It had been a week since you successfully captured Maul, and in that time, a certain rhythm had begun to settle into your life. The usual chaos of courtly affairs was punctuated by a growing — and undeniably persistent — presence. Obi-Wan Kenobi and Qui-Gon Jinn, the Jedi duo, had become an almost expected part of your routine. Their visits, at first a curiosity, had now taken on a certain predictability. Whether it was Obi-Wan's quiet, calculating gaze or Qui-Gon's presence that filled the room with calm authority, they had become fixtures in your world, like two planets orbiting too close to the gravitational pull of your schemes.

This particular visit, however, was different. The air in your private chamber seemed thick with unspoken things as you sat across from Qui-Gon Jinn. A steaming cup of tea, the delicate porcelain almost out of place in the tension between you two, sat untouched on the table. Qui-Gon had always carried a sense of quiet wisdom about him, the kind that could both comfort and unsettle, and today was no different. He was lost in thought, his eyes distant as if reflecting on something far beyond the room, far beyond the events of this planet.

The conversation, as it so often did when the Jedi came calling, eventually turned to Maul. You had expected it, but the weight of the topic still hung between you, thick and undeniable.

"Maul," Qui-Gon began, his voice low and measured, "always had a peculiar way of handling danger." His gaze met yours, eyes filled with that quiet sorrow that often accompanied discussions about the darker side of the Force. "Even in the face of what should have been his downfall, he tried to appear... nonchalant."

You let out a soft sigh, swirling the tea in your cup as you studied the reflection in the liquid. The memories of Maul, bound and defiant in your chambers, came rushing back. The way he had glared at you, a sneer curling around his lips as though he were the one in control, even when he was reduced to a mere pawn in your game. Nonchalant didn't even begin to cover it.

"He was always like that," you mused aloud, leaning back slightly in your chair. "Even when I had him at my mercy, there was a strange calmness to him, almost as if he were above it all. He had that look in his eyes, didn't he? Like nothing truly affected him, no matter the chains around his wrists, no matter the consequences. It was like he knew the game would continue, and he would be a part of it somehow."

Qui-Gon nodded, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of his tea cup, the faintest glint of understanding flickering in his gaze. "Yes. That's exactly what I saw as well. He wore that nonchalance like armor, and beneath it, there was always something darker, something more dangerous. A presence of threat so thick that even those of us who've spent our lives navigating conflict felt it."

You met his gaze, a slight frown forming on your face. "And that's what worries me most. The way he plays with danger. The way he invites it. He was going to kill those children, Qui-Gon. The ones under my protection. And yet, he tried to downplay it. He made it sound so... casual, like it was just another part of his twisted 'lesson.' It's unnerving."

Qui-Gon's expression softened, though his voice remained grave. "I've encountered Maul before, in less direct circumstances. He has always been a dangerous individual, but it's not just his actions that make him so formidable. It's the way he sees everything. The calm he maintains, even in the face of committing an atrocity. That's the true danger — the lack of hesitation, the complete absence of remorse. It's as if, to him, all of this is just another calculation. He doesn't act because he has to. He acts because it's all a game to him."

A game. That's what Maul had always made things seem like. A game, a puzzle, a twisted riddle that only he understood. And you had been caught up in it, willingly or not. The children, your people, the very stability of your rule — none of it had mattered to Maul. Only the thrill of manipulating and toying with it all.

You looked down at your tea, the reflection of your face rippling across the surface. "I thought... I thought I understood him," you said quietly, as though speaking to yourself more than to Qui-Gon. "I thought I could anticipate his next move. But this... this is different. It's not about power for him, is it? It's about something deeper. Something more unsettling."

Qui-Gon's steady gaze never left you. "It's not about power alone, no. It's about control. And not just control over others, but control over himself. He's a man who thrives on being the one who decides the outcome, no matter the cost. And in that, he's more dangerous than any mere weapon."

You sat in silence for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. Maul's entire being had been a carefully constructed façade, a performance, and you had fallen for it. At least, that's how it felt now. A chill crawled down your spine as you realized that the man you had once tried to understand was not someone who could be reasoned with.

"Do you think he'll ever change?" you asked, the question lingering in the air like smoke, fragile and uncertain.

Qui-Gon considered this for a long moment. "Change?" His voice softened, almost regretfully. "Some individuals, like Maul, are shaped by the darkness they embrace. For him, change would require something more than redemption. It would require a willingness to confront the very thing that makes him what he is. And from what I've seen... I'm not certain he's capable of that."

A shiver ran down your spine. Not capable of change. That was a terrifying thought. Maul, trapped in his own prison of arrogance and rage, had no intention of ever walking a different path. He had already chosen his way.

And you? You would have to decide what to do with him now.

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"You know," Maul's voice sliced through the silence of the prison cell with a smooth, unnerving calm, "I thought you hated your queen." His eyes flickered over to Dyarou, who stood a few feet away, her back straight as an arrow, her posture as tense as the air around them. She was watching him intently, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction, but that didn't stop Maul from pushing further.

He stirred his cup of tea with exaggerated leisure, the delicate clink of the spoon against the porcelain almost mocking in the stillness of the room. The faint scent of chamomile — a far cry from the malice that hung in the air between them — drifted upward, mingling with the tension.

Dyarou didn't flinch. She didn't look away either. She simply met his gaze, her eyes unwavering, the only movement in her body a slight tightening of her jaw. "I never hated Y/N, nor will I ever," she replied firmly, each word dropping like a hammer onto the stone floor. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in her voice. She was steadfast, her loyalty a rock in a sea of chaos.

Maul hummed thoughtfully, the dark sound of his voice rolling through the space like distant thunder. "Yes," he said, swirling his tea slowly, as though contemplating something far beyond the walls of his confinement. "You Jedi are quite unpredictable, if I say so myself." His words were both a comment and a jab, as if he were trying to piece together the strange puzzle of loyalty and restraint that seemed to define Dyarou's every move.

Dyarou's gaze darkened, her hand tightening around the hilt of her sword, the edges of her resolve beginning to crack. "I'm no Jedi, you scum!" she snapped, her voice a fierce, sharp crescendo that shattered the quiet. Without warning, she slammed her sword against the cold metal bars of Maul's cell with a resounding clang that rattled through the chamber, echoing off the stone walls like a warning shot. The sound reverberated, filling the room with an electric charge of anger and defiance.

Maul flinched, just enough to show that her words had landed. A flicker of surprise passed across his face, but only for the briefest moment. He recovered quickly, maintaining his usual composure, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at her. The only visible sign of the impact was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"You're more volatile than I expected," he mused, his voice laced with amusement despite the tension in the room. "But I suppose that's to be expected from someone who thinks they can stand against me."

Dyarou stood her ground, her eyes flashing with fire as she clenched her fist around the hilt of her blade. "I've stood against worse than you," she said, her voice low and dangerous, a quiet promise of the battle to come. "You're just another enemy to face. And trust me, Maul, you're nothing special."

Maul leaned back slightly, the faintest curl of a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. He was enjoying this — too much, it seemed. The tension between them crackled, sharp enough to cut through the air. He knew exactly what buttons to press, how to provoke, how to watch them squirm.

"You're right," Maul said with a smirk, his gaze never leaving Dyarou's, "I'm nothing special. But you, little Jedi-turned-guard, are quite interesting. Perhaps I'll find a way to make you see the truth in all this."

The words hung in the air like poison, thick and sticky. And for a moment, the room seemed to shrink as the weight of his challenge settled over them. Maul had always played a long game, and he wasn't about to stop now. But Dyarou? She stood tall, unshaken, her resolve as unyielding as ever.

"You'll never break me," she said, her voice cold and final.

Maul's smile widened, a dangerous, knowing curve of his lips. "We'll see, won't we?"