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No matter what happened, Isamar was certain that nothing was more terrifying than watching bombs rain down across the city without warning. Anything else would only come second. Not that she expected anything else to happen in her life.

Her world, like the other two in her solar system, were not accustomed to visitors that were from beyond the system, being so far out from the rest of the galaxy. They had not been expecting a small fleet of battle droids to descend upon their capitals and towns.

Isamar was lucky. She acknowledged that, because unlike her fellow countrymen, she had been capable of shifting through the rubble. The Archives' thirty floors of concrete had not broken her when it fell, and while weak, Isamar refused to be killed before she did anything.

Clouds of dust dirtied the once pure air of Sraval, billowing high into the atmosphere where fighter ships flew. Several buildings had collapsed and filled the streets with a sea of rubble, flattening anyone unable to take shelter in the transport tunnels. Screams of terror and agony rang out over the sounds of blaster fire and foreign ships, telling of scared families and couples mourning partners.

Isamar could barely breathe. She was alive, but what use was alive when you couldn't draw air into your lungs? Dust filled her throat, scraping her flesh like glass with every attempt to gasp.

The steel beam wasn't crushing her, but while it may have laid its weight upon other rubble, it was still forcing the life from her lungs. Everything was dark, her little pocket of air existing only as it did just then, devoid of freedom but sheltering her from the building's entire weight.

"Help!" She tried to scream. "Someone help!"

But there was no one to hear her silenced cry, not in the middle of a battlefield she couldn't see.

Tears tumbled down her dusty cheeks, mixing with blood as it swept down in a stream of undeniable fear. Isamar cried in silence as blank spots appeared in her vision, a sign of her wavering consciousness. Her lungs begged for air, straining and screaming as she failed to provide.

She didn't want to die. She had only turned fifteen a week beforehand. So many things had yet to be done, so many people to meet and so many worlds to see.

She didn't want to die like her brother, crushed beneath concrete and steel in a place that would not be found for weeks. She couldn't bear to die like her mother, with a shard of glass so deep in her chest that it came out of her back.

Isamar screamed with agony, a silent sound that only the gods would ever hear. She screamed without a voice and cried out for the rage and grief that her family's death brought her. The desire to be free and to make their deaths worth something was overwhelming, hot and burning as it rushed through her veins. She cried out for her mother's pain and for her brother's terror.

The beam moved.

Air suddenly rushed into her lungs and she gasped for breath, coughing at the dust and dirt. Sweat rolled down her brow, and again she screamed, pressing her hands against the steel.

It creaked, and debris rained down like hail stones, pitter-pattering on her bloodied face. And then it shifted, trembling as it bent away from Isamar's bubble and sunlight streamed in.

Voices and blaster fire echoed in the street ruins, screams piercing Isamar's soul. Dust and small debris fell through the opening, coating her in a thick layer of muck and blood.

"Did I not tell you that there was someone under there?!" A bright voice chirped suddenly, and Isamar stumbled back.

"You weren't playing around, Snips!" A dark face appears in the empty gap, their dark hair swaying in the dusty breeze. "It's all right, I'm here to help!"

Isamar jerked back as he threw out a hand to her, alarmed by his presence and strange words. Her features twisted suddenly in anger, and scrambling back, she scooped a sizeable piece of debris into her hand.

"Woah, easy there!" The man threw up both of his hands in an apparent display of peace. "Didn't you hear me? I said I'm not going to hurt you!"

Isamar found it didn't really matter whether her aim was terrible when she threw the rock at him, it got her message across. It filled her with grim satisfaction to see him startle. Even though it was hardly a flicker of emotion on his face, she knew he was unprepared for her resistance.

"Anakin, we can't linger any longer, we have to go!"

Shrugging, the man swung himself into Isamar's pocket, barely acknowledging her violent jerk backwards into a jagged block of concrete. "Sorry, kid."

With a screech of furious protest, Isamar was swept off her feet and thrown over the man's shoulder. Rage boiled in her veins as she swore at him, hitting him as hard as she could in her pathetic position. He dared touch her after what had happened in her city, after what foreigners had done to her home. Isamar was not one for revenge, but these people deserved something for the lives stolen. Life had been stolen from these once lively streets, and she would not sit idly by.

"Let me go!" Isamar screamed with a raw voice, blood-stained spittle flying from her lips.

"She's not happy."

"Really? I hadn't noticed." While unable to understand the language, sarcasm was universal, and it wasn't hard to pick up on.

Blaster fire shook the street and Isamar was the only one to flinch.

Time to take drastic measures.

Twisting like a luungstrat, she positioned herself to the man's arm and bit down. Through the fabric of his shirt, Isamar could feel his skin break beneath her teeth. He cried out in pain, releasing his grasp on her by instinct as he reached for his fresh wound.

Isamar tumbled to the ground and took off running, never looking back as shouts called after her. Even stumbling and tripping over debris did not slow her escape.

Pain racked her chest, echoing hollow throughout her bones like the beat of a broken drum. Her temples thundered something horrid, and though her speed did not waver, her feet caught on more rubble. Perhaps that warm trail of wet that was steadily running down her face was worth some attention after all.

A deep gut feeling suddenly had her dropping to the ground, and her hands had barely touched the ground when a shot flew over. Something behind her exploded and Isamar instinctively ducked her head beneath her arms. Whatever it was, it made her organs jolt when it went off.

Panic began to flood through her adrenaline-hyped system then, quickening the pace of her heart and shortening her breath. Blaster fire starting to rain above once more, Isamar found herself falling silent as swollen tears rolled down her cheeks. A bubble of terror that had been developing for the last hour, finally burst.

The battlefield fell silent to her ears, that familiar gut feeling all but blossoming now as Isamar dragged herself to her knees. Everything hurt intensely, no longer a dull presence but a persistent burn of fire that spiked with each movement. Yet, that gut feeling was stronger, stronger than all of her agony and grief, and it pulled her to a pile of rubble that may have once been flooring.

Terrified and confused, she pulled at the slabs, overturning them with such ferocity that skin tore away from her palms and bled. And with each one, that feeling, that indescribable but undeniably familiar feeling, grew tenfold. Then the final slab toppled over the lip of the mountain ruin and shattered below. There, bruised, bleeding, and stone cold, lay Danamar Poisatt, her mother.

Isamar turned away and vomited.

By the time she faced the woman's broken body again, the sounds of battle had returned to her ears. Isamar would have liked to say that she looked at peace, that she appeared as though to be asleep. But something about black bruises and twisted limbs shattered that beauty in death. With blood clumping her auburn hair, and that glass still stuck straight through the middle of her, Isamar's mother was most certainly dead.

With a voice unlike before, Isamar screamed, bellowing with grief and pain so that the entire world could hear her. Her voice echoed throughout the ruins of the streets, hollow and agonized, and every creature who heard would remember the way it wounded so deeply in their hearts and twisted like a knife in flesh until the very end of their days. She screamed until she tasted copper, and cried out until her lips were painted as red as a setting sun.

Brokenly and wounded, Isamar cried over her mother, holding her broken hand in her own two. Silent sobs choked her as her cheeks grew wet with tears, mouth agape in a soundless cry for Danamar's return. She knew she would not receive her wish, but she cried nonetheless for her mother.

And then, just like that, she had no tears left to cry. Her throat was torn and raw from screaming, the taste of blood and bile lingering on her tongue, but she had no voice left to declare the unfairness of life. All she had was the waning strength to drag her bleeding hands to her mother's belt and the heirloom that hung there.

It had been in her family as long as anyone could remember, passed down through the generations, from mother's hand to daughter's. Now, she would be the first to take it without blessing. But she could accept that, as long as it remained with her.

With hands shaking so hard she could barely pick it up, Isamar somehow managed to clip it on to her own belt. Blood smeared across the carefully polished hilt, brandishing it as the weapon it was if only while she bore it with a wounded soul.

"Be at peace, mother," she muttered softly to the woman's body, voice cracked and hoarse.

She stood then, that gut feeling spread to her head, and faced the foreigners that had dragged her from the pocket. Only now, there were more of them, people in unfamiliar white armour. They weren't standing around like her, but rather using the terrain for defense, and it didn't take long for her to recognise them as warriors.

Expressionless, feeling as void of emotion as anyone could possibly be, Isamar strode forward with a faltering balance, that humming feeling in her head tuning to an almost comforting melody. Shots flew around her, and she trusted the universe to know that one would only find its mark if it was her time. Not one blaster shot came close to her.

Someone leapt out in front of her, and on instinct, Isamar slides her hand to her belt and hastily snaps the heirloom free. It ignited with a sharp sound alike to a simmering thunderstorm, flaring with a shade of purple so akin to the lightning of southern storms. Her eyes gleamed in the light.

"Woah!" The person jumped back, their hands on their own belt. "Uh, Master?"

It was the same person who had first spoken when Isamar was freed, but she could not place their species. Not that she cared. No, she just held the heirloom in her trembling hand, pointing it at the foreigner.

"Get off my planet," she spoke in a voice so quiet it was a miracle that she was heard at all. That humming in her head was growing excited.

"Ahsoka!" The male from before leapt to his feet, rushing over and drawing his own weapon.

Isamar, to her credit, did not flinch when it ignited just like her's. Her eyes widened with shock and horror, but she stood tall where she was, even as her hand trembled harder. She was not aware that there were other creations alike to her family's heirloom.

"You won't touch her," the man growled, flicking his blade to protect the other foreigner.

"Get off my planet," Isamar repeated before hacking a cough and spitting out blood. "Please."

The unrecognisable foreigner, with what Isamar now acknowledged to be white markings, drew away from their defensive stance and studied her in a way that made Isamar uneasy. But after a tense few moments, Isamar swings her weapon at the man with a strength she shouldn't have.

He blocked her attack with ease, but she didn't care and swung again without finesse. She was taught to be aggressive, not to prance about on her toes, and so Isamar threw blow after blow at him. Not a single scratch landed on him and other sabres ignited in her peripheral. Her fury simmered, overpowered by fear, yet now she realised that her opponent was not going to let her off so easily.

Offense became defense in a brief moment of hesitation, and immediately Isamar's advantage was lost. Without the strength to block the man's powerful attacks, Isamar was flailing to save herself. Eyes wide, she stumbled back, struggling to meet the entourage of parries.

"Anakin, stop this!" An older voice intervened, and the man paused ever so slightly. "She's terrified!"

"She was going to attack Ahsoka!" He argued, and Isamar flinched at his tone.

"Look at her, Anakin!" The other person shouted. "You pulled her out of the rubble, for Force's sake! I highly doubt she even knows what's happening!"

Whatever it is that they said made the man stop entirely, his sabre vanishing into the hilt. The way he looked at Isamar then made her quiver, nearly losing her grip on her sabre as she pointed it at him. Those eyes were so full of judgement and consideration, yet understanding as well. They hurt to look at for any length, and so Isamar turned her head, instead staring at the person with markings.

That turned out to be much worse. Their eyes — perhaps the 'they' was a 'she' — were shining with sympathy and pity. Isamar hated that with smoldering heat. She didn't want to be pitied. Gods, did she not want that. But to see the reflection of herself in someone's eyes — wild and feral with bloodshot eyes — was horrifying.

Her sabre sheathed and it fell from her hands as she stumbled backwards. A silent sob escaped her cracked lips, and she dropped to the ground, defenseless against whatever the group may wish upon her. She was terrified and shaken, and so deeply wounded that she could not bear to stand in the light.

"Get her up," the older voice ordered with a kind tone. "I'm afraid we've overstayed our welcome at this front."

Two hands grasped Isamar's arms, and she sagged in their hold. Injuries made their hurt known to her as she was lifted from the ground, screaming out with scalding pain and aches. Had her leg felt like that before or was the adrenaline wearing off?

"You need a medic," someone said, but Isamar couldn't identify who.

Her vision started to blur, fading in and out of a blank expanse of nothingness. Someone was saying something, but even their strange words were lost as her head rolled back against a cradling arm of a stranger. Why were they looking at her like that? Why did they look upon her with concern when all she had done was attack them after she had been freed from her tomb?

But before she could ponder it any further, the world faded out and the siren song of unconsciousness dragged her from the world.

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