The Senate chamber still echoed with the last shouts of the debate—accusations, pleas, the metallic scrape of chairs—when Padmé Amidala slipped out through a side door, her white cloak trailing like a surrender flag. Anakin and Ahsoka were already waiting in the shadowed corridor, the young Togruta's arms folded tight, Anakin leaning against a pillar with that half-smirk he wore when he was pretending everything was fine.

Padmé didn't waste time. "Anakin, please. Talk to the Council. Convince them to ask the Chancellor to block any further escalation. This war is eating the Republic alive."

Anakin's smirk faded. He glanced away, jaw tight. She still thinks words will fix this. "Padmé, the Separatists aren't going to negotiate just because we ask nicely. They've got Dooku, Grievous—"

"Exactly," Ahsoka cut in, eyes bright with the certainty only seventeen-year-olds can afford. "They're monsters. Why give them the satisfaction of thinking we're scared?"

Padmé's heart sank. She looked at Ahsoka—really looked—and saw the same fire that had once burned in her own chest, before years of watching good people die for bad reasons had tempered it into something colder. "Because the alternative is watching more good people die for nothing," she said softly. "Someone has to try."

Anakin opened his mouth, probably to argue, when the air in the corridor changed.

It always did when Nyra was near.

A hush fell first, like the galaxy itself paused to listen. Then came the scent—ozone and ancient smoke, the kind that remembered stars being born. Finally the sound: the slow, deliberate pad of claws on marble, each step a heartbeat the entire building felt.

Supreme Chancellor Nyra turned the corner, and the world narrowed to her.

She was enormous and impossible and beautiful in the way a supernova is beautiful—equal parts wonder and terror. Scales of molten obsidian shot through with veins of liquid starlight shifted over a serpentine body that somehow still moved with aristocratic grace. Wings folded tight against her back like a cape of night sky. Golden eyes, slitted and ancient, swept the hallway and lingered—always lingered—on each of them in turn.

Anakin straightened unconsciously. Ahsoka's lekku twitched. Padmé felt her breath catch in her throat the way it always did, like her lungs had forgotten their job the moment those eyes found hers.

Force help her, she's magnificent, Padmé thought, the same helpless refrain every sentient in the building had thought at least once. Why does she have to be so... everything?

Nyra lowered her great head until she was eye-level with Padmé—close enough that Padmé could feel the warmth radiating off her like a furnace. When she spoke, her voice was velvet over distant thunder.

"The deregulation bill will pass tomorrow," she murmured, just for Padmé. "More clones. More credits. Exactly what you didn't want."

Padmé's stomach dropped. "You knew. You could have stopped it—"

A low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated in Padmé's bones. "My sweet idealist. Some fires must burn so the forest can grow back stronger." One massive claw—tipped with obsidian that could have shredded durasteel—rose with impossible gentleness and patted Padmé's head, the way one might comfort a favorite tooka-cat. "You'll get your negotiation eventually. After they're desperate enough to listen."

Then Nyra straightened, already turning away, wings rustling like silk banners.

Anakin found his voice first. "Chancellor—wait. Could you... talk to Ahsoka? She's got it into her head that sneaking off to Raxus with Senator Amidala is a good idea. Last time she pulled something like this, we nearly lost half a fleet."

Ahsoka's pleading look could have melted beskar. "Master Nyra, please. If anyone can make the Separatists listen, it's Padmé. I just want to keep her safe."

Nyra paused. Turned back. Those golden eyes fixed on Ahsoka, and something dangerously fond flickered in them.

Oh no, Anakin thought, recognizing the look. She's going to say yes. She always says yes when they look at her like that.

Nyra's tail curled in what might have been amusement. "Very well, little Soka. I will accompany you both to Raxus."

Ahsoka's jaw dropped. Padmé made a small, strangled sound. Anakin threw his hands in the air.

"You—You're the Supreme Chancellor!" he sputtered. "You can't just—there are protocols—security—"

Nyra's laugh rolled through the corridor like summer thunder. "Protocols are for people who don't breathe fire, Skywalker." She dipped her head conspiratorially to Ahsoka. "Besides, I've always wanted to see what Dooku does when a dragon lands in his front garden."

Anakin pinched the bridge of his nose, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him—twitching upward into a reluctant grin. Kriffing dragon. How does she do this to us?

Padmé, still recovering from the head-pat (her hair was probably ruined and she didn't care), managed, "Chancellor... thank you."

Nyra's eyes softened—just for her. "Nyra, Senator. When we're conspiring to upend galactic diplomacy together, I think we're past titles."

Then she was moving again, that impossible grace carrying her away, leaving the three of them staring after her like acolytes who'd just been blessed by a goddess who happened to have wings.

Ahsoka whispered, reverent, "Did she just... agree to be our bodyguard?"

Anakin exhaled, half-laugh, half-groan. "We're all going to die. But at least it'll be spectacular."

Padmé touched the spot on her head where claws that could level cities had petted her like a child, and despite everything—despite the war, the coming vote, the dread pooling in her stomach—she smiled.

Because when Nyra decided something was going to happen, the galaxy tended to listen.

And right now, Nyra had decided to go to Raxus.

Force help Count Dooku.

The cloaked shuttle slipped through Raxus's hazy atmosphere like a shadow, engines humming low to evade the Separatist patrols. Padmé adjusted her hood, the coarse fabric chafing against her skin—a far cry from the silks of Coruscant. Beside her, Ahsoka fidgeted, her montrals twitching under a makeshift cowl, lightsabers hidden but ready. Nyra... well, Nyra didn't bother with disguises. How could she? A dragon the size of a gunship wasn't exactly subtle. She'd flown ahead—or rather, above—promising to join them once they'd cleared the initial droid checkpoints.

Why did I think this was a good idea? Padmé wondered, her heart pounding as the shuttle touched down in a secluded ravine outside the capital city. Negotiating with Separatists. On their home turf. With a Jedi Padawan who looks ready to ignite her sabers at the first whiff of betrayal.

Ahsoka's eyes narrowed at the landscape: towering spires of scrap metal and discarded starships, a junkyard world that screamed "enemy territory." "I don't like this, Senator. These people chose to side with Dooku. What makes you think they'll listen?"

Padmé placed a gentle hand on her arm. "Because not everyone who leaves is a monster, Ahsoka. Some just see a different path."

A figure emerged from the shadows—Mina Bonteri, the Separatist senator, her elegant robes a stark contrast to the industrial decay around her. She moved with the poise of someone who'd traded diplomacy for defiance, flanked by a pair of protocol droids that scanned the area nervously.

"Senator Amidala," Mina said, her voice warm but edged with caution as she extended a hand. "It's been too long. I must admit, I didn't expect you'd actually come."

Padmé clasped her hand firmly, a genuine smile breaking through. "Mina. Thank you for arranging this. If we can find common ground—"

Ahsoka snorted softly, arms crossed, her blue eyes flicking to the droids like they were personal insults. Common ground? With traitors? she thought, her Force senses prickling. Master Skywalker would say blast first, ask questions later.

Before the tension could thicken, a teenage boy stepped forward—Lux Bonteri, Mina's son, his face boyish but his eyes sharp, carrying the weight of someone who'd grown up too fast in wartime. He offered Ahsoka a tentative smile, bowing slightly. "Welcome to Raxus. I'm Lux. If there's anything I can do to make your stay... less uncomfortable?"

Ahsoka's lekku stiffened. She forced a nod, but her words came out clipped. "Thanks, but I'm just here to make sure this doesn't turn into a trap."

Lux blinked, taken aback, but recovered with a chuckle. "Fair enough. We've got plenty of those around here—droid patrols, mostly."

Mina shot her son a fond but warning glance before gesturing to a hidden path. "Come. We've bypassed the main controls, but we must hurry. My home isn't far."

As they wove through the scrap labyrinth, smuggling themselves past whirring B1 droids that clanked obliviously by, the group fell into an uneasy silence. Padmé exchanged quiet words with Mina about old Senate days, but Ahsoka trailed behind, hand hovering near her hip, Lux glancing back at her with what might have been curiosity—or sympathy.

Then, the sky darkened.

A massive shadow eclipsed the twin suns of Raxus, and a gust of wind whipped through the ravine, carrying that familiar scent of ozone and embers. The humans—and Togruta—looked up, necks craning, mouths agape.

Nyra descended like a comet wrapped in night, her wings unfurling with a thunderous snap that echoed off the metal spires. She landed with earth-shaking grace, claws digging furrows into the duracrete, her scales shimmering as if she'd swallowed a nebula. Golden eyes swept over them, and the air hummed with her presence—powerful, ancient, intoxicating.

There she is, Padmé thought, her breath catching again. Like a force of nature decided to play politics. How does she make even landing look like destiny?

Ahsoka's distrust melted into awe, her eyes widening. Master Nyra... she's here. Of course she's here. Who else could turn a war zone into their personal runway?

Even Lux stared, jaw slack, as if he'd just witnessed a myth come alive. Mina, ever the diplomat, recovered first—she dropped into a deep bow, her voice reverent. "Supreme Chancellor Nyra. Your presence honors us beyond words. Please, follow me to our home. It's secure, and we can speak freely there."

Nyra inclined her massive head, a rumble of approval vibrating through the ground. "Lead on, Senator Bonteri. I've always admired your courage—standing against the tide."

As they moved—Nyra's steps careful to avoid crushing anything vital—the group trailed her like pilgrims following a deity. At the Bonteri estate, a modest but fortified villa nestled among recycled spires, they gathered in a sunlit atrium. Mina poured tea with steady hands, though her eyes kept drifting to Nyra, who coiled her tail neatly and settled like a living statue.

"Some of us in the Separatist Parliament," Mina began patiently, her gaze steady on Padmé and Ahsoka, "had valid reasons for leaving the Republic. Corruption, endless bureaucracy, favoritism toward the Core worlds... it wasn't all Dooku's doing." She paused, her voice softening. "I lost my husband to this war a year ago, on Aargonar. A senseless battle, like so many."

Padmé's expression softened with empathy. "I'm so sorry, Mina. Clovis was a good man."

Ahsoka shifted uncomfortably, her earlier fire dimming. Lost her husband? Like so many Jedi have lost friends. But... is that reason enough to betray everything?

Nyra's golden eyes flickered with something ancient—memory, perhaps sorrow. She lowered her head, voice a deep, resonant murmur that filled the room like incense. "I remember that fight well, Senator. The sands of Aargonar ran red that day. I did what I could—diverted fleets, brokered ceasefires—but war is a hungry beast. It claims mortal lives as surely as the stars claim dust. That's the circle of life, ever turning. We mourn, we learn, we press on."

Mina bowed her head again, tears glistening unshed. "Your wisdom is a balm, Chancellor. If only more in the Senate shared it."

Lux nodded fervently, stealing glances at Nyra as if committing her every scale to memory. She's... incredible. Like the dragons in the old stories Mom used to tell. But real. And here.

Ahsoka found herself nodding too, despite everything. War claims lives. Yeah. But with her around, maybe we can change the circle.

Padmé leaned forward, seizing the moment. "Then let's talk peace, Mina. Before more are lost."

As the conversation deepened, Nyra watched over them all, her presence a silent promise: whatever came next, the galaxy would bend to her will. Or burn trying.

The sun dipped low over Raxus's jagged horizon, painting the garden in hues of rusted amber and bruised violet—a patchwork of salvaged greenery amid the scrap-metal spires, where vines clung defiantly to twisted durasteel beams and exotic flowers bloomed in defiance of the planet's industrial rot. It was a quiet oasis, far from the hum of droid patrols or the tense negotiations unfolding inside the Bonteri villa. Here, Chancellor Nyra reclined like a guardian statue come to life, her massive form coiled elegantly on a bed of imported moss, wings half-unfurled to catch the fading light. Scales gleamed with an inner fire, casting prismatic shadows that danced like living art. The air around her thrummed with that subtle power, a gravitational pull that made even the wind seem to whisper her name.

How does she do it? Lux  wondered as he approached, a steaming cup of herbal tea balanced carefully in his hands. His heart raced—not from fear, though any sane person might quake before a dragon who could swallow starfighters whole—but from that inexplicable awe that gripped everyone in her orbit. She's like the stories my father told: ancient, wise, untouchable. But here she is, in our garden, as if the galaxy revolves around her. Maybe it does.

Nyra's golden eyes flicked toward him, slitted pupils dilating slightly in what might have been curiosity or amusement. She didn't move at first, simply watched as the young human navigated the uneven path, his steps tentative yet determined.

"Chancellor Nyra," Lux said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his chest. He extended the cup, the porcelain dwarfed in his palms like a fragile offering to a deity. "I thought... you might like some tea. It's from the highlands of Onderon—calming, they say. For after all the talking."

A low rumble emanated from her throat, a sound that could have been a purr or the distant roll of thunder. With exquisite gentleness—claws that had likely rent worlds asunder curling delicately—she reached out and plucked the cup from his hands. Her touch was warm, almost electric, brushing his fingers for the briefest moment. "Thank you, young Bonteri," she murmured, her voice a velvet caress that wrapped around his soul. "Such hospitality in troubled times... it's a rare gift."

Lux felt a flush creep up his neck, his eyes locked on hers. She thanked me. Me. Like I'm someone important. He watched, mesmerized, as she lifted the cup to her maw—impossibly precise, not a drop spilled—and sipped. The steam curled around her nostrils like incense at an altar.

Emboldened, he cleared his throat. "Would... would you consider staying here a while longer? To oversee the next Separatist Senate meeting? Your presence—it could change everything. Bridge the divide, maybe."

Nyra set the cup down with a soft clink on a nearby stone, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. She tilted her head, wings rustling like silk in the breeze. "My place is in the Republic, Lux. Among my people—the ones who stand with the light I guard. Humans who chose differently... they are not mine to claim. The Separatists elected their path, their leader. They must follow him, if that is their will. I do not meddle in the affairs of those who turn away."

Lux blinked, stunned, his mouth falling open slightly. The words hit like a blaster bolt—casual, unyielding, from a being who seemed to embody the galaxy's fate. She doesn't care? But she's the Chancellor. The dragon who could end this with a breath. "Do... do you care about the war at all?" he asked, voice cracking with disbelief. "The lives lost, the worlds burning—does any of it matter to you?"

Nyra's gaze held his, ancient and unflinching, a golden abyss that pulled him in. For a moment, the garden seemed to hold its breath—the flowers stilling, the wind dying. Then, simply, softly: "No."

The word hung in the air like a verdict, echoing in Lux's mind. No? How can she say that? But look at her—eternal, beyond our petty conflicts. Maybe that's why we need her. Why I can't look away. He stood there, cup forgotten, lost in the enigma of her, as the shadows lengthened and the first stars peeked through the haze, wondering if the dragon's indifference was cruelty... or the ultimate mercy.