The Jedi moved cautiously through the shattered remains of the Great House Alde palace, each step a reminder of the grim reality that had overtaken this once-proud estate. The grandeur that had defined the palace in its prime was gone, buried beneath layers of dust and destruction. Walls that had once gleamed with opulence now sagged under the weight of decay, cracked and marred by blaster fire. Chandeliers that had illuminated lavish banquets hung broken, their crystal shards scattered across the floor like fallen stars. The air was thick with the stench of scorched metal and something far worse—an unmistakable scent of death.
The Jedi felt the weight of history pressing in on him, but he pushed forward, driven by a sense of urgency that rippled through the Force like a silent scream. There was still something here, a flicker of life hidden beneath the heavy veil of carnage and despair. He could feel it, faint but present, and it pulled him deeper into the palace.
As he turned a corner, the full scale of the slaughter came into view. The grand entryway, once a symbol of noble grandeur, had become a grotesque scene of death. Bodies of nobles lay scattered in twisted poses, their fine silks and embroidered garments drenched in blood, which had long since dried to a dull brown. The elegance of their attire stood in macabre contrast to the violence of their deaths—jewels still clung to lifeless throats, while once-pristine gloves were stained red. Faces were frozen in expressions of sheer terror, their last moments caught in an eternal, silent scream.
The guards of House Alde, once the proud defenders of the estate, had fallen where they stood, their ceremonial armor offering little protection against the onslaught. Some lay with their weapons still in hand, as though they had fought to their last breath, while others had been torn apart by brutal forces that even now remained unknown. Blaster wounds riddled their bodies, and the air was thick with the scent of burnt flesh and smoldering cloth. Aleraanian banners, once symbols of honor, now hung in tatters, torn down and trampled beneath the bloodied boots of those who had stormed the palace.
Servants, too, had not been spared. Their bodies were littered among the nobles and guards, caught in the chaos as they tried to flee. Many still clutched the tools of their trade—trays of food now overturned, goblets shattered on the floor, and plates of unfinished meals left in a grotesque mockery of a feast. A child's toy, a small wooden soldier, lay abandoned in the wreckage, a poignant reminder of the lives lost in the brutality that had swept through the estate.
As he moved through the devastation, the Jedi’s eyes were drawn to the droids, once silent sentinels of the palace, now reduced to heaps of twisted metal. Their mechanical limbs were tangled in the chaos, some still sparking faintly, others broken beyond recognition. Their glowing optics had long since flickered out, leaving behind only the charred remnants of what had been a desperate and failed defense. The ballroom, once a stage for the nobles' opulent dances, had become a slaughterhouse.
The Jedi reached out further with the Force, focusing on that small flicker of life he had sensed earlier. It was faint, but still present—a fragile thread in the vastness of the destruction. He followed the sensation deeper into the ruins, his mind clearing of all but the need to find the source.
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The trail of violence led him toward the ballroom. There, amidst the shattered grandeur of chandeliers and broken glass, lay the aftermath of what could only have been the final stand. The walls were scorched, bearing the marks of energy weapons and chaotic combat. Blood was everywhere, streaking across the marble floors in violent arcs, the grotesque remains of the nobles and their guards sprawled where they had fallen.
In the center of it all, crumpled and unmoving, lay a boy. He was small, no more than five years old, his frame fragile and slight. His fine clothes, the garments of a noble child, were torn and stained with blood—both his own and that of others who had tried to protect him. The child was unconscious, his face streaked with grime and sweat, his small chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Yet even in his state, the Jedi could feel it—an undeniable presence in the Force, flickering weakly like a dying ember.
Kneeling beside the boy, the Jedi reached out, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. A faint pulse of energy rippled through the contact, and he knew without question that the child was Force-sensitive. But more than that, he was alone, surrounded by the echoes of a nightmare that would haunt him for years to come.
The boy did not stir as the Jedi lifted him into his arms, carrying him out of the ruined ballroom. His body was light, fragile, as if the weight of the destruction around him had drained the life from his bones. The Jedi cradled him protectively, his mind already spinning through the possibilities of what could have caused such devastation and why the child had been spared when all others had perished.
As the Jedi emerged from the palace, the night air was cool, a sharp contrast to the oppressive heat and the stench of death inside. His shuttle sat waiting, its sleek, dark hull a stark reminder that the galaxy beyond this place still existed—cold, indifferent, and unforgiving. With practiced care, the Jedi laid the boy down in the shuttle’s rear compartment, strapping him in securely. The child remained unconscious, his face peaceful but pale, the only signs of life the faint rise and fall of his chest.
After ensuring the boy’s safety, the Jedi stepped back outside. A small contingent of local guards and police had arrived, their expressions grim as they surveyed the scene. They exchanged wary glances with one another, their training insufficient for the scale of horror that awaited them inside the palace.
“Jedi,” one of the guards called out, relief and tension mixing in his voice. “Is there anyone left? Anyone alive?”
The Jedi took a moment before replying. “I found a boy. A noble. No more than five years old. He’s alive, but unconscious. He is sensitive to the Force, though deeply traumatized. Beyond him, the palace is a tomb. Everyone else—nobles, guards, servants—has been slaughtered. The attackers were merciless.”
The words hung heavy in the air, the realization sinking in as the guards looked toward the palace, their expressions darkening. The lead officer, a seasoned veteran with a weathered face, stepped forward. “What should we expect inside? What did this?”
The Jedi turned, his gaze lingering on the ruined palace. “Expect the worst. The ballroom is where the fiercest fighting took place. You’ll find the remains of the nobles there, along with their guards and staff. Some of the droids may still be operational, their programming likely compromised. Be cautious. The attackers were brutal, and the droids could still pose a threat.”
“Droids?” another officer asked, his voice tinged with apprehension.
“Yes,” the Jedi confirmed. “They were meant to defend the palace, but many have been destroyed or corrupted. I wouldn’t trust any that remain active.”
The guards shared uneasy glances but nodded, bracing themselves for the grim task ahead.
“We’ll sweep the area,” the lead officer said. “Establish a perimeter. And the boy?”
“He’s safe with me,” the Jedi replied, his voice firm. “I’ll keep him secure until he wakes. He may be the only one who can tell us what happened here.”
With a final nod, the guards moved toward the palace, their boots crunching over the debris. The Jedi turned back to the shuttle, climbing inside to sit beside the unconscious boy. He checked the child’s vitals once more, reassured by the faint but steady rhythm of his breathing.
The boy remained still, locked in a deep, unconscious state, unaware of the chaos that had surrounded him. The Jedi settled beside him, his thoughts heavy with unanswered questions, his mind already reaching out into the Force, searching for guidance.