On the swampy world of Nal Hutta, Ziro the Hutt calculated his every move with the precision of a being whose survival depended upon perfect manipulation. The holodiary containing the incriminating evidence against the Hutt Crime Lords remained his ultimate insurance policy, hidden in a location known only to himself. He had made certain that every Hutt lord understood the consequences of his death—automatic transmission of the data to the Republic Senate.

Let them keep me alive out of fear, Ziro thought with satisfaction, lounging in the stronghold's detention chamber. Fear is the most reliable jailer.

But then Sy Snootles arrived in secret, her affection for him overwhelming her better judgment. Ziro, ever the manipulator, exploited her romantic devotion with calculated precision. Within hours, she had helped him escape into the murky swamps.

And Mama the Hutt—grotesque, powerful, and inexplicably devoted to her son despite his numerous failures—provided him with a starship bound for Teth.

Ziro was gone.

Meanwhile, on Coruscant, in the crystalline halls of the Jedi Temple, Obi-Wan Kenobi stood in conference with Commander Cody, discussing the implications of the Hutt's escape and Cad Bane's continued freedom.

"The Council has tasked us with retrieving Ziro and apprehending Bane," Obi-Wan explained to his clone commander, his weathered features etched with concentration. "It will not be a simple mission. Bane has connections throughout the Outer Rim, and Ziro is proving far more resourceful than anticipated."

Commander Cody nodded sharply, his military bearing impeccable.

"Master Vos arrives within the hour, sir," Cody reported. "Though I should warn you, his reputation precedes him. Some call him brilliant. Others call him reckless."

Obi-Wan sighed quietly. Quinlan Vos, he thought with barely concealed resignation. Gifted with the Force, certainly. But his methods are as unpredictable as they are unconventional. Working alongside him will be... challenging.

The great doors to the chamber slid open with a soft hiss.

Supreme Chancellor Nyra entered with the grace that seemed to accompany her everywhere, her presence immediately commanding the attention of every being in the room. Her scales caught the light filtering through the temple's windows, shimmering with deep emerald and purple hues.

Obi-Wan immediately bowed his head in respectful greeting, his hand pressed to his chest in the formal salute of the Jedi Order.

"Chancellor Nyra," he began, his voice carrying appropriate deference. "I did not expect—"

Commander Cody, recognizing the supreme authority of the Galactic Republic, snapped into a rigid military bow, his posture absolutely precise.

Nyra simply raised a clawed hand, a gesture of gentle dismissal that somehow communicated both warmth and authority simultaneously.

"Friends do not bow to one another, Commander," she said to Cody, her melodic voice carrying genuine affection. Her ancient eyes swept to Obi-Wan, and she smiled—a expression that somehow made even the normally composed Jedi Master feel a flutter of something he could not quite name. Admiration, perhaps. Or something deeper.

Obi-Wan straightened, allowing himself to relax slightly in her presence.

"Chancellor," he greeted more informally, a slight smile touching his lips. "Your presence here is unexpected. Surely you have pressing duties requiring your attention?"

Nyra moved closer to him, her powerful form somehow conveying both confidence and companionship.

"The Council contacted me regarding this mission," Nyra explained, gesturing for both men to accompany her to the strategic planning chamber. "Ziro's escape poses significant implications for the stability of the Republic's governmental structures. The information contained in his holodiary could compromise numerous senatorial positions and diplomatic agreements."

She knows, Obi-Wan realized. Of course she knows. She is Supreme Chancellor. Very little escapes her notice.

"Furthermore," Nyra continued, her tone taking on a more decisive quality, "I will be joining you and Master Vos on this mission."

Obi-Wan's eyebrows rose slightly.

"Chancellor, with respect, your presence in the field could be seen as—"

"Necessary," Nyra interrupted gently but firmly. "Cad Bane has proven himself a threat not merely to individual senators, but to the very institutions of this Republic. I will not send others into danger that I am not willing to face myself."

There it is again, Obi-Wan thought, watching her with a mixture of admiration and something that might have been concern. That absolute commitment to duty. That refusal to ask others to bear burdens she will not share.

Commander Cody looked between the Chancellor and the Jedi Master, recognizing that he was witnessing a decision that had already been made with absolute finality.

"When do we depart?" Nyra asked, moving toward the holographic displays showing the known locations of Ziro's possible destinations.

Obi-Wan exchanged a glance with Cody, then returned his attention to the Chancellor.

"Within the hour," he replied. "Master Vos should arrive shortly. Once he does, we can begin final preparations."

And heaven help us all, Obi-Wan added silently, when Quinlan Vos learns that he will be working alongside the Supreme Chancellor herself. His impulsiveness may prove either our greatest advantage or our most significant liability.

Nyra studied the holographic displays with the intense focus of one accustomed to making life-and-death decisions affecting millions. Her ancient draconic intelligence seemed to process information at speeds that left even the Force-sensitive Jedi slightly awed.

"Teth," she murmured, pointing a claw toward one of the remote planets displayed. "This is where he is heading. I can sense it. The darkness that clings to Cad Bane calls to the darkness within Ziro. They gravitate toward one another like twin stars in a binary system."

Obi-Wan felt a chill run down his spine. When she speaks with such certainty, I find it impossible to doubt her. Whatever awaits us on Teth, whatever confrontation with Cad Bane looms ahead, she will face it with the same absolute grace and authority she brings to every challenge.

The Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic had chosen her path.

And two Jedi, one of them impulsive beyond measure, would soon discover exactly what it meant to work alongside a dragon in pursuit of justice.

The vessel cut through hyperspace with steady precision, its hull humming with the rhythmic pulse of its engines. Inside the main cabin, the awkwardness was palpable enough to slice with a lightsaber.

Vos, with his distinctive white eyes and perpetual air of reckless confidence, had positioned himself far too close to Supreme Chancellor Nyra, his tone dripping with what he clearly believed was charm.

"You know, Chancellor," Vos said, flashing what he clearly considered a winning smile, "I've served the Jedi Order for many years, but I've never encountered a being quite as... captivating as yourself. Your scales have an almost hypnotic quality in this lighting."

Nyra continued to study the tactical display before her, her expression utterly unmoved. She did not so much as glance at the Jedi Master, her ancient composure remaining absolute.

"Master Vos," she replied with the tone one might use to address an enthusiastic but ultimately harmless child, "your attempts at interpersonal connection, while noted, are entirely ineffective. I suggest you redirect your energies toward mission preparation."

A complete dismissal, Vos thought, undeterred by her coldness. How intriguing. A challenge, even.

He tried again moments later, leaning against the nearby console with calculated casualness.

"The Force connects all living beings, does it not?" he continued, his tone taking on what he believed was philosophical depth. "Perhaps that connection between us could be explored further, once this mission concludes. I imagine a being of your wisdom and power would appreciate—"

"No," Nyra interrupted, finally turning to regard him with eyes that contained centuries of patient refusal. "Master Vos, while I appreciate your spirited nature, I will not be exploring anything with you. I suggest you cease these attempts immediately."

She turned her attention back to the tactical display, effectively ending the conversation.

Across the cabin, Obi-Wan felt something distinctly uncomfortable tightening in his chest. Jealousy, a voice in his mind whispered—a voice he attempted to suppress with Jedi discipline, though with notably limited success.

When Vos addressed him moments later regarding their approach vector, Obi-Wan's response was clipped and sharp.

"Your observation is adequate, Master Vos," he said curtly, barely glancing at his supposed partner. "Though I would expect nothing less from a Jedi of your supposed experience."

Supposed, Obi-Wan emphasized internally, with perhaps more venom than the situation warranted.

Vos noticed the sudden shift in Kenobi's demeanor, his white eyes narrowing with amusement.

"Something troubling you, Obi-Wan?" Vos asked, his tone suggesting he found the situation rather entertaining. "You seem unusually tense."

"I am perfectly fine," Obi-Wan replied, his voice taking on an edge that would have been comical if he himself had possessed the objectivity to recognize it. "Your presence simply requires minimal engagement. I find our mission parameters sufficiently clear without requiring your constant commentary."

Nyra, from her position at the display, suppressed what might have been amusement. How delightfully transparent, she thought, though she made no indication of her observations.

The vessel began its descent toward Teth, the planet rising before them like a scarred and weathered monument to desolation. Barren mountains twisted upward from parched earth, their surfaces cratered and gouged by countless environmental assaults.

As the ship settled onto its landing platform with a final hiss of descending repulsor fields, the three beings made their way toward the exit ramp.

The moment the hatch opened, the full force of Teth's atmosphere assaulted their senses.

The stench was absolutely vile—a nauseating combination of sulfurous compounds, decaying organic matter, and something indefinably foul that seemed to permeate every molecule of air. It was the smell of a world abandoned by civilization, left to rot beneath its own poisonous atmosphere.

Nyra visibly shuddered, her scales rippling with genuine distaste. Her ancient being, accustomed to the refined splendors of Coruscant and the carefully maintained environments of countless worlds, recoiled from the assault on her senses.

"By the stars," she breathed, her voice carrying more emotion than Obi-Wan had yet heard from her. "This planet reeks of decay and abandonment. How does any sentient being willingly inhabit such a place?"

Quinlan Vos, seemingly impervious to the stench, stepped down the ramp with his characteristic swagger.

"Teth has always been known as a haven for those seeking to escape notice, Chancellor," he said, offering her a hand down the ramp—an gesture she ignored with elegant finality. "Criminals, fugitives, those with reasons to hide from the Republic. The atmosphere itself serves as a natural deterrent to most law enforcement."

Obi-Wan descended beside Nyra, his expression carefully neutral despite his own discomfort with the environment.

"The coordinates we have suggest Ziro's presence somewhere in the northern sector," he said, his voice steady and professional, deliberately avoiding acknowledging Vos's continued attempts at charm. "Chancellor, perhaps we should proceed with environmental filters activated. This atmosphere cannot be pleasant even for—"

He paused, uncertain how to complete the sentence without sounding patronizing.

Nyra, her composure already reasserting itself despite her initial visceral reaction, drew herself to her full impressive height.

"I will manage," she stated with absolute certainty. "I have endured far worse than atmospheric unpleasantness. Come. We have a Hutt to locate and a bounty hunter to apprehend."

She began walking toward the rocky terrain, her powerful form navigating the treacherous landscape with surprising grace.

Obi-Wan fell into step beside her, his hand resting casually near his lightsaber.

Whatever is about to unfold on this desolate world, he thought, I will ensure that her safety remains paramount. Vos may be an adequate companion, but his recklessness is precisely what makes him unsuitable for protecting the Supreme Chancellor.

Behind them, Quinlan Vos followed, his white eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of one who had not failed to notice Obi-Wan's sudden protectiveness.

Interesting, Vos mused silently. Very interesting indeed.

The cemetery was silent—too silent. Ziro's footsteps echoed against the cracked marble of his father's grave marker, each step feeling like a betrayal. His girlfriend followed close behind him, her presence both comforting and suffocating. She didn't understand. Nobody understood.

"It's here," Ziro whispered, his voice barely audible above the howling wind that seemed to mock him. His hands trembled as he reached toward the hidden compartment he'd carved into the tombstone years ago. Years. How long had he kept this secret? How long had he let his mother believe his father was simply... gone?

"Ziro..." his girlfriend started, but he held up his hand.

"Don't," he said, not meeting her eyes. "Just... don't. You don't know what it was like. What it is like. Every day, pretending. Every day, lying to Mother. Every day, carrying this alone."

She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to touch his shoulder. "You didn't have to carry it alone. You could have told me. You could have told anyone."

But I couldn't, Ziro thought bitterly. That's the whole point. Nobody can know. Nobody can ever know what I did.

His fingers brushed against the cold metal of the hidden diary, and his breath caught. This was it. This was everything. The truth. The lies. The shame.

As he pulled the diary free, his girlfriend's expression shifted. The warmth drained from her features, replaced by something harder. Something darker.

"You've been lying to me, too," she said, and it wasn't a question.

Ziro's stomach twisted. "That's not—"

"Not what? Fair? Honest? True?" She laughed—a brittle, bitter sound that made his skin crawl. "You know what's not fair, Ziro? You abandoning me. You, and your precious secrets, and your dead father you couldn't even bury properly. You know what it felt like, waiting for you? Wondering where you were? Why you never had time for me anymore?"

Oh no, Ziro realized with creeping dread. Oh no, this is wrong. This is all wrong.

"It wasn't like that," he tried to explain, but she was already moving—already reaching into her belt. The blaster emerged with a soft metallic whisper that seemed impossibly loud in the cemetery's stillness.

"Wasn't it?" Her eyes were wild now, untethered. Greedy. Resentful. All the love he thought he'd seen there had evaporated like morning dew, leaving behind only the bitter residue of her hatred. "You made me feel like I didn't matter, Ziro. Like I was nothing compared to your secrets and your drama and your—"

The shot was surprisingly quiet.

Ziro felt himself falling, his body crumpling like discarded paper. The last thing he saw was his girlfriend's face—cold, blank, already calculating what came next. She's going to run, he thought with his dying breath. She's going to leave me here, just like everyone else.

But then the sound came—a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the planet. It wasn't the sound of anything natural, anything sane. It was the roar of something ancient. Something divine. Something that should not exist in this realm of reality.

Sy spun around, her blaster still raised, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. What she saw made the blood freeze in her veins.

The creature was massive—impossibly massive. Its scales were black as the void between stars, gleaming with an otherworldly sheen. Wings—were those wings?—unfurled from its back like the cloak of death itself, stretching wider and wider until they blotted out the sky. The creature's head swung toward her, and she saw eyes like burning coals, ancient and terrible and aware.

What in the nine circles is that? Sy's mind screamed. What is that THING?

The monster advanced, each step sending tremors through the ground. Sy's hands shook. Her blaster suddenly felt like a toy in the hands of a child.

Then—figures. Movement from the shadows. Two shapes emerging with weapons drawn, their movements synchronized with military precision. Jedi. Of course it was Jedi. It was always Jedi.

"Drop your weapon!" one of them commanded, his voice cutting through the humid cemetery air like a blade.

The monster drew closer, closer—and Sy realized with a start that it seemed to be protecting something. Protecting the grave. Protecting Ziro's body.

No. No, no, no. This isn't how this was supposed to go.

The creature approached with its wings spread wide in what could only be interpreted as a threatening posture, each movement deliberate and lethal. Sy's hand rose instinctively—not to fight, but to shield herself from the inevitable.

That's when she felt it. The weight of the hologram diary, still secured in her belt.

The diary, she thought desperately. The diary is all that matters now. Not Ziro. Not the Jedi. Not even that... that impossible creature. Just the diary.

She let the hologram device slip from her fingers into her belt, her movements smooth and practiced—the movements of someone well-versed in deception. The two Jedi exchanged glances, their weapons still trained on her, their eyes narrowed with suspicion.

This was it. This was her moment. This was where Sy Snootles became a victim instead of a murderer.

She raised her empty hands, her face crumpling with manufactured fear, with manufactured sorrow. Her voice, when it came, was trembling and broken—a masterwork of deception.

"Please," she gasped, her eyes wide and glistening with false tears. "Please, you have to believe me. He—he attacked me. Ziro, he was insane. He wanted to kill me for the diary, and when I tried to stop him, he—he—"

She let her voice crack, let her body shake as if with trauma. The Jedi were already exchanging looks, already considering her story. Already beginning to believe the lies.

That's right, Sy thought, even as the creature loomed behind her, even as the cemetery seemed to hold its breath. That's right, you beautiful, gullible fools. Believe me. Believe me, and everything will be fine.

But somewhere in the depths of her manipulative mind, Sy Snootles felt a cold prickle of fear. Because standing among those shadows, watching everything unfold, was someone else entirely. Someone whose presence made even the air feel heavy.

And when Sy finally turned to look, she understood with sudden, crystalline clarity why even the Jedi stood frozen.

Nyra had arrived.

The monster—the impossible, terrifying creature with wings spread like nightmares given flesh—simply vanished. Not faded. Not retreated. Vanished, as if it had never existed at all, leaving only the acrid smell of something ancient and otherworldly hanging in the stale cemetery air.

Sy's heel caught on Ziro's body, and she stumbled backward, her arms windmilling desperately. She fell hard against his corpse, feeling the terrible warmth still radiating from his cooling skin. A scream caught in her throat—not from fear of the Jedi, not even from the shock of what she'd done, but from something far more primal. Something that spoke to the deepest, most instinctual parts of her consciousness.

What was that thing? her mind shrieked. What in the nine hells WAS that?

Obi-Wan stepped forward, his voice steady and authoritative—the voice of someone accustomed to command, to control. "Come with us," he said, extending his hand. "We'll get you to trial. You'll be protected. The Republic will see that justice is served."

His words were meant to be comforting. They were anything but.

Quinlan Vos, however, was already moving—his hand reaching for his weapon, his eyes ablaze with something darker than mere suspicion. This was a man who could sense deception, who could taste it like copper on his tongue. He knew she was lying. He knew it.

"Wait," he growled, his voice dripping with barely contained rage. "That's not what happened here. I can feel it. The darkness in this place—it's not from Ziro. It's from her. She's—"

"Enough."

That single word hung in the air like a physical force.

Everything stopped. Everything ceased. The wind, the ambient hum of the Jedi's weapons, even the faint, distant sounds of the city beyond the cemetery—all of it seemed to pause, holding its breath in anticipation of what came next.

Where the Night Fury had stood, where that magnificent and terrible beast of shadow and starlight had been, now stood Nyra. The transformation was seamless, absolute. One moment there was a creature of pure cosmic power, and the next stood the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic—tall, elegant, draped in robes that seemed to shimmer with colors that didn't quite exist in the normal spectrum of light.

But her eyes. Her eyes remained the same—burning coals of ancient fury and infinite knowledge. They were the eyes of something that had existed for eons, something that wore the shape of a woman like a comfortable costume but remained fundamentally, essentially other.

Both Obi-Wan and Quinlan stepped back instinctively, their weapons lowering without conscious thought. There was no override command, no logical decision—just the primal recognition that they were in the presence of something far beyond their pay grade, their training, their comprehension.

Nyra approached Sy, her movements deliberate and slow, each step a drum beat of doom. Her lips curved upward in something that might have been a smile if smiles could contain the weight of infinite suffering.

Sy's entire body began to shake. Not from fear of arrest. Not from guilt over her crimes. But from the bone-deep recognition of standing before something that could unmake her with a thought.

"Please," Sy whimpered, her voice barely audible. "Please, I didn't—I was just—"

Nyra crouched down before her, moving with inhuman grace. Her hand—a hand that looked almost normal but carried the weight of something far more sinister—reached out and grasped Sy's snout firmly. Not gently. There was nothing gentle about Supreme Chancellor Nyra.

Sy's scream tore from her throat unbidden, a sound of pure primal anguish. The pain was unlike anything she'd ever experienced—not sharp, not burning, but something far more insidious. It was as if Nyra's touch was reaching past her flesh, past her bone, directly into the core of her being and squeezing.

Make it stop, make it stop, make it STOP, Sy's consciousness babbled incoherently.

But Nyra's claws—and yes, they were claws, barely concealed beneath the illusion of manicured nails—didn't pierce the skin deeply. They didn't draw much blood. They didn't need to. The pain was in the pressure, in the absolute assertion of dominance, in the casual display of power that made it abundantly clear just how easily Nyra could destroy her if she wished.

Then Nyra leaned in close, her breath warm against Sy's ear, and she whispered words that would haunt the murderer until her dying day—and perhaps long after.

"You will die a terrible death," Nyra breathed, her voice containing harmonics that seemed to bypass Sy's ears entirely and speak directly to her soul. "It will be slow. It will be agonizing. And it will be rot that kills you. Decay. Corruption. The inexorable entropy that consumes all things. I will ensure it."

Each word was a curse. Each syllable was a death sentence carved into reality itself.

Sy felt something break inside her—not physically, but spiritually. The certainty of her own doom settled over her like a shroud, absolute and unquestionable.

Nyra released her grip and rose to her full height, her robes swirling around her like living shadow. She hissed softly—a sound that contained nothing remotely human, the ancient growl of something far older and more terrible than any being present could possibly fathom—and stepped back from the crumpled, sobbing form of Sy Snootles.

Obi-Wan and Quinlan remained frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. The sheer presence of her was suffocating, overwhelming.

Then, from the shadows at the far edge of the cemetery, a figure emerged.

Cad Bane stepped out with the casual grace of someone who had been waiting there all along, watching the entire scene unfold with professional interest. His tall, angular frame was silhouetted against the pale cemetery light, and his face bore an expression of supreme boredom—the expression of someone who had seen far too much violence to be impressed by displays of power, no matter how magnificent.

His reptilian eyes, sharp and predatory beneath his wide-brimmed hat, swept across the scene: the Jedi, frozen and terrified; the Supreme Chancellor, still radiating barely-contained cosmic fury; and Sy, broken and sobbing on the ground beside her victim.

"Well," Cad Bane said, his voice dry as starship dust, "that was almost interesting."

He pulled out a small device, checking it with meticulous care, his movements unhurried and deliberate. "Looks like the job here is done. The girl got what she came for, and the Hutt got what was coming to him."

Obi-Wan's mind raced, struggling to comprehend what was happening. Cad Bane. Bounty hunter. Assassin. One of the most dangerous individuals in the galaxy. And he was simply walking into this scene as if he had every right to be here.

Nyra turned her head slowly toward the bounty hunter, her ancient eyes studying him with something that might have been curiosity—or something far more predatory.

"Bane," she said, her voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "You are not part of this."

 Bane snorted—a sound of genuine amusement that echoed across the silent cemetery. His long fingers adjusted the brim of his hat with deliberate casualness, a gesture meant to convey absolute indifference to the lethal threat before him.

"Oh, aren't I, sweetheart?" he drawled, his voice dripping with the confidence of someone who had stared down death so many times that fear had become a foreign concept. "I think you knew that I would come after Ziro as well. After all, the Hutts wanted their precious holodirary back. Credits are credits, Chancellor, and business is business."

He took a slow step forward, his movements casual despite the palpable tension crackling through the air like electricity before a storm. His eyes—those predatory, reptilian eyes—remained fixed on Nyra with an intensity that suggested he understood exactly what she was, and he simply did not care.

"Now I see that my mission was done for me," he continued, gesturing with one long-fingered hand toward Ziro's corpse. "And while I hate it—I truly despise it when someone else does my work—I will never get in your way again, Chancellor. That I promise you."

He tipped his hat in a gesture of mock deference, a show of respect that somehow managed to be both sincere and deeply insulting all at once.

Nyra's eyes flared with something ancient and terrible. Her hand moved with the speed of thought itself, and suddenly a lightsaber materialized in her grip—not ignited through any mechanical process, but simply there, as if it had always existed in her hand and reality was only now catching up to that fact.

The blade hummed to life with an otherworldly sound, and its color was wrong. Not blue, not green, not red—something that existed between those colors, something that seemed to shift and flow like liquid starlight. The weapon pointed directly at Cad Bane's chest, and the temperature around it seemed to drop precipitously.

"Then leave," Nyra snarled, and her voice contained the fury of a storm, the rage of a being who had been ancient before civilizations rose and fell.

The word was not a suggestion. It was not a request. It was an absolute command, backed by the weight of divine authority and the clear promise of annihilation if it was disobeyed.

Obi-Wan felt his breath catch in his throat. He had never seen Nyra like this—never witnessed the Supreme Chancellor shed her carefully maintained veneer of civility and reveal the raw, primal power that lurked beneath. And the fact that she was directing this fury at Cad Bane, not at them, was somehow more terrifying than if she had turned it upon the Jedi themselves.

Quinlan's hand had moved instinctively to his weapon, but his body remained frozen, locked in place by the sheer force of Nyra's presence. This is not our fight, some part of his force-sensitive consciousness whispered urgently. This is between beings far beyond our comprehension. If we interfere, we die.

Sy continued to sob, huddled against Ziro's body, apparently too broken by Nyra's curse to even comprehend the new threat emerging before her.

And Cad Bane—the legendary bounty hunter who had outrun Jedi, outsmarted crime lords, and survived encounters that should have left him dead a dozen times over—simply stood there, regarding the lightsaber pointed at his heart with the same expression of casual boredom he might have worn if someone had offered him a drink he didn't particularly want.

"You know, Chancellor," he said slowly, his voice taking on a contemplative tone, "I do appreciate the warning. Not many people bother with those anymore."

He began to back away, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers.

"I'm going. No trouble. No resistance. Just Cad Bane, taking his leave as requested by the Supreme Chancellor herself."

His hand drifted toward his own weapon—not in threat, but simply to show that he was armed and making no move to draw.

Smart man, Obi-Wan thought, a grudging respect blooming in his chest. He understands exactly what she is, and he has the wisdom to know when he is outmatched.

The shot came without warning—a sudden burst of plasma energy that cut through the cemetery air like a vicious curse. Cad Bane's finger had moved with the speed of a striking serpent, his blaster already drawn before Nyra could react.

But she did react.

Her lightsaber swept up with impossible speed, intercepting the bolt mid-flight. The plasma energy ricocheted wildly, sent careening off course by the sheer force of her parry. And then it found a target—not Bane, but the one person left vulnerable in that moment.

Sy Snootles' scream tore through the cemetery as the bolt struck her, sending her crumpling to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. Her body convulsed once, twice, then went still. She had escaped Nyra's curse only to fall victim to betrayal by the very man she'd counted on.

Ironic, some distant part of Sy's consciousness might have noted, if she'd still been conscious enough to think anything at all.

But Nyra didn't spare her a glance. Didn't even acknowledge that Sy existed anymore. Her entire being had become focused—laser-concentrated—on one singular target: Cad Bane.

She leaped forward with the grace of something that had hunted across countless worlds and infinite lifetimes. Her form seemed to blur, to shift, as if the boundaries between her humanoid shape and her true Night Fury nature were becoming dangerously thin.

Cad Bane yelped—an actual, genuine sound of alarm—as the Supreme Chancellor came at him like a force of nature. His professional composure cracked, just for an instant, revealing the raw fear beneath his carefully maintained facade.

"Stop!" Obi-Wan called out desperately, his hand raised in a placating gesture. "Chancellor, please! We can—we can handle this!"

His words fell into the void, unheard and unheeded.

Quinlan Vos, with a heavy sigh that spoke of exhaustion and resignation, grabbed Sy's broken body and began hauling her away from the immediate conflict zone. This is not a fight we can win, his expression seemed to say. This is not a fight we should even witness.

Bane was on the defensive now, his earlier confidence evaporating like morning dew under a desert sun. His blaster barked repeatedly, shots coming fast and furious, but Nyra's lightsaber met each one with contemptuous ease. She wasn't even breathing hard.

"Hah, you're better than I thought, princess," Bane breathed between ragged pants, his voice carrying a note of genuine admiration despite the mortal danger he was in. Sweat beaded on his blue skin as he retreated, his eyes wide with the dawning realization that he had made a catastrophic mistake.

Nyra swung her lightsaber in a vicious arc aimed at his shoulder. Bane barely managed to duck, feeling the heat from the blade as it passed mere millimeters from his skin. The acrid smell of singed clothing and flesh filled his nostrils.

She's toying with me, he realized with ice-cold clarity. She could have killed me a dozen times over. She's just playing.

He turned and ran—abandoning all pretense of combat, abandoning all dignity—sprinting toward his ship with the desperation of a man who suddenly understood what it meant to face something truly divine and furious.

Nyra pursued, her steps measured and confident. She wasn't running away from something; she was chasing it for sport. The distinction was important.

They burst into the cockpit of Bane's ship in a tangle of movement. His fingers flew across the controls with practiced efficiency, years of quick escapes serving him well. The engines roared to life, the landing struts retracted, and the ship lifted off with a surge of acceleration that should have thrown both combatants to the floor.

Nyra didn't even stumble.

She stood in the cockpit of Bane's vessel, watching as he pushed the controls to their absolute limits. The ship soared upward, away from the cemetery, away from the Jedi, away from the Supreme Chancellor who had decided, in that moment, that he was beneath her continued attention.

With a gesture so casual it might have been dismissive, Nyra allowed him to escape. The ship punched through the atmosphere and was gone, leaving only the fading trails of its thrusters against the darkening sky.

Obi-Wan and Quinlan caught up with their Supreme Chancellor just as she stood at the edge of the landing platform, watching Bane's ship disappear into the stars. Vos still held Sy's corpse, the body limp and broken in his arms.

Nyra turned to face them, and her expression was one of absolute, crystalline disgust. Her eyes—those burning, ancient eyes—fixed on the dead body of Sy Snootles with the contempt one might reserve for something found stuck to the bottom of a shoe.

She wrinkled her nose delicately.

"Burn it," Nyra commanded, her voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Burn it like all traitors deserve. Let there be nothing left but ash and memory. Let no memorial exist for such filth."

She turned away from them both, from Sy's corpse, from the entire scene of carnage and betrayal. Her robes swirled around her as she began walking back toward the Jedi shuttle.

"Come," she said without looking back. "We have much to discuss about the nature of loyalty and the consequences of deception. And Jedi—" she paused at the shuttle's entrance, turning her head just slightly, "—do not make me ask twice."

Behind her, in that silent cemetery under the darkening sky, the body of Sy Snootles lay abandoned, a cautionary tale written in flesh and failure.