy brooding."
"I'm not brooding."
"You're staring at the floor like it personally betrayed you."
He huffs and looks away. "I'm thinking."
"That's what I said."
She drops down beside him, legs swinging idly over the mat. The silence stretches for a moment, thick and petulant.
Finally, Anakin mutters, "He should've taken me."
Ahsoka hums. "Ah. There it is."
Anakin shoots her a look. "What?"
"Obi-Wan," she says lightly. "Mandalore. Diplomacy."
His jaw tightens.
"He's not good at diplomacy," Anakin says. "You know that. He overthinks everything. He'll say the wrong thing. Or worse—he'll say the right thing and annoy everyone anyway."
"Mm," Ahsoka agrees. "And yet."
"And yet what."
"And yet the Council decided you were too much of a liability to send along."
Anakin bristles. "They didn't say that."
"They didn't have to."
He glares at the far wall. "I could've helped."
"I'm sure," Ahsoka says soothingly. "By not starting an incident."
"I wouldn't start an incident."
She gives him a look.
He sighs. "…I would start a small incident."
"Growth."
Anakin folds his arms. "Besides. It's not just Obi-Wan."
Oh?
Ahsoka tilts her head, pretending sudden fascination with the ceiling. "Really."
"Yes," he says, too quickly. "I mean—no. I mean—it's irrelevant."
She waits.
He doesn't elaborate.
Ahsoka smiles to herself.
"So," she says casually, "I heard Senator Amidala was sent as a diplomatic envoy."
The effect is immediate.
Anakin stiffens.
"What," he says flatly, "about Senator Amidala."
"Oh, nothing," Ahsoka replies innocently. "Just that she and Obi-Wan are apparently working very closely."
His shoulders tense. "That makes sense. She's a senator. He's a negotiator."
"Mm-hm."
"Professionally."
"Of course."
He glances at her. "Why are you saying it like that?"
Ahsoka shrugs. "No reason. Just… you know. Long days. Long nights. Private discussions. Shared ideals."
Anakin scoffs. "Obi-Wan Kenobi does not have shared ideals with Padmé Amidala."
"Really?" Ahsoka asks. "They're both very principled. Passionate. Willing to defy institutions when they think something's wrong."
"That doesn't mean anything."
She leans back on her hands, studying him. "I don't know. Obi-Wan definitely has a type."
Anakin's head snaps toward her. "He does not."
"Oh, he absolutely does."
"No, he doesn't."
"He likes strong women," Ahsoka continues, ticking points off on her fingers. "Stalwart. Conviction. Not afraid to stand up for what they believe in. Politically savvy. Morally stubborn."
Anakin opens his mouth. Closes it.
"That's—" he starts. Stops. "That's coincidental."
"And," Ahsoka adds thoughtfully, "Padmé does seem like the kind of person who might have a thing for men with beards."
"That is inappropriate," Anakin snaps.
Ahsoka beams. "Is it?"
"Yes!"
"Why?"
"Because—because Jedi aren't supposed to—"
"And senators aren't supposed to what," she presses. "Have preferences?"
He flushes. "That's not what I meant."
"Sure it is."
Anakin pushes himself to his feet and starts pacing. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"Because," Ahsoka continues sweetly, "from what I hear, they've been spending a lot of time together."
"Who told you that."
She shrugs. "Temple gossip."
"There is no Temple gossip." He stops pacing to glare at her. "This isn't funny."
"Oh," she says. "I think it's hilarious."
Anakin splutters. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
He rubs his face with both hands. "This is ridiculous. Obi-Wan wouldn't—Padmé wouldn't—there's nothing there."
Ahsoka watches him spiral, amusement bubbling under her ribs.
The thing is—he really doesn't have anything to worry about.
At least not from Obi-Wan.
She knows that.
She knows about Satine Kryze.
She knows the way Obi-Wan's voice softens when her name comes up. The way his posture changes. The grief he carries quietly, carefully, like a fragile thing he refuses to let break further.
Obi-Wan Kenobi loved one person.
And he loved her deeply.
Ahsoka has seen that kind of love up close. It leaves marks.
Padmé Amidala, for all her brilliance, is not that woman.
But Anakin doesn't know that.
And it's not her secret to tell.
Also?
This is far more entertaining.
"You're overthinking it," Anakin insists, mostly to himself now. "It's just diplomacy."
"Sure," Ahsoka agrees. "Very private diplomacy."
He groans. "Stop saying it like that."
She stands and stretches. "Well, if you're so unconcerned, then there's nothing to worry about."
He narrows his eyes. "You're doing this on purpose."
"What? Me?" She places a hand over her heart. "I would never."
Anakin looks unconvinced.
"Besides," she adds, starting toward the exit, "if something did happen, it'd probably be very scandalous. Jedi Knight and Senator. Forbidden attachment. Tragic consequences."
"Nothing is happening," he snaps.
Ahsoka pauses at the doorway and glances back, grinning. "Good. Then you can relax."
He glares.
She leaves him there, muttering to himself, pacing like a caged nexu.
As she walks down the corridor, her smile fades just a little.
Because as funny as it is to poke at Anakin, she knows what this really is.
Jealousy. Fear. Loneliness.
He hates being left behind.
She understands that feeling more than she wants to admit.
And right now, everyone is somewhere else.
Obi-Wan is on Mandalore, navigating politics and ghosts.
Ben and Maris are on Korriban, playing caretakers to a Sith legacy that should never have woken up.
And she's here. Holding things together. Juggling lies and schedules and friendships like fragile glass.
Ahsoka exhales slowly.
Just one more plate to keep spinning.
Hopefully none of them shatter.
...
The Academy breathed.
Maris noticed it once she stopped pretending she wasn't listening for it.
Not breath like lungs—nothing so pedestrian—but a slow, subterranean awareness that pulsed through the stone beneath her boots. Old power. Old intention. Korriban didn't sleep so much as it waited, and the Academy was the same: corridors carved to endure millennia, training chambers shaped by hands that had never believed in the future so much as conquest.
She liked it immediately.
They'd split up, loosely. Not because either of them said it out loud, but because the place was too big to digest all at once, and because Maris had always learned best by wandering off.
The training chambers came first.
They were cavernous spaces, circular and tiered, with scorched floors and blast scars etched permanently into the walls. Some had shattered columns. Others still held dormant emitters set into the ceiling, faintly humming when she passed beneath them.
She paced the circumference of one chamber, boots crunching on ancient debris, and tilted her head.
"Could fix this," she murmured.
The Force stirred in response—not approval, not disapproval, just… attention.
Maris rolled her shoulders and moved on.
The dormitories were worse in a way that made her smile. Rows of stone bunks, austere to the point of cruelty, with alcoves clearly meant for meditation rather than rest. No warmth. No comfort. The kind of place built to strip children down into weapons.
She ran her fingers along one of the carved headrests. "Okay," she said thoughtfully. "So we're definitely adding blankets."
The archives were her favorite.
Not because they were intact—most weren't—but because of what they implied. Endless shelves. Holocrons long since removed or destroyed. Databanks etched directly into the walls, their interfaces eroded into illegibility.
This place had been built to teach.
To shape.
Maris stood in the center of the archive chamber and turned slowly, letting the enormity of it sink in.
The Jedi Archives back on Coruscant were pristine. Bright. Carefully curated. Every lesson filtered through layers of doctrine and restraint.
This?
This had been honest.
Brutal, yes. Cruel, often. But honest about what it was trying to do.
She liked honesty.
By the time she found Ben again, he was in one of the upper halls, staring at a cracked mural depicting Sith Lords kneeling before something abstract and violent enough to hurt just to look at.
He didn't notice her approach.
That wasn't unusual lately.
"You're pacing," Maris observed.
Ben startled, then sighed. "Am I?"
"Yes. You do it when you're thinking too hard."
"I'm always thinking," he muttered.
She joined him, hands clasped behind her back, studying the mural with casual interest. "You're also frowning. That one's new."
"This place is…" He trailed off, searching. "A lot."
"Sure," she agreed. "It's dusty. Needs updates. The aesthetic is aggressively 'ancient evil.' But the bones are solid."
Ben shot her a look. "You're talking about it like a fixer-upper."
Maris shrugged. "Everything's a fixer-upper if you're not a coward."
That earned her a snort despite himself.
They stood there in silence for a moment, the weight of the Academy pressing in—not threatening, exactly, but insistent.
"You're getting cold feet," she said finally.
Ben glanced at her. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." She tilted her head. "I can feel it. I know it. I just don't know why. The Jedi keep trying to turn us into something we're not. You, especially."
He looked away again. "That's not fair."
"It's what it is," Maris replied calmly. "They want you contained. Predictable. Safe."
"And this is… what? Safer?"
"No," she said, smiling faintly. "But it's honest."
She gestured around them. "This place doesn't pretend it's not dangerous. It doesn't tell you that wanting more is a flaw. It doesn't lie to you about what power costs."
Ben's jaw tightened. "It kills people."
"So does the Jedi Order," Maris said softly. "They just outsource it."
That landed.
He didn't respond right away, and she didn't push. She knew when to let silence do the work.
They were still there when the temperature dropped.
Not suddenly—Wrath didn't announce himself that way—but unmistakably. The air thickened. The lights along the hall flared to life one by one, bathing the stone in a dull, crimson glow.
The holocron activated behind them.
Wrath did not loom.
He simply was.
The projection resolved into armored stillness: robes layered and heavy, mask impassive, posture relaxed in the way of someone who had never needed to hurry.
"You have seen what remains," Wrath said. His voice echoed, not from the walls, but from the Force itself. "And what could be."
Maris folded her arms. "Needs renovations."
Wrath stared at them, his mask expressionless, his stance unwavering. Even the Force seemed to obscure his feelings. Maris was beginning to wonder if the Holocron felt anything at all when she caught a flicker of something new.
Amusement. Barely perceptible, but there.
"It has been centuries since anyone spoke to me without reverence or fear," Wrath said. "You are… refreshing."
Ben rubbed the back of his neck. "You've been watching us."
"I have been evaluating you," Wrath corrected. "As I said I would. That is my purpose."
Maris angled her head. "And?"
Wrath turned slightly, his gaze settling on Ben. "You hesitate."
Ben didn't deny it. "This wasn't supposed to be permanent."
"No," Wrath agreed. "It was supposed to be curiosity. A glance behind the curtain."
Maris smiled. "Still is."
Wrath lifted one armored hand, and the far wall of the hall slid open with a low rumble.
Beyond it lay a hangar.
Clean. Maintained. Powered.
At its center rested a sleek, predatory starfighter—angular, dark, unmistakably Sith in design.
"My Fury," Wrath said. "It remains functional."
Ben stared. Maris whistled softly.
"Leave," Wrath continued. "Now. Take the ship. Depart this world. The Academy will return to dormancy, and you will carry its memory as a secret."
The hangar lights brightened, inviting.
"Or," Wrath said, lowering his hand, "remain. Claim what was abandoned. Become something new."
The choice hung there, heavy and sharp.
Maris didn't hesitate.
She stepped forward. "We'll stay."
Ben turned to her. "Maris—"
She met his gaze, unflinching. "You said you wanted options. Remember? You wanted a feel of what life outside the Order was like." She gestured at the Academy. "Here's one. We don't have to commit forever. We just have to try it on. See if it fits."
Ben swallowed.
Maris softened her tone—not by much, but enough. "You're curious. That's not a crime."
Wrath watched them in silence.
Finally, Ben exhaled. Long. Slow.
"…Fine," he said. "We stay."
Wrath inclined his head. "Then it is done."
The Academy woke up.
Power surged through ancient conduits. Lights flared to full strength across levels long dark. Systems long dormant spun to life, humming with renewed purpose.
The Sith Academy of Korriban was abandoned no longer.
Maris felt it settle around them—not as chains, but as acknowledgment.
She smiled.
"Well," she said lightly, "guess we live here now."
Ben snorted. "Please don't redecorate with skulls."
"No promises."
Behind them, the Academy breathed—aware, active, claimed.