Chapter 28: Death Watch and Learn
Obi-Wan Kenobi had long ago accepted that stress, like the Force, was an ever-present field—unseen, inescapable, and prone to manifesting at the worst possible times. Still, Mandalore was testing even his patience.
The Royal Government Complex of Sundari was all clean lines and cold light, transparisteel walls curving outward to reveal the domed city beyond. From this height, Mandalore looked calm. Orderly. Civilized. Which was, in Obi-Wan's experience, precisely when it was most dangerous.
He stood with his hands folded into his sleeves, posture relaxed enough to read as diplomatic neutrality, while his mind ran in tight, overlapping circles.
The Republic wanted assurances. Not aid, not compromise—assurances. That Mandalore's offer of citizenship to the clones would not become a military alliance in all but name. That the clones, if granted rights, would not become soldiers. That Mandalore would not, intentionally or otherwise, resurrect the specter of a Mandalorian warhost and aim it conveniently at Coruscant's throat.
Satine wanted recognition. Sovereignty. The right to decide who counted as a person within her borders without half the Senate clutching their collective pearls.
Padmé Amidala, standing opposite him, wanted everyone to calm down and talk like adults, which in Obi-Wan's experience meant no one would.
And hovering just beneath all of it—like a vibroblade held against the spine—were the CIS "observers." Count Dooku's people, smiling politely, listening too carefully, present under the generous fiction of diplomacy. As if the Confederacy had ever been interested in peaceful observation.
Then there was Death Watch.
Obi-Wan did not look toward the security feed scrolling quietly along the edge of the chamber's holodisplay, but he felt it anyway. Increased chatter. Unusual movement patterns. Reports that were all just shy of actionable, which was somehow worse than certainty. He had learned, over years of war and politics and one very unfortunate Padawan learner, that dread thrived in ambiguity.
He breathed in. Breathed out.
Satine was speaking, her voice even, precise, carrying the calm authority of someone who believed—truly believed—that words could still change the galaxy.
"…citizenship does not mean conscription," she was saying. "We are not offering the clones a uniform. We are offering them a future."
Padmé inclined her head, thoughtful. "The Senate's concern is precedent, Duchess. Recognition carries weight."
"Personhood always does," Satine replied without hesitation.
Obi-Wan resisted the urge to smile. She was winning. He could see it, feel it in the subtle shifts of the room, in the way Padmé's posture softened, in the way even the CIS observers had gone still, as if recalculating. Satine Kryze did not raise her voice. She did not need to.
It was, objectively, a terrible time for anything to go wrong.
The alarm chirped.
Not blaring. Not urgent. Just a polite, insistent tone threaded through the chamber's ambient soundscape—civil, informative, and utterly unwelcome.
Obi-Wan closed his eyes for half a heartbeat.
Of course.
"A security request?" Padmé asked, glancing toward the display.
Satine's brow furrowed slightly. "That shouldn't be—" She paused as the information resolved, lips pressing together. "A Jedi cruiser is requesting clearance."
Obi-Wan already knew.
The Force shifted, not violently, but sharply—like the snap of a taut wire. Familiar. Distinct. Frustratingly bright.
He opened his eyes.
"That ship," he said carefully, "was not on the itinerary."
Satine turned toward him, something amused flickering behind her concern. "Is that a problem, Obi-Wan?"
He considered several possible answers. None of them polite.
Before he could choose, the doors at the far end of the chamber slid open.
Anakin Skywalker strode in as though he'd been invited. No—worse—as though this were his idea.
He wore his Jedi robes slightly rumpled from travel, lightsaber at his belt, expression open and earnest in that particular way that suggested he was either about to save the day or make everything exponentially worse. His presence filled the room, the Force around him flaring bright and untidy, like a star that had never learned how to dim itself.
Half a step behind him—
Ahsoka Tano.
She took one look at the room, at Satine, at Padmé, at the CIS observers, and then made a swift, decisive choice. She sidestepped neatly and positioned herself directly behind Obi-Wan's right shoulder, peering out from there as though he were a particularly respectable piece of cover.
Obi-Wan did not turn around.
He did not need to.
Anakin spread his hands, smiling. "Master Kenobi! We're here to help."
The silence that followed was profound.
Obi-Wan felt it settle over the room like snowfall—soft, quiet, smothering. He kept his voice level, even gentle.
"Anakin," he said. "You were explicitly instructed not to come to Mandalore."
Anakin blinked, unperturbed. "Right. But see, that was before things got complicated."
"They were already complicated," Obi-Wan replied mildly.
Padmé's gaze had shifted fully to Anakin now, surprise giving way to something warmer. Satine watched the exchange with an expression Obi-Wan knew far too well—fondness edged with exasperation, sharpened by political awareness.
Behind him, Ahsoka leaned in just enough that her voice reached his ear, quiet and earnest. "I tried to stop him."
Obi-Wan resisted the urge to sigh. Aloud, at least.
"And yet," he murmured back, "here we are."
Anakin cleared his throat. "Master Kenobi, the Council felt it was… prudent… to send additional support."
Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. Slowly.
"The Council," he repeated, "sent you."
"Well," Anakin said, shifting his weight, "not officially."
Obi-Wan closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
When he opened them again, Padmé was smiling outright now, studying Anakin with open curiosity. Satine's lips had curved into something softer, something private, and that, somehow, made this worse.
Ahsoka, still firmly stationed behind Obi-Wan, had developed an intense interest in the stitching along the seam of his robe. She stared at it as though it might reveal the secrets of the universe if she concentrated hard enough.
Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose.
Carefully. Deliberately. The way one did when attempting to stave off a headache—or the collapse of an already precarious diplomatic situation.
And the Force, ever unhelpful, hummed with the quiet certainty that things were about to become much, much worse.
...
Ahsoka Tano had survived Temple lectures, lightsaber drills, meditation sessions that went on forever, and sharing a dormitory with Maris Brood for far too long. She was reasonably certain none of that had prepared her for this.
The Royal Government Complex was still the same room it had been thirty seconds ago—sleek, bright, full of important adults pretending they were in control of galactic events—but the vibes had shifted catastrophically. The Force itself seemed to recoil, as if it had seen the future and wanted no part of it.
Padmé Amidala was looking at Anakin.
Not politically. Not diplomatically. Not the way senators looked at Jedi when they were trying to decide how useful they might be.
No. This was worse.
Her expression softened, eyes brightening with genuine surprise, lips curving into a smile that was warm, personal, and entirely inappropriate for a high-stakes negotiation involving clone citizenship and the possible collapse of Mandalorian neutrality.
"You've grown," Padmé said.
Ahsoka's stomach dropped through the floor.
She felt it in the Force—a subtle but undeniable spike of Anakin Skywalker has been perceived. It was like watching a thermal detonator roll across the floor in slow motion.
Anakin straightened. His posture shifted in a way Ahsoka knew intimately: the unconscious squaring of the shoulders, the too-casual tilt of his head, the expression that said I am about to make a terrible decision and commit to it fully.
"So have you," he replied.
Oh no.
"Oh no," Ahsoka muttered under her breath.
Anakin, apparently unable to help himself, continued. "Grown more beautiful, I mean." He should not have elaborated.
He absolutely should not have elaborated.
The silence that followed was dense enough to walk on.
Ahsoka watched Padmé's reaction with the sort of horrified fascination usually reserved for slow-motion holocrime reenactments. There was a flicker of surprise—yes—but also something else. Amusement. Interest. A warmth that did not shut down the conversation like it was supposed to.
Padmé laughed softly. "Anakin," she said, fond and indulgent in a way that made Ahsoka's montrals twitch, "you always did have a way with words."
Ahsoka internally screamed.
Not because Padmé wasn't into the pickup line. But because she was very into it. This was not embarrassment flirting. This was not polite deflection. This was—Force help her—reciprocal.
Ahsoka stepped forward before her brain could stop her. "He's seventeen."
Every head in the room turned.
Anakin looked offended. Deeply. Personally.
"I'm eighteen," he corrected immediately. "My birthday was yesterday."
Ahsoka stared at him. "You did not tell anyone it was your birthday."
"You didn't ask," he shot back.
"That was not—" She cut herself off, refocusing. "That doesn't make this better."
Padmé, meanwhile, had tilted her head, considering him anew. If anything, her smile widened.
"Well," she said lightly, "happy belated birthday."
Ahsoka felt something inside her soul curl up and die.
This was worse. This was much worse.
She glanced at Obi-Wan, desperately seeking intervention. Surely this was where a responsible adult stepped in. Surely this was where Master Kenobi gently but firmly redirected the conversation away from a hormonal catastrophe unfolding in a government building.
Obi-Wan opened his mouth.
"Padmé," he began, tone carefully neutral, "perhaps we should return to—"
"Oh, Obi-Wan," Satine said softly.
That was it. That was the sound of the last line of defense collapsing.
Satine Kryze had not moved closer. She hadn't touched him. She hadn't done anything improper. She was being extremely respectful.
And extremely obvious.
Her eyes lingered on Obi-Wan with fondness that was impossible to miss if one possessed even the faintest Force sensitivity—which Ahsoka very much did. The air between them thrummed with history, regret, affection, and the kind of unresolved tension that made Ahsoka want to crawl under the nearest table and live there forever.
Obi-Wan faltered.
Just for a second. But it was enough.
"Well," Padmé said, clearly enjoying herself far too much, "it's good to see you again, Anakin. The last time we spoke, you were barely taller than my hip."
Anakin smiled. Not his cocky grin—something softer, more earnest. "I've had good genetics."
Ahsoka's eye twitched.
She could feel it now—the Force humming low and uneasy, like it was bracing for impact. This wasn't just awkward. This was wrong timing, layered atop unresolved feelings, political powder kegs, and Death Watch intelligence reports that already had her on edge.
She glanced around the chamber. The CIS observers were pretending very hard not to watch. Obi-Wan looked like a man standing in the path of an oncoming landspeeder, trying to decide whether to dodge left or right. Satine and Padmé were both far too composed for the situation at hand.
Anakin was thriving.
This was a nightmare.
"So," Anakin continued, because of course he did, "I hear Mandalore's changing. Anything we can do to help?"
Padmé's gaze sharpened, professional instincts reasserting themselves just enough to be dangerous. "Oh," she said. "I'm sure there's many things you can do to… help."
Ahsoka seized the opening. "Speaking of," she said loudly, "I'm going to—um—go help someone. Right now. Away from here."
No one stopped her.
She disengaged with the abruptness of someone abandoning a doomed battlefield. Slipping past Obi-Wan—who gave her a brief, sympathetic look that said I understand and I am so sorry—she made a beeline for the edge of the chamber.
She needed distance. Space. A neutral adult. Someone who was not emotionally entangled with a former flame, a current crush, or a constitutional crisis.
Her eyes landed on a familiar set of clone armor near the security detail.
Commander Cody stood at ease, helmet tucked under one arm, expression calm and professional. He nodded politely when he noticed her approach.
Ahsoka stopped beside him, exhaled deeply, and stared straight ahead.
"Commander," she said.
"Initiate Tano," Cody replied.
She paused. Then added, quietly, "Please don't flirt with anyone."
Cody blinked. "I… wasn't planning to."
"Good," she said fervently. "You're the only adult here I can tolerate."
He considered that for a moment, then nodded once. "Understood."
Ahsoka let her shoulders relax for the first time since landing.
Behind her, the Force continued to hum like a live wire.
And she had the sinking feeling that this was only the beginning.
...
The Mandalorian security corridor was blessedly quiet.
Not empty—there were guards at regular intervals, surveillance panels inset into the walls, the low hum of power running through the structure—but quiet in the way that meant no one was flirting, emotionally imploding, or making galactically terrible life choices within immediate sensory range.
Ahsoka leaned against the cool metal railing near the command center viewport and let herself breathe.
Commander Cody stood a respectful distance away, posture straight, attention split between her and the scrolling tactical display projected above his vambrace. He looked exactly like what he was supposed to be: competent, alert, and already tired in a way that went deeper than sleep deprivation.
Ahsoka liked him instantly.
Not like like. Force, no. She wasn't insane.
She liked him because he did not talk.
Specifically, he did not talk about feelings. Or sand. Or senators. Or how the Jedi Order was wronging him personally today. He did not monologue. He did not overshare. He did not sigh tragically at windows.
After too much time with Anakin Skywalker, this felt like spiritual healing.
"Is it always like this?" she asked after a moment.
Cody glanced at her. "Mandalore?"
"No," Ahsoka said. "This. Adults making terrible decisions and expecting the universe not to notice."
A corner of his mouth twitched. "In my experience, yes."
She snorted despite herself.
They stood there for a few beats, watching a pair of Mandalorian guards walk past, armor pristine, movements crisp. The corridor smelled faintly of ozone and something antiseptic. Clean. Controlled. Nothing like the roiling mess she could still feel back in the main chamber.
"You're very calm," she said.
"I'm on duty," Cody replied.
"Are you always calm on duty?"
"Not always," he allowed. "But no one's shooting at me… right now."
She studied him sideways. The armor. The rank markings. The way he carried himself like a man who had already accepted that the galaxy would not make sense and had adjusted accordingly.
"Can I ask you something personal?" she asked.
He hesitated just a fraction of a second. "As long as it's not classified."
"How old are you?"
That got his full attention.
Cody blinked, then exhaled slowly, as if this was not the first time this question had gone somewhere uncomfortable. "Biologically or chronologically?"
Ahsoka frowned. "That's not a normal follow-up question."
"No," he agreed again. "Biologically, I'm in my late twenties."
She nodded. That tracked. He looked it. Acted it.
"And… chronologically?"
"Twelve."
The word hit her like a Force push.
"Twelve," she repeated faintly.
"Yes."
Ahsoka stared at him.
She stared at the armor. The scar at the edge of his brow. The eyes that had definitely seen combat already, even if no one wanted to admit it yet.
"You're—" She stopped. Restarted. "You're younger than me."
Cody inclined his head slightly. "Am I?"
The corridor seemed to tilt.
"Oh," Ahsoka said.
Her brain, which had been holding together through sheer willpower all day, finally began to unravel.
"Oh no."
She was thirteen.
She had just mentally categorized Commander Cody as the nearest responsible adult. And he was a year younger than her. She's the more experienced one! Which meant—by any reasonable metric—she had come to the worst planet in the galaxy for her sanity.
"I don't—" She dragged a hand down her face. "I don't like that."
"Neither do we," Cody said calmly.
We.
That word lodged somewhere in her chest and refused to move.
"The Kaminoans accelerated our growth," he continued, matter-of-fact. "Double-time aging. It was more efficient. Faster production."
"Efficient," Ahsoka echoed weakly.
"Yes."
She swallowed. Hard.
Because she knew what that meant. Not just intellectually—felt it, suddenly, with the Force humming low and uneasy beneath her skin.
"You're going to age faster," she said.
"Yes."
"You're not going to live as long."
"No."
The words were simple. The reality was not.
There was an entire generation of clones—men who looked grown, trained, and ready to fight—who were, in the most literal sense, burning through their lives at double speed. Not because of destiny. Not because of prophecy.
Because it was faster.
Because the Republic had needed more inventory.
"Damn you," Ahsoka muttered, not entirely sure who she was addressing. "Capitalism."
Cody's brow furrowed. "I'm not familiar with that term."
"Don't worry about it," she said. "It's a Sith Lord."
That earned her a quiet huff of amusement.
Her humor faded quickly.
"And if Duchess Satine's motion fails," she said slowly, thinking it through out loud, "then legally… you're still property."
"Yes."
The word sat heavy between them.
"Of the Galactic Republic," she finished.
"Yes."
Ahsoka closed her eyes.
This was worse than the flirting. Worse than the political tension. Worse than Anakin being Anakin.
This was systemic.
"How are you so calm?" she asked quietly.
Cody considered the question. "We were trained to be," he said. "And… some of us find it easier not to think too far ahead."
That made sense. In a bleak, awful way.
Before she could respond, his comm chirped softly.
"Commander Cody," a voice reported, "patrols are seeing increased movement in the lower sectors. Death Watch signatures. More coordinated than usual."
Cody straightened immediately. "Acknowledged. Increase perimeter sweeps and reroute patrol Delta to cover the eastern access points."
"Yes, sir."
The channel closed.
Ahsoka felt it then.
The Force tightened.
Not a sharp pain. Not a clear vision. Just that subtle, awful sensation of threads pulling taut all at once, like the galaxy drawing a breath it might not let out again.
"That's… not good," she said.
"No," Cody agreed. "It isn't."
She pushed off the railing, suddenly restless. "They're planning something."
"Yes."
"You don't even ask how I know?"
He glanced at her, eyes steady. "You're a Jedi."
She grimaced. "Technically, I'm not. I'm just an Initiate."
"Maybe so," he said. "But it's a step up from us."
The hum in her bones grew louder.
She didn't know what was coming. Not the shape of it. Not the timing.
Only that something was wrong.
And that they were all standing on the edge of it.
"I have a bad feeling about this."
...
The staging area sat just beyond Sundari's outer districts, tucked into the industrial ribs of the city where old infrastructure met newer, cleaner lines. From the outside, it looked abandoned—another relic of Mandalore's long habit of burying its past under steel and silence.
Inside, Death Watch moved like a blade being sharpened.
Bo-Katan Kryze watched them prepare and felt nothing at first.
That, more than anything, should have been the warning.
Armor checks were brisk and efficient. Weapons were laid out, inspected, reassembled with the ease of muscle memory. No chanting. No speeches. No fiery rhetoric about reclaiming Mandalore's soul or burning pacifism from its bones.
They weren't here to rally.
This was here to strategize.
She stood with her helmet tucked under one arm, weight settled easily on one hip, posture loose in a way that suggested confidence rather than carelessness. The others read it the way they always did: Bo-Katan, loyal. Bo-Katan, committed. Bo-Katan, one of them.
Which made it easy to listen.
"She'll be isolated," one of the lieutenants said, projecting a schematic into the air. "Command center rotation puts her in the west wing for less than twelve minutes."
"Twelve is plenty," another replied. "One shot. Two at most."
"Clean entry. Clean exit."
No mention of collateral. No talk of guards putting up a fight. No contingency plans for prolonged engagement.
Assassination, not war.
Bo-Katan's fingers tightened, just slightly, around the edge of her helmet.
They were calm. Focused. Professional.
And for the first time since she'd sworn herself to Death Watch, that terrified her.
She'd told herself this was necessary. That Satine's vision—soft, idealistic, naïve—was a slow death for Mandalore. That pacifism in a galaxy like this was just surrender with a few extra steps.
She'd told herself rebellion required blood. Even her own.
But this?
This wasn't rebellion.
This was murder.
She drifted closer to the holotable, eyes scanning the projected route without appearing to. Entry vectors, blind spots, timing down to the second. Whoever had planned this knew Sundari's security like a second skin.
They knew Satine's routines.
Bo-Katan swallowed.
She pictured her sister's face—composed, earnest, infuriatingly hopeful. The way Satine spoke about citizenship like it was something you could simply offer and the galaxy would respond in kind. The way she stood in the Senate chamber and argued that clones were people while half the room looked at her like she'd suggested dismantling gravity.
Satine believed in things.
Bo-Katan had always told herself she believed in Mandalore.
The distinction had felt important.
Now it felt hollow.
"They'll blame it on Republic extremists," someone said. "Or separatist agitators. Easy enough to sell."
"And if Kenobi's there?" another asked.
A pause. Brief. Calculated.
"He's not the primary target," the lieutenant said. "But if he gets in the way… accidents happen."
Him, she could live without.
Obi-Wan Kenobi was a complication. A symbol. A reminder that Satine had chosen peace and still paid for it with scars no one else could see.
Bo-Katan turned away before her face betrayed her.
She told herself to breathe. To think.
Death Watch had always been about force. About strength. About refusing to let Mandalore be reshaped by outsiders and cowards. Bo-Katan knew what strength was. It was will. It was fire.
It was the ability to look your opponent dead in the eyes, and cut their throat. But assassinations? This wasn't them being strong. This was them being afraid.
Afraid of Satine's words. Afraid of the clones. Afraid that Mandalore, given the choice, might actually follow her.
Bo-Katan moved toward the edge of the staging area, passing racks of armor and crates of sealed weapons. No one stopped her. Why would they? She'd earned her place here. She'd bled for it.
She reached a maintenance alcove and paused, back to the wall, heart finally starting to pound hard enough to feel.
If you do nothing, a traitorous voice whispered, this ends tonight.
Satine dead. The motion dead with her. The clones returned to being assets instead of people. Mandalore dragged back into the old patterns, the old wars, the old endless cycle of strength proving itself by destruction.
Bo-Katan had told herself she wanted that.
She realized, with startling clarity, that she didn't.
Not like this.
Not her.
Her hand moved before she could overthink it, fingers tapping a sequence into the gauntlet interface she hadn't used in years. A private channel. Old encryption. Family-level clearance that only one other person on Mandalore would still recognize.
The line stayed dark for a heartbeat too long.
Then—
"Bo?"
Satine's voice, filtered and distant, but unmistakably hers.
Bo-Katan closed her eyes.
For a fraction of a second, she was younger again. Smaller. Standing behind her sister in a training hall, watching Satine practice diplomacy with the same stubborn intensity others practiced combat.
She opened her eyes.
"Listen to me," Bo-Katan said. No preamble. No apology. "You're in danger."
A pause. Satine didn't interrupt. She never did.
"Death Watch is staging an op," Bo-Katan continued, words coming faster now. "Tonight. Clean hit. No warning. No spectacle. They're planning to kill you."
Silence stretched across the channel, heavy but not disbelieving.
"I see," Satine said quietly.
That calm nearly broke her.
"You need to leave," Bo-Katan said. "Now. Lock down the west wing, reroute your schedule, put guards you trust on every corridor. Don't argue with me."
Another pause. Then, softer, "Why are you telling me this?"
Bo-Katan laughed once, sharp and humorless. "Because if I don't, I won't be able to live with it."
That earned her a breath—audible, shaky.
"You're defecting," Satine said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"Are you safe?"
Bo-Katan glanced back toward the staging area. The men and women she'd trained with, fought beside, believed in.
"No," she said honestly. "But I will be."
Satine exhaled. "Thank you."
The word landed harder than any accusation ever could have.
"They're coming," Bo-Katan said. Her voice steadied, all the weight of the moment condensing into something sharp and certain. "Tonight."
The channel cut.
Bo-Katan stood there for a moment longer, the hum of the city vibrating through the walls, the future she'd just shattered rushing toward her whether she was ready or not.
Then she turned.
There would be consequences. There always were.
But for the first time in a long while, she knew exactly which side she was on.
...
Satine Kryze stared at the darkened holoprojector for a long moment after the channel closed.
Then she blinked.
Once.
And said, very clearly, very quietly, "Oh, kriff."
It was an inelegant word. One she rarely used. She had spent most of her adult life cultivating language as a tool—measured, careful, impossible to misquote. Words were weapons, but also shields. You chose them correctly, and you could stop a war before it started.
This was not a moment for shields.
She exhaled, slow and steady, forcing the spike of adrenaline down into something usable. Panic was a luxury for people who weren't responsible for an entire planet.
Bo-Katan wouldn't lie about this.
That thought settled instantly, without debate. Satine knew her sister's faults intimately—reckless, proud, infuriatingly stubborn—but dishonesty had never been one of them. And Bo-Katan had sounded… not triumphant. Not righteous.
Afraid.
Death Watch wasn't posturing. They weren't threatening. They weren't trying to make a point.
They were coming to kill her.
Tonight.
Satine straightened, spine aligning as if she were stepping into the Senate chamber rather than standing alone in her apartments. Silk and linen whispered as she moved, the elegant drape of her gown incongruous with the sharpness now coiled beneath it.
She crossed to the comm panel and activated a secure line.
"Prime Minister Almec," she said the moment the connection resolved. "I need you in my apartments. Now."
There was a pause on the other end—brief, telling.
"Is something wrong, Duchess?" Almec asked.
"Yes," Satine replied evenly. "Something is. And we are going to be very calm about it."
He arrived within minutes, flanked by two guards who stopped at the threshold when Satine raised a hand. The door sealed behind him, privacy fields engaging automatically.
Almec took one look at her face and abandoned pleasantries.
"Speak," he said.
Satine didn't pace. She didn't wring her hands. She folded them neatly in front of her and met his eyes.
"Death Watch has finalized an assassination attempt," she said. "Target: me. Timeline: tonight."
Almec went still.
"How certain are you?"
Satine allowed herself a thin, humorless smile. "My sister warned me."
That did it. Almec swore under his breath in a way that made Satine feel marginally less alone.
"Then it's real," he said. "Bo-Katan wouldn't defect lightly."
"She already has," Satine replied. "In every way that matters."
Almec nodded once, decisive. "Orders?"
This was the moment most people misunderstood about Satine Kryze.
They mistook gentleness for hesitation. Mercy for indecision. Pacifism for passivity.
Satine had never survived Mandalore by being soft.
"First," she said, "we move civilians away from the west wing and surrounding sectors. No alarms. Frame it as a routine infrastructure check if you must, but I want corridors cleared and residences evacuated within the hour."
"Understood."
"Second," she continued, "secure leadership. Council members, ministers, and key aides are to be relocated to hardened sites with full guard rotations. No one is to move without authorization."
Almec was already pulling up data, fingers flying. "And you?"
Satine met his gaze again.
"I remain here."
He opened his mouth to argue.
She raised a finger.
"I remain here," she repeated, calm and immovable, "because this is what they planned for. If I vanish, they adapt. If I stay, they walk into the shape of their own assumptions."
Almec exhaled sharply through his nose. "You're certain?"
"I am," Satine said. "And I will not have Mandalore learn tonight that its Duchess fled at the first real test."
A beat.
"Very well," Almec said. "Third order?"
Satine didn't hesitate.
"I am issuing a formal pardon," she said. "Effective immediately."
Almec froze. "For—"
"Bo-Katan Kryze," Satine said. "All charges. All affiliations. She is no longer an enemy of the state."
There it was. The thing Almec had not expected.
"You're serious," he said slowly.
"I am," Satine replied. "She chose Mandalore over Death Watch. That choice matters."
"Or it could be a ruse," Almec countered. "A feint to gain access—"
"She could have stayed silent," Satine interrupted. "She could have let me die and claimed ignorance. She didn't."
Satine turned away, gaze drifting to the wide windows overlooking Sundari's gleaming domes. "If I punish her now, I prove Death Watch right. That there is no path back. That loyalty is a trap."
She looked back at him, eyes steady.
"I will not govern by fear."
Almec studied her for a long moment, then inclined his head. "As you wish, Duchess. I'll draft the order."
"Make it public," Satine added. "Quietly, but officially. I want it on record before the first shot is fired."
Almec hesitated. "That may complicate matters."
Satine smiled faintly. "Good."
The Prime Minister left to execute her orders, and Satine allowed herself exactly one breath to feel the weight of what she'd done.
She had chosen mercy.
Not because it was easy. Not because it was sentimental.
But because it was strategic.
Death Watch thrived on absolutes. On the idea that once you crossed a line, there was no return. Satine's entire philosophy was anathema to that. If she could prove—even once—that Mandalore was stronger when it forgave, the cracks would spread.
She adjusted the clasp at her collar, fingers steady despite the knowledge ticking down inside her like a metronome.
Tonight, then.
Security lights subtly shifted as countermeasures went live. Guards repositioned, their movements precise but unhurried. The palace didn't bristle or panic. It simply… prepared.
Satine moved to the center of the room and stood there, hands folded, spine straight, every inch the Duchess of Mandalore.
She thought of Obi-Wan, somewhere in the city, likely already sensing the tension in the air even if he didn't yet know its source. She thought of Ahsoka and Anakin—young, brilliant, reckless—and hoped they were far from the path Death Watch intended to carve.
She thought of Bo-Katan.
You did the right thing, Satine thought fiercely, as if her sister could hear it through stone and steel.
The first explosion rocked the outer levels of the complex.
Satine didn't flinch.
Alarms began to sound—controlled, localized. Not the wail of catastrophe, but the clipped cadence of a system doing exactly what it had been designed to do.
Blaster fire echoed through distant corridors.
Death Watch struck anyway.
And ran headlong into resistance that had been waiting for them.
...
The first explosion hit close enough that Anakin felt it in his teeth.
Not metaphorically. Literally. The shockwave rattled through the transparisteel dome overhead, turning the pristine Mandalorian skyline into a distorted ripple of light and sound. For half a heartbeat, the city of Sundari seemed to hold its breath.
Then everything went to hell.
Fire blossomed along the upper transit ring, a controlled detonation that nevertheless sent debris skittering across the polished streets below. Civilians screamed. Sirens cut in, sharp and precise, layered over one another like an orchestra warming up for violence.
Anakin was already moving.
He didn't remember making the decision to draw his lightsaber. One moment his hand was empty, the next the familiar weight snapped into his palm and ignited with a hungry snap-hiss. Blue light washed across the white armor of Mandalorian guards as he sprinted forward, heart hammering, the Force surging hot and electric through his veins.
Finally.
This—this—made sense. Blaster fire. Clear enemies. No speeches. No politics. No standing politely while adults pretended the galaxy wasn't falling apart.
"Anakin!" Obi-Wan's voice cut through the chaos, calm as ever, infuriatingly steady. "To me."
Anakin veered without slowing, skidding to a stop near the edge of the plaza as armored figures dropped from above.
Jetpacks screamed.
Death Watch slammed into the street in disciplined clusters, boots cracking duracrete, rifles already barking. Blue-white blaster bolts streaked through the air, forcing civilians to scatter as Mandalorian guards returned fire from defensive positions that snapped into place with startling efficiency.
Anakin deflected on instinct, blade a blur as he sent a bolt screaming back into the chest plate of the nearest attacker. The man went down hard, armor smoking.
"Unauthorized entry," Obi-Wan said mildly, as if narrating a lecture instead of a battlefield. He stood at the center of the chaos, cloak already discarded, lightsaber held low and precise. His presence in the Force was a stabilizing weight, a calm gravity well around which everything else organized itself. "They're testing response times."
"By blowing up a city?" Anakin shot back, leaping forward and cleaving through a jetpack trooper mid-boost. The body spun away, jetpack detonating harmlessly against a shield wall.
"Yes," Obi-Wan replied. "Crude, but effective."
Anakin snarled and pushed harder.
To his left, clone troopers moved into formation with Mandalorian security forces, white armor slotting seamlessly alongside beskar. It was surreal—two visions of Mandalore's future standing shoulder to shoulder, firing in coordinated bursts as if they'd trained together for years instead of hours.
Ahsoka was nowhere she was supposed to be.
Anakin felt it before he saw it—that sudden lurch in the Force, a sharp hook of intention that yanked his awareness sideways. He twisted just in time to see her sprinting away from Obi-Wan's position, montrals snapping behind her as she vaulted a fallen barrier.
"Ahsoka!" he shouted. "Where do you think you're—"
She didn't look back.
Instead, she dove straight into a collapsing transit tunnel as a second explosion tore through its support struts. Anakin swore violently and started after her—
—only to feel Obi-Wan's hand clamp onto his shoulder.
"Let her," Obi-Wan said.
"She's thirteen!" Anakin protested, wrenching against the grip. "She's not even supposed to be here!"
Neither was Anakin.
Huh. This might be the first time, ever, that he wishes he just did what he was told.
"And yet," Obi-Wan said calmly, "she is exactly where she needs to be."
As if to prove the point, the Force surged outward from the tunnel in a focused burst. Anakin felt it ripple through him, sharp and purposeful, followed by the unmistakable sensation of lives not ending.
Moments later, Ahsoka reemerged with three civilians in tow—two adults and a terrified child—shoving them toward cover before spinning back into the fight with a scavenged blaster and a feral grin.
Anakin exhaled, equal parts furious and relieved.
"She's going to give me a heart attack," he muttered.
"Get in line," Obi-Wan replied.
The fight escalated fast.
Death Watch wasn't here to win. They were here to send a message. Hit hard, hit fast, vanish before overwhelming force could respond. Jetpack troopers strafed from above while ground units tried to punch through toward the palace district.
They didn't account for Jedi.
Anakin launched himself into the air, Force-assisted leap carrying him up into the fray. He tore through a trio of Mandalorians in a blur of motion, blade flashing, anger lending his strikes a brutal efficiency. Blaster bolts ricocheted wildly as he pressed forward, every nerve singing.
This was what he was good at.
Below him, Obi-Wan fought like a general conducting a symphony. He barely moved more than necessary, every strike economical, every command precise. Clone squads shifted positions at a gesture, Mandalorian guards fell in without question. Where Anakin was a storm, Obi-Wan was architecture.
And then—
A different presence cut through the battlefield.
Heavy. Focused. Familiar in the way a scar was familiar.
Blaster fire intensified near the western barricade as something—or someone—landed with enough force to crack the street.
Anakin turned just in time to see a man in battered beskar armor rise from a crouch, twin WESTAR blasters already spitting death. His movements were sharp, aggressive, utterly controlled.
Jango Fett.
Anakin's gut twisted.
The bounty hunter tore through Death Watch operatives with savage precision, shots placed to disable jetpacks, rupture seals, shatter visors. He didn't spare the Jedi so much as ignore them, his focus locked squarely on the terrorists overrunning his people's city.
"What is he doing here?" Anakin demanded, dropping beside Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan didn't take his eyes off the fight. "Being offended, I imagine."
As if on cue, Jango vaulted over a fallen speeder and unloaded a full burst into a Death Watch squad trying to retreat.
"Traitors!" Jango roared, voice amplified and furious. "You want to wear the armor, you fight like Mandalorians—not cowards hiding behind bombs!"
One of the Death Watch fighters fired back wildly. Jango didn't even flinch, returning fire with surgical brutality.
Anakin felt a strange, uncomfortable flicker of agreement.
Jango turned then, visor angling toward the Jedi.
For half a second, Anakin thought he was about to be shot.
Instead, Jango snorted. "Don't get used to this, Jedi."
"Wasn't planning on it," Anakin shot back.
"Good," Jango said. "Next time, I won't be so charitable."
And then he was gone again, jetpack roaring as he chased fleeing Death Watch forces into the smoke.
The battle broke soon after.
Death Watch disengaged in disciplined bursts, smoke charges and covering fire allowing their remaining troops to retreat skyward. Within minutes, the streets were theirs again—littered with scorched armor, smoking debris, and the aftermath of something that had come far too close to being catastrophic.
Anakin stood amid the wreckage, chest heaving, lightsaber still humming in his hand.
Around him, Mandalorian guards checked civilians. Clone troopers secured perimeters. Ahsoka plopped down on a chunk of fallen durasteel, grinning shakily as a medic fussed over a scrape she absolutely didn't need help with.
The city was still standing.
Barely.
Anakin shut off his saber and looked up at the dome overhead. The Force still thrummed, tight and uneasy, like a wire pulled too far.
They'd won this round.
But as the smoke drifted upward and sirens faded into the distance, Anakin knew—deep in his bones—that Death Watch hadn't come to win.
They'd come to remind Mandalore that the war for its soul had only just begun.
...
The first thing I noticed was the banners.
They were… a lot.
Black and crimson, heavy fabric stitched with a sigil I had designed at three in the morning while extremely sleep-deprived, riding a Force high, and absolutely not thinking about long-term consequences. A stylized sun eclipsed by a blade. Dramatic. Clean. Very Sith. Somehow already hanging from the balconies of Mos Espa's former governor's palace like this had been planned for months instead of, generously, a week and a half.
I stared up at them and thought, Ah. Yes. This is happening. This is real. This is definitely illegal.
Probably treasonous, too. But that felt like a later problem.
The square below was packed—not with cheering crowds, exactly, but with an uneasy mix of freed slaves, spacers, Tusken envoys lingering at the edges, and a frankly alarming number of HK-series droids standing in perfect ceremonial formation. Red photoreceptors glowed in unison, a forest of murder optics fixed forward with unsettling reverence.
If anyone ever asked how the First Order began, the honest answer would be: poor impulse control and way too many droids.
I adjusted the weight of the crown in my hands.
Yes. A crown.
It was angular, minimalist, forged from scavenged alloys and plated with something that absolutely used to be part of Jabba's private collection of jewels. Maris had insisted it be "symbolic but not tacky," which was her way of saying sharp enough to cut someone if they get too close.
She stood to my right now, arms folded, pale Zabrak features lit with barely contained delight. Darth Nox looked like she was attending the best concert of her life. Black robes, boots propped casually against the dais, chin resting in one hand like she was watching theater.
Aurra Sing stood on my left, posture relaxed, head tilted, eyes tracking everything. She still wore her usual leathers—no robes, no ceremony—but she'd cleaned the blood off it, which felt respectful. She hadn't asked many questions about the coronation, only whether this made her harder to kill if things went wrong.
I'd said "yes" without thinking.
Front and center stood C-3PO.
He had polished himself. Thoroughly. Painstakingly. The droid gleamed in the Tatooine sun like a religious artifact, his posture rigid with dignity as he held a datapad containing the officiation script I had absolutely not read.
"Master Sol," he began, voice projecting with ceremonial gravity, "on behalf of the liberated peoples of Mos Espa, Mos Eisley, and the surrounding territories, we gather today to formally recognize the establishment of a sovereign authority—"
Behind him, HK-47 leaned slightly toward me.
"Observation: This would be the optimal moment to eliminate the officiant. Suggestion: A clean shot through the cranial plating would minimize screaming and maximize intimidation."
I closed my eyes.
"No," I said flatly.
"Clarification," HK-47 continued at full volume, "this is a hypothetical assassination scenario. I am not authorized to act on it. Yet."
C-3PO froze mid-sentence.
"I—what?"
"HK," I said through my teeth, "we talked about this. No narrating murder fantasies during official state functions."
"Disappointed Query: Even purely theoretical ones, Master?"
"Yes. Especially those."
Aurra leaned over, genuinely interested. "Your angle's off," she said conversationally. "Gold plating reflects light. You'd get glare. Better to sabotage his motivators and let gravity do the work. Less mess."
HK-47's photoreceptors brightened. "Enthusiastic Acknowledgment: Valuable input noted. Request: Would you care to collaborate on a revised hypothetical?"
C-3PO let out a sound that might have been a scream if protocol droids could scream.
"Oh my stars and circuits, this is highly inappropriate! I was assured this was a peaceful ceremony!"
Maris laughed. Actually laughed. She clapped once, delighted. "Oh, this is amazing. Ben, can we do this more often?"
I opened my eyes and took in the scene again.
Sith banners. Murder droids. A protocol droid officiating a coronation for a breakaway regime on a desert planet I technically didn't own. Somewhere in the Force, I could feel something tense and uncomfortable, like the galaxy itself had bitten into a lemon.
"This is so illegal," I muttered.
"Correction," HK-47 said helpfully. "This is illegal in twelve systems. Thirteen, if you count the Hutt Cartel's definition of 'illegal,' which is fluid."
I sighed. "Of course it is."
C-3PO cleared his throat, valiantly attempting to regain control of the moment. "As I was saying—Master Sol, do you accept the mantle of leadership, with all the responsibilities, obligations, and—oh dear—existential dangers that accompany it?"
I hesitated.
Not because I didn't want it.
Because I did.
That was the problem.
I thought of Korriban. Of the Holocron's voice, heavy with approval. Of Wrath receding into dormancy, satisfied. Of Mos Eisley's gates opening. Of slaves walking free. Of a city that, for the first time, didn't belong to a crime lord or a cartel.
I thought of Obi-Wan. Of Satine. Of Ahsoka somewhere very far away, probably yelling at Anakin. I thought of how absolutely furious everyone would be if they knew what I was doing right now.
The Force hummed. Low. Uneasy. Watching.
I placed the crown on my head.
"I accept," I said.
The square went quiet.
Then the HK droids raised their rifles in perfect synchronization, barrels angled skyward.
"Statement: Long live the First Order," HK-47 declared.
The Force flinched.
Not violently. Not catastrophically.
Just enough to let me know the galaxy had noticed.
And that there was absolutely no going back now.
...
Count Dooku had always found Mandalore aesthetically instructive.
Cold geometry. Clean lines. Domes and spires that suggested order without warmth, discipline without joy. A civilization that had strangled itself in the pursuit of peace, then congratulated itself for the corpse. From the balcony of the Confederacy's "secure diplomatic quarters"—a phrase that meant heavily armed listening post with plausible deniability—he watched the capital skyline flicker as explosions died down and emergency shields reasserted themselves.
Death Watch had failed.
Not catastrophically. Not yet. But visibly.
That, Dooku reflected, was the most important distinction.
Below, gunships retreated into the clouds, pursued only halfheartedly by Mandalorian interceptors. Sirens continued to echo through Sundari's streets, the sound distorted by the dome's curvature until it resembled a low, communal wail. Smoke smeared the air in thin, ugly ribbons, clashing with the city's pristine whites and silvers.
A public assassination attempt. In broad daylight. Against a ruling duchess who had survived far worse.
Amateurish.
Behind him, the doors hissed open.
"As coups go," Asajj Ventress remarked, her tone dry enough to desiccate a Hutt, "I've seen street gangs plan better birthdaysurprises."
Dooku did not turn. His hands rested lightly on the balcony rail, gloved fingers steepled, posture relaxed in a way that came only from absolute confidence in one's surroundings.
"Death Watch has always mistaken conviction for competence," he said calmly. "They believe passion substitutes for preparation."
Ventress moved to his side, boots clicking softly against the polished floor. She leaned her elbows on the rail, gaze sharp as she tracked the last fleeing signatures on the tactical overlay projected faintly against the dome.
"Still," she added, "they nearly got close enough. One well-placed sniper. One suicide charge with better timing. Duchess Satine would be a memory and Mandalore would already be burning."
"Yes," Dooku agreed. "Which is precisely why they failed."
She glanced at him sidelong. "You planned for them to?"
"I planned for them to try."
A third voice cut in, nasal and indignant.
"Honestly," Nute Gunray said, flapping his thin hands as he paced behind them, "I don't understand why anyone bothers with all this theatrics. Jetpacks, bombs, screaming slogans—so inefficient! If one wishes to assassinate a head of state, one simply hires a man."
Ventress's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Close enough to be dangerous.
Gunray continued, warming to the subject. "That man hires another man. Who purchases a droid. That droid releases insects—very small insects—into the ventilation system. Poisonous, of course. Entirely untraceable. Plausible deniability! It is very simple. I have done it at least—"
Ventress turned her head slowly.
"Master," she said sweetly, "are you sure we need this one alive?"
Gunray froze mid-gesture, pupils dilating as he looked between them. "I—Count Dooku, surely she is joking."
Dooku smiled.
It was a small thing. Almost fond.
"Nute," he said gently, "if you were not alive, someone would have to explain trade routes to me. And I find that prospect… exhausting."
Gunray swallowed and retreated several steps, muttering something about underappreciation and hostile work environments.
Ventress snorted quietly and returned her attention to the city below. "So. Mandalore survives. Death Watch retreats. Jedi everywhere. Clones on the ground, Mandalorians in armor, and Kenobi playing benevolent mediator."
She tilted her head. "This doesn't look like failure to me."
"No," Dooku agreed. "It looks like pressure."
He shifted his weight, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched medical transports weave between buildings, escorted by Mandalorian guards and clone troopers alike. That, more than the explosions, had been the telling detail.
Unity.
Unplanned. Unscripted. Real.
"The Republic wished to delay," he continued. "To debate. To stall Mandalore's offer of citizenship to the clones until procedure smothered it. Death Watch wished to force the issue through blood."
"And you," Ventress said, "wanted the city shaken just enough that everyone shows their hand."
Dooku inclined his head. "Precisely."
Below them, Jedi moved through the aftermath—one aggressive and incandescent, another controlled and surgical, and a third… impulsive. Unorthodox. Effective in a way that irritated the Council and saved lives anyway.
Skywalker. Tano. Kenobi.
Pieces already in motion.
Gunray edged closer again, emboldened by the absence of immediate violence. "Still," he said nervously, "I fail to see how any of this benefits the Confederacy. Mandalore does not join us. The Republic tightens its grip. And now there is talk—dangerous talk—of clone rights. If this spreads—"
"It will," Dooku said calmly.
Gunray stared at him.
"The Republic cannot acknowledge the clones as people without acknowledging its own moral bankruptcy," Dooku continued. "Nor can it deny them without revealing the same. Mandalore's declaration of independence has simply accelerated the contradiction."
Ventress glanced at him. "And Death Watch?"
"A blade," Dooku replied, "that cut its wielder."
He turned away from the balcony at last, cloak swirling softly, and paced back into the room. The holotable at its center shimmered to life, projecting a web of systems, trade routes, political alignments—some marked in red, some blue, others a troubling, luminous gold.
Gunray leaned forward despite himself. "What is that?"
Dooku's eyes lingered on the gold.
"An anomaly," he said. "One that should not exist."
Ventress felt it then. A pressure at the edge of her awareness. Not the familiar pull of the dark side as wielded by her master—or by Sidious—but something… skewed. As though the Force itself had been nudged off balance by a careless hand.
"You feel it too," she said quietly.
Dooku nodded.
"Not here," he murmured. "Not on Mandalore. Farther. Distant. Yet… loud."
Gunray shifted uneasily. "I feel nothing."
Dooku spared him a glance. "Yes. That is rather the point."
His gaze returned to the projection, fingers tracing an arc across the Outer Rim. Tatooine glowed faintly, surrounded by secondary markers—trade disruptions, sudden military movements, the unexplained collapse of criminal syndicates.
And beneath it all, a resonance.
Powerful.
Unorthodox.
New.
"The Sith are moving faster than anticipated," Dooku said softly, more to himself than to the room. "Not Sidious's design. Not mine."
Ventress straightened. "Another rival?"
"Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps successors. Or perhaps children playing with powers they do not yet understand."
Gunray's voice wobbled. "You said there were always two."
Dooku smiled again. This one sharper.
"Yes," he said. "And the galaxy has never respected that rule."
He closed his eyes briefly, reaching outward—not to dominate, not to command, but simply to observe. The Force answered reluctantly, like a tide pulling back to reveal something vast beneath the surface.
A coronation.
Laughter.
Murder droids speaking far too freely.
And a presence at its center that felt… earnest.
Dangerously so.
Dooku exhaled, a soft, pleased sound.
"Interesting."