The metallic tang of spent blaster bolts hung thick in the air of the command bridge, a perfume of victory that Nyra savored with every breath. The frantic symphony of combat had faded, leaving only the low, steady hum of the Star Destroyer's systems and the hushed, efficient chatter of clone troopers. Her boots, coated in the fine, rust-colored dust of Ryloth, made a satisfyingly authoritative click against the polished deck plates.

Captain Rex turned to meet her, his blue-marked armor a canvas of fresh scorch marks and grime. He removed his helmet, revealing a face etched with the fatigue of a long deployment, but his eyes were as sharp as ever.

"Generals," his voice was a welcome, gravelly sound. "That was some of the finest close-quarters work I've seen. You cut through those clankers like a hot vibro-blade through butter."

A competent soldier, Nyra thought, her face a mask of serene appreciation. He recognizes strength. Good. She gave a slight, gracious nod. "We had the best soldiers in the galaxy at our backs, Captain. Your men were impeccable."

Her gaze, however, was already drifting past him, drawn to the star-flecked blackness beyond the massive transparisteel viewport. The planet Ryloth spun, a silent, mottled marble. Her eyes narrowed, tracking the faint engine glow of a single Separatist dropship as it fled the system, a wounded insect scurrying back to its hive.

There you go, her mind purred, a cold, sharp smile touching her lips only on the inside. Run along, little messenger. Fly back to your Count. Tell him how his toys broke against us. Tell him the name 'Nyra' is becoming a curse on his lips. The thought of Dooku—his aristocratic disdain, his cold, Sith arrogance—sent a thrill of dark satisfaction through her. Every defeat she handed him was another thread pulled from his tapestry of power.

"This outpost is secure," Nyra announced, her voice cutting through the post-battle murmur, clear and resonant. It was a tone that brooked no argument, a tone that made the bridge crew still and listen. "Our duty here is fulfilled. We must return to Coruscant immediately and report this... escalation to the Council."

She could feel the weight of the decision settling on the room, the shift in focus from tactical hold to strategic withdrawal. It was a palpable thing, this control.

Commander Cody, the picture of pragmatic loyalty, gave a sharp nod. "Agreed, General. The intel on their new droid variants is crucial." He turned, his voice projecting command. "Fives, Echo, Hevy—with us. You're on escort detail back to the Resolute."

The three troopers, their white armor painted with the unique signatures of the recent jungle fight, snapped to attention. "Sir, yes sir!"

As the others began moving toward the landing bay, Nyra paused. Her fingers, slender and sure, went to a small pouch on her utility belt. From it, she drew forth three amulets, carved from obsidian so dark it seemed to be fragments of the void itself. Etched upon their surfaces were runes of a forgotten tongue, swirls and slashes that drank the light from the air around them.

With a predator's grace, she moved to the main command console, the primary sensor array, and the communications hub. She placed an amulet at the base of each, her fingertips pressing into the cold metal as she whispered the ancient words of binding and warding. A faint, violet corona of energy flared around each device for a single heartbeat before sinking into the machinery, leaving only the dark stones behind like sleeping eyes.

Rex watched, his helmet canting in open curiosity. "An old Jedi ritual, General?"

Nyra turned, and a slow, enigmatic smile finally graced her lips. It was a smile that didn't quite reach her luminous silver eyes. "Something like that, Captain. Let's just say any uninvited guests will find this command post... profoundly disagreeable. It is safe now." My seal is upon it. My power guards it. Nothing he sends can touch what I have claimed.

The journey to the waiting shuttle was a silent procession in her mind. She took a seat by the viewport, her hands resting calmly in her lap as the craft lifted off. She didn't watch the scarred landscape of Ryloth fall away. Instead, her gaze was turned inward, reviewing the steps taken, the threats neutralized. The outpost was hers, now and always, marked by her will.

The shuttle docked within the Resolute with a soft thud and a hiss of equalizing pressure. The air here was sterile, recycled, and familiar. As the crew moved with practiced efficiency, preparing for the jump to lightspeed, Nyra glided to the bridge's main viewport.

The order was given, and a crewman pulled the lever. With a mighty, shuddering lurch that vibrated through the very deck plates, the stars outside the viewport stretched into blinding lines of blue-white energy. The ship plunged into the hypnotic, swirling tunnel of hyperspace.

A moment later, her personal starfighter, the sleek, green Aethersprite-class interceptor she called Tempest, slid into view off the starboard bow, holding a perfect, unwavering escort position.

My shadow, she thought, a profound sense of rightness settling over her. My will made manifest. Following, always following. Ensuring our path is clear.

She stood alone at the viewport, watching the impossible river of light. The Galactic Republic, the Jedi Council, the war itself—it was all just background noise, a chaotic tapestry against which her true purpose was being woven. Every battle won, every world secured, was another step toward creating a galaxy worthy of the one she cherished, the one who waited for her on Coruscant. And she would tear this galaxy apart, piece by piece, before she let anything threaten that future. The light of hyperspace reflected in her silver eyes, twin pools of cold, unwavering obsession.

The light of Coruscant's endless noon was a welcome change from the dim, red-hued skies of Ryloth. As the ramp of the Resolute's shuttle descended with a hydraulic hiss, Nyra breathed in the familiar air—a complex cocktail of speeder exhaust, ionized atmosphere, and the teeming life of a trillion souls. It was the scent of power, of the center of the galaxy.

And there he was, waiting for them. Anakin Skywalker, a smirk playing on his lips, his presence in the Force a restless, brilliant sun.

"Nyra!" he called out, striding forward as she disembarked, the clone troopers forming up behind her with crisp efficiency. Before she could offer a formal greeting, he pulled her into a brief, hearty hug. She allowed it, her own arms remaining at her sides, her posture not so much returning the embrace as enduring it. So predictably tactile, she thought, her inner voice cool and analytical. He leads with his heart, and his hands always follow. A dangerous, exploitable trait.

He released her, his gaze sweeping over the group. "And the young Chancellor's favorite Commander," he added, nodding respectfully to the figure who had followed him. "Your personal guards have been pacing the halls like tookas in a cage. And that dragon of yours..." He trailed off, a knowing look in his eyes. "Let's just say the hangar bay crews have learned to give him a very wide berth when you're away."

Nyra offered a serene, practiced smile. "Their concern is noted, though unnecessary. And Tempest is merely... vigilant."

As if summoned by his name, a shadow fell over the landing platform. With a sound like a - tearing sailcloth, the Night Fury descended. Tempest's obsidian scales drank the light, his form a living piece of the void. He hovered, beating his powerful wings to hold position just above the ground, his luminous green eyes fixed solely on Nyra. A series of anxious chirps and low, rumbling barks echoed in the enclosed space, a language only she understood.

He feels the lingering energy of the battle on me, she realized, a genuine warmth, cold and possessive, spreading through her chest. He smells the blaster carbon and droid oil. He was worried.

Her serene mask softened into something truer, something far more dangerous in its affection. She stepped forward, reaching up without a trace of fear to place her hand squarely on the dragon's broad, scaly forehead. The frantic chirping ceased instantly. A deep, purring rumble vibrated from the beast's chest, thrumming up her arm. The great head bowed under her touch, the massive green eyes sliding half-shut in contentment.

Mine, the thought was absolute, final. This magnificent, terrifying power is mine to command. My shield. My sword.

It was then that Captain Rex stepped forward, his helmet tucked under his arm. "General Skywalker," he began, his voice all military report. "The General was formidable on Rishi. Faced down a full squadron of commando droids herself. Fought like a... well, like a Jedi."

Anakin laughed, a loud, confident sound that drew the eyes of everyone on the platform. He clapped a hand on Rex's shoulder pauldron. "Of course she did, Rex! She's a Jedi of the High Council, and the Supreme Chancellor's own chosen protector." He turned his proud, almost boastful grin back to Nyra. "Did they really think they could stand against you?"

Nyra threw her head back and laughed, a sound of clear, happy bells that perfectly masked the cold calculation beneath. Oh, Anakin. You see only the strength, not the purpose behind it. You see a warrior for the Republic. You have no idea what I am truly a warrior for.

Her laughter faded into a warm, gracious smile. "You are too kind, Anakin. But the credit belongs to our brave troopers." She gave a final, reassuring scratch under Tempest's jaw, then turned towards her mount. "Inform the Senate I will be present for the morning session," she announced, her voice carrying to the clones, to Anakin, to the Chancellor's aide. "I have matters to attend to first."

With an effortless leap, she swung herself onto the sleek saddle fitted between Tempest's shoulders. She didn't look back. She didn't need to. She could feel their eyes on her—the admiration of the clones, the pride of Anakin, the watchful anxiety of the Chancellor's man. It was a tangible thing, a web of attention and expectation she held in the palm of her hand.

A single, whispered command, and the Night Fury surged upward with a powerful downstroke of his wings, the gust of wind forcing the men below to shield their faces. They were left watching, as they always were, as she and her dragon became a shrinking silhouette against the endless city sky, two dark shapes merging into one, heading not for the Jedi Temple, but for the secluded spire she called her own. The report to the Council could wait. Her own plans, woven in shadow and sealed with the rumble of a dragon's purr, demanded her attention first.