**Chapter 349: Fractured Victories**
**Dagon's POV**
Pain was an old companion.
I sat alone in the dimly lit observation lounge of the *Necrosword*—my personal flagship, tucked away in the shadow of the battered *Terminus* as tugs and repair crews swarmed both vessels in Dentaal's modest orbital shipyard. Multiple internal bleedings had already been sealed by the Force, threads of dark-side regeneration knitting tissue while light-side calm kept shock at bay. A couple of bacta injections burned pleasantly in my veins, and the hour-long soak in ice had literally cooled my head—literally and figuratively. The throbbing aftermath of the battle meld was finally gone.
It should have killed me. Linking so many minds across dozens of capital ships, guiding torpedoes with raw will, maintaining the kyber shield bubble with Ahsoka and Zule while the *Terminus* rammed the *Malevolence*… the strain had been monstrous. But I cut the connections in time. The girls were safe.
Ahsoka and Zule were healthy and fine—no physical damage, though the mental exhaustion showed in their deep, even breathing as they slept in the *Necrosword*'s advanced med bay. Stella, Flare, and Kayla were the same—all five of them currently resting under soft medical lighting, their bodies recovering from the adrenaline crash and the subtle toll of the meld. I could feel their presences through our bonds: warm, steady, alive. Later there would be time for closeness, for the jealous little sparks Ahsoka sometimes let slip, for the healing touches that bound us tighter than any kyber ritual.
Visenya was in her quarters, busy splicing together footage for the press. The Battle of Dentaal was already being called the "Battle of Super Ships" in early reports—not my choice. Visenya the journalist had a flair for drama I lacked. She would frame it right: Republic innovation triumphing over Separatist brute force.
Aayla Secura was elsewhere on the station, deep in discussion with Master Plo Koon and Jedi Knight Ares Nune about logistics—repair schedules, reinforcement distribution, medical triage for the thousands of wounded. Her calm Twi'lek presence would steady them.
I exhaled slowly and activated the holonews terminal. Time to see the current state of the galaxy.
First, the bad news.
Ryloth had fallen. Wat Tambor had tried again and this time succeeded. Separatist forces had overwhelmed the remaining defenses, planting their flag over the ash-choked surface. Another world lost to the droid tide.
But the important fact—the one that kept the rage from swallowing me—was this: thanks to the covert supply runs and early warnings I'd funneled to Cham Syndulla, over fifty million Twi'leks—mainly the young and the old—had been evacuated to hidden sanctuary worlds in allied sectors. The rest of the population that could fight had melted into the resistance networks. Not a perfect victory, but a people preserved rather than enslaved or slaughtered.
I allowed myself a small, tired smile as I scrolled further.
The Cinder satellites I'd deployed across the ash worlds, the Lothal sector, and allied systems in the 12th Sector had performed beyond expectations. Weather alteration protocols were working: controlled storms brought much-needed rain, clear skies followed for crops. A few carefully guided healing lightning storms—kyber-infused and balanced—had accelerated soil recovery.
Even more impressive: in just one month, the Dittmar family from Weyland had transformed the former abandoned Sith world of Ziost. Once a barren, dark-side scarred rock, it was now a lush, densely forested planet with a warm, temperate climate. Three hundred satellites, targeted ecological seeding, and subtle Force nudges had done what centuries of neglect could not. A small proof that creation could still triumph over corruption.
And the fleet at Ryloth? It had managed to escape alongside Master Ima-Gun Di. Another Jedi saved from the meat grinder. Small mercies in a war that devoured them by the dozen.
I leaned back, feeling the dull ache in my scars. The *Malevolence* was gone—its top section and half its weapon mounts shattered by the *Terminus*'s ram, its burning remains now part of the debris field. The *Malice* had escaped critically damaged, but Selena and Grievous lived to fight another day. The cost had been high: over eight thousand dead, ships heavily damaged, thousands of TIE pilots lost. Yet the Confederacy's "endless" fleet had been broken.
The galaxy would spin the narrative as it wished. I simply kept moving forward—balance in one hand, a lightsaber in the other.
**Scene 2**
Obi-Wan Kenobi hadn't traveled around Coruscant often enough in recent years to know District Forty-Nine thoroughly. But this particular district was well known to him. There was a restaurant there, owned by his old friend and sometime informant, Dexter Jettster.
Frankly, the Besalisk hadn't gotten the prime location without a little help from Obi-Wan years ago. The eatery sat near the district's main transportation hub, guaranteeing a constant stream of hungry pedestrians and ground vehicle pilots flowing past without interruption. Multi-story buildings rose like canyon walls along the highway, but Dex's Diner itself occupied an open plaza, offering a panoramic view of the endless city-planet.
This time, however, Obi-Wan wasn't destined to enjoy the food. Dex had insisted on complete privacy.
The Jedi Master parked his borrowed speeder in a nearby lot and walked the rest of the way, cloak pulled close to avoid drawing attention. He soon found himself in a small nook behind the diner—hidden from the street by other buildings, overflowing dumpsters, and faded advertising banners. Leaning against the wall near the rear entrance, Obi-Wan waited, arms folded.
"The morning grind is finally over," Dex's deep, rumbling voice said behind him. "I've found a few minutes for you, Obi-Wan. Then I need to head back to the kitchen."
"Was all this carefully rehearsed staging really necessary?" Obi-Wan asked, turning with a wry smile.
Dex's deep-set eyes narrowed, then widened in mock offense. His crop sac bulged—a sure sign of irritation among Besalisks. "And when was it ever my habit to waste your time, Master Kenobi?"
Obi-Wan nodded, ashamed. "Fair point. I'm sorry, Dex. I hate to admit it, but I'm a little on edge."
Dex leaned his massive frame against the smooth back wall of the diner and pulled a pack from his apron pocket. He extracted an Ambrian cigar, a lighter, and lit it with a practiced motion. Taking a deep drag, he exhaled fragrant pink herbal smoke that curled lazily in the artificial breeze.
"Since when did you become such a cynic?" Obi-Wan asked.
"War brings out the best in me," Dex chuckled, stubbing the cigar out on the diner's trash can with surprising delicacy for such large hands. "Not just this time. The video reports were quite reliable, you know. Those disgusting droidcams were everywhere. But I suspect that after the skirmish was over, the footage was heavily edited."
"Edited so that the only images of death and destruction people saw were destroyed droids," Obi-Wan said quietly. "Fear suppression. The slain clone troopers weren't particularly… photogenic."
"Of course it was," Dex nodded, his speech still dripping with cynicism. He sighed heavily and scratched his chin. "You're right. Ignore my whims, Obi-Wan. It seems you're not the only one on edge."
"You said you had some important information, Dex," Obi-Wan reminded him.
"Maybe… maybe… I know where you can get your hands on that piece of cheese, Grievous."
Obi-Wan stared at him, heart suddenly pounding. If he could destroy—or even seriously cripple—Dooku's best general, the war would be three-quarters won.
"Where, Dex? Where is he?"
"Right now?" Dex grimaced. "No idea. But I know where he might show up in the near future."
"Could you be a little more specific, Dex!"
"Okay, okay!" The Besalisk raised all four hands in surrender. "A friend of mine wrote to me and said a little birdie told her Grievous had been spotted on Fondor."
"Fondor? What could he have forgotten there?"
Suddenly Obi-Wan shuddered. Imagining a rough map of the stars closest to Fondor, the realization hit him like a cold wind.
Thyferra.
Bacta.
Two words that meant no less to the Republic now than "Kamino" and "Coruscant."
"Are you sure, Dex?"
"Yes. She's never let me down yet," the Besalisk replied confidently.
Before Obi-Wan could press further, his comlink beeped insistently. He activated it, and the blue hologram of Master Shaak Ti appeared.
"Master Kenobi," she said without preamble. "Good news, I think. We know where Grievous might be heading. His warship was destroyed—as was a massive fleet of enemy CIS vessels. Another vessel sustained heavy damage at Dentaal by General Dagon Marek's forces. Return to the Temple at once. New plans must be formed."
Obi-Wan glanced at Dex, who simply offered a knowing four-armed shrug.
"On my way, Master Ti," Obi-Wan replied. As the hologram faded, he turned back to his old friend. "Thank you, Dex. As always."
"Try the nerf steak next time you're not sneaking around," Dex rumbled with a grin. "And stay alive, Kenobi. The galaxy's getting darker by the day."
Obi-Wan nodded and slipped back into the flow of Coruscant traffic, mind already racing toward Thyferra, Grievous, and the next inevitable clash.
The war never rested. Neither could he.