There are only so many ways I can describe a "horrible battle with saddening losses" and "the devastation that comes with war" in a sentence. It's why I'm so reluctant to keep writing this.

Currently, Toshi Fumin is out somewhere with Master Sakehn, fighting a good fight. All of my friends are fighting a good fight in various ways, from delivering battle droids to the intended audience to punching messages in their Temple faces. Or is that the other way around? Punching droids and delivering messages to the Temple. No, I got it right the first time.

But back to my point: two standard days have passed since we shined the crystals of Christophsis and ran errands for a Hutt—the latter of which I've yet to come to terms with. The leaders of Christophsis are, of course, disheartened by the ravages of war, and I'm sure I've heard at least one of them name us as a known perpetrator, however involuntary we were. Ah, the politicians who flee first and foremost from the fray. And the moron who put too much faith in them.

But that's neither here nor there. I could berate myself more and more, but anything that could be said has already stung my head and heart. Verily, rethinking is required.

In these last two days, I've reassessed some of my observations regarding my most recent cohorts of calamity. Anakin Skywalker, the flyer; Obi-Wan Kenobi, the weary; and Ahsoka Tano, the other one. We'll start with the easiest one.

I had assumed at some point by her attitude that she was mostly action and a spitfire. Of course, this made things more interesting. Perhaps this was too on the nose, but I couldn't help but feel that Aayla Secura's influence was at work here. Perhaps she's a fan of Aayla Secura, the same way I'm a fan of Zayne Carrick. Ahsoka Tano is probably working toward becoming this image. I mean, not to be crass, but… You know what, I'd better quit while I'm ahead.

Ahsoka Tano has a good head on her shoulders. Her mouth and brain work at almost the exact same speed. Further studies may determine which is faster. And one thing that surprised me was that she keeps a journal. And she sends these thoughts to a friend of hers: a weird thing to do, but whatever. The point is she's not the living battering ram of a friend I call Anise or the anomaly called Guilo'Mar. She might be her own flavor of balance.

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"Excuse me?"

"Ah!" Zakriahs jumps and sees Ahsoka Tano, hands behind her back and looking inquisitively at the once-hunched boy furiously typing away on his pad, now resembling a wide-eyed feline with its hair straight up. Ahsoka flinches in surprise, brows raised slightly.

"You okay?" She asked bemusedly at the panting teen, clutching the pad to his chest.

"I…" Zakriahs said, breathing, "I don't know."

Ahsoka laughed, "Are you having a heart attack?"

Zakriahs eyes her, "If I was, it would be your fault." And points a withering finger at her, "When they find out what I did, they'll hunt you down."

"Don't you mean when they find out what I did?"

Zakriahs' eye twitched, "Shut up,"

Ahsoka chuckled lightly and seated herself on the opposite meditation seat.

"So, whatcha writing?" She asked, a hand supporting her cheek.

"My memoirs."

Ahsoka stared for a moment before she started laughing. After her interaction with him on Christophsis, Ahsoka felt she had a good handle on this Padawan. He stared at her with impassive patience, that face of Jedi Master makes when they're expecting childish humor to pass.

Ahsoka said through dying chuckles, "R-really?"

"Yeah."

Ahsoka's stomach dropped, "Wow."

"Well," Zakriahs said quickly, "this is actually my diary. But, you know, realistically, they're now my memoirs."

"That…is still kinda sad."

Zakriahs' face fell, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No, no! It's my fault for asking."

"No, I could have put it lightly."

"Well, I guess."

They were both silent for a moment. Zakriahs looked down at his boots, and Ahsoka looked at the wall. They looked at each other, allowing the other to speak. Neither took the invitation until Zakriahs let out a groan and fell backward to hit his head on the floor. Ahsoka jumped with this and watched as he sat straight back up and placed a palm over his face.

"...Are you okay?"

"No," Zakriahs said, "this is a mess." He placed the datapad down and began to pace, "I'm supposed to be the Circus Boy! Not the undertaker. But if I'm so dour as to spread such a foul mood over my compatriots, then I can't call myself the party's light anymore, can I?"

Ahsoka watched as the boy spun in a new direction with every emphasis of his words. His flamboyant movements became quicker and sharper until he collapsed on the floor like a puppet cut from his synth-strings like an actor from a holo-drama, the back of his hand over his forehead.

"This is a sign," He stood up, "of things to come. It's the end of an era when Zakriahs Asher can't smile like a sun."

Ahsoka raised her brows and pursed her lips. Finally, the name Zakriahs Asher struck a chord.

"Wait a minute," she snapped her fingers, "aren't you the one who trashed the Jedi refectory?"

Zakriahs' face fell again, "Why is that the thing everyone remembers me for?" He grasped his curly hair, "Seriously, I'm a bundle of talents and treasures ready to try his hand at life! But no! It's always the Refectory!" he pouted, "There's already a few gardens in there, some piles of dirt shouldn't be so shocking."

Ahsoka snorted, "Those weren't 'some piles.' They were more like mountains! How did you even do that?"

"For the record," Zakriahs jabbed a finger, "I tried to stop it. But I took the blame for a few friends. Because I'm a nice person."

Ahsoka's brows did not lower. Zakriahs sagged.

He sighed, "Such is the life of fame. Or infamy, depending on who you ask." He sighed again, more dramatically, "And back then, the most exciting thing about me was that I was born from a circus."

Ahsoka blinked, "Wait, really?"

"Yeah," Zakriahs answered, too nonchalantly.

"A circus?"

Zakriahs hopped on his meditation chair, locked his green eyes with her blue ones, and steepled his fingers.

"Not just any circus. The Apollaiyo Circus. The greatest circus the galaxy's ever known!"

It was that twinkle in his eye that made her doubt his words, yet she didn't outright laugh. During his little spiel, Ahsoka stretched out with the Force to discern any truth. She sensed feelings of nostalgia and whimsey, evident from his tone and far-away expression. Yet, she also felt an underlying sense of grief and loss. These emotions pique her interest, and she tilts her head inquisitively.

She sees satisfaction in Zakriahs' blue eyes, and he puffs himself up in a way that makes Ahsoka feel like she's about to wilt. When suddenly, Zakriahs hesitates. He looks to his right, then blinks and shakes his head.

"How about you?" He asks, "Do you know where you're from?"

Ahsoka thinks for a second, seeing no harm in the question.

"Shilli," She answers, "but I don't remember it too well. Mainly flashes in dreams, I hear two voices; maybe they're my parents, but I'm not sure."

Zakriahs nods pleasantly, "That's about what I expect."

"Really?" Ahsoka asks, not rudely but skeptically.

Zakriahs nods and appears to flounder for words: "You'll find many Padawans can't quite remember their past life, or their 'Never-livings' as I call them."

Something in his tone and the strange combination of words took Ahsoka back. Zakriahs Asher spoke not with condescension nor pity but with an airy tone of straightforwardness. In Ahsoka's mind, she imagined this was the tone of someone recounting nostalgia that didn't belong to him, but he had a right to do so.

It was kind of amusing. "Never-livings?" the Togruta girl tested this non-word.

"Never living with your parents." Zakriahs said, "Never living on your ground in bare feet. Never living with the eyes of the distant and the drive." He shrugged, "I could go on."

Ahsoka was silent for a moment. Zakriahs was silent for a moment. The boy began to worry.

"That was poetic." She said.

Zakriahs blinked, "You think so?"

She nodded.

Zakriahs creased his brow and shrugged, "It could be nonsense." He snorted, "I mean, none of that even rhymes!"

Ahsoka blurted a series of stutters before she, too, chuckled at the absurdity. Zakriahs merely observed her and ran his mind through what kind of person could laugh at something like that. He would let his mind decide and check his work later.

"That's dumb," She shook her head, "so— oh, right! I just remembered. They want us in the training room."

Zakriahs blinked, "They do?" then frowned, "Well, maybe you should have told me first and foremost before launching into a ridiculous tangent of balderdash."

He slapped his knee, bounced up from his seat, and marched toward his door, sparing her a disparaging look of exasperation. Ahsoka watched him with a slacked jaw, slowly morphing into a curl of offense. It was when the door slid open that he spun around and showed an upturned brow with his lips quirked that she understood.

She shook her head, got up, and let out a chuckle that sounded dangerous to Zakriahs' ears. Like the sound a branch makes when it won't support your weight—the sound of a very, very real threat.

"You," she said, pushing him out the doorway, "better hope they don't have us spar."

Successfully wiping the smarminess from his now pale face, Ahsoka turned around and hummed a disjointed tune. Zakriahs, torn between returning to his room and staging sickness, followed her.

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Zakriahs stood in the center of the training room, observed by Master Tera Sinube, the old Cerean Jedi Master, Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, Padawan Ahsoka Tano, the faces of recent memory. The faces of Padawan Barriss Offee and her Master Luminara Unduli, the Mirialan duo, Zakriahs bowed an exaggerated bow so his hair could touch his boots, and they rolled their eyes.

I shouldn't hold it against the girl; her Master dictates these pleasantries.

Zakriahs enjoys shocked faces, Ahsoka and Obi-Wan's especially. The only one missing was Anakin Skywalker, for reasons that eluded him. The only one he could do without was Master Mace "Stone-wall" Windu, for reasons that honed in on him like a great dragon. Zakriahs flinched at his gaze, then paused.

Master Windu follows his gaze; he's already sensed who's behind him and only does so for a polite, respectful nod. She is a faded yellow-skinned woman with hair that resembles the roots of a chestnut tree and yellowish-green eyes that have seen much and understand more. There's no need for someone like her to have a bright skin hue when her smile says all. Zakriahs, who takes in as much as he can in the span of two seconds, ignores these traits—even her noseless face. He feels no need to add or take away, merely a sense of totality.

As far as he sees, he sees a patient, understanding smile that places her hand on Mace Windu's shoulder, to which he relents his concentrated countenance and merely observes. Zakriahs doesn't realize he's standing straighter now. He feels as though his breath runs as serenely as though it could be pure. But he doesn't notice. He only smiles and nods.

Master T'ra Saa nods back.

Now, Zakriahs is bowing. To their audience. To his opponent. And Ahsoka Tano, assuming her back-hand Shienn stance, grins.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

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Ahsoka Tano lost. It was a sad thing, losing to me. But that's how it happened.

It must have felt like such a bother to struggle against a superior adversary who moves so fast, she— I may as well have been a comet. But hey, such dedication and resilience to their studies and life teachings are astounding! Can you imagine how humiliating it was to have flunked so miserably in front of everyone you vow a valiant victory? I certainly can't imagine what it feels like to have Master T'ra Saa bear witness to a catastrophic calamity. Not that her opinion matters— well, it does, but in this instance, there's no real need to worry about…anything. Really.

But, if I or anybody else did need a worry, Ahsoka Tano, most likely, would have to double down on everything she's been missing out on. After all, 15 standard years of age, and you're only now deciding you need a war to sharpen and shape your dream! Why, you piteous, parochial pine-pig!

You could do so much better.

After all, there is no ignorance—only knowledge.

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Obi-Wan marched down the halls, following the line of younglings and initiates that became shorter and shorter. Each looked impatient or anxious and held at least five books from the Archives in their hands. A young Zabrak girl struggled to maintain four books that exceeded the width of her arm. The Zabrak's arms gave out, and the books would have hit the floor had not Obi-Wan caught one.

The brown-skinned Zabrak girl watched in awe, her eyes straying from the levitating book and to the kind eyes of the esteemed Jedi Master. His eyes, however, turned stern as he continued, book in hand, to follow the long line of younglings that led to his dorm.

A short Ithorian was ready to hold his books out to the door when Obi-Wan cut through. An Auburn youngling paused from his path out the door and shuffled around Obi-Wan. That's when Zakriahs burst through the doorway and snatched the book from his Master's hands.

The eyes of Zakriahs widened only by a millimeter before they settled back into a distinguished face of business. Obi-Wan had begun to notice a pattern with his Padawan ever since their battle with Ventress. The Sith Assassin had many insults and venomous lashings that Obi-Wan had countered with his verbal defenses. But Zakriahs preferred to take a person's meaning and turn it on its head.

Ventress says she will rip out his tongue. The logical response would be to shrug off this barb and use his own— a classic 'you won't get the chance' sort of ordeal. And Zakriahs tells her, instead, to wash her hands after she's done. Seamlessly adding grim humor to an otherwise terrifying situation.

So, whereas another Padawan would use half-truths to remedy their predicament, become flustered, or freeze in their tracks, Zakriahs said:

"You can do better than this! Fetch me more."

And Zakriahs actually pushed Obi-Wan out of the door frame and shut the door.

Every youngling in line, and a few passing by robed Jedi, gasped or widened their eyes. Obi-Wan stood there, dumbfounded. His expression morphed into the fierce glare that he reserved for danger and Anakin's past misconduct. He stretched out with his senses to gleam into his Padawan's mind and felt something akin to a squirming, freezing sense of dread. When Obi-Wan felt it becoming faint, he smiled.

"Younglings," Obi-Wan said pleasantly, "if you could all please return your books to the Archives. At once."

"But—" said a voice before they all dispersed in defeat under the Master's eye.

The door slid open to reveal what resembled a new civilization built in his humble little room—with books. Towers of books reached the ceiling, and many lined along and aside each other in harmonious order. Even the doorway had two pillars on each side, giving it a grand design. Obi-Wan was torn between feeling irritated and impressed.

"I'm thinking maybe five books a standard day; what do you think?" Zakriahs asked, sitting on his circular seat with five open books surrounding him.

Obi-Wan said nothing. He merely walked with slow, purposeful steps to his own seat.

Zakriahs shook his head, "No, you're right. Five is an odd number. Six is more reasonable."

Obi-Wan said nothing. He only placed two loud steps before his seat.

Zakriahs said, "So, what do you think about my decorations? It's history in motion— with every book I defeat, a century will have passed, and it will make way for our descendants to be tasked with reconstructing and rediscovering our labors!"

Obi-Wan still said nothing. He finally sat with crossed legs on his seat, and Zakriahs turned to him.

"You have a right to speak, Master. Everyone enjoys the luscious sound of your smooth tenor chords."

Obi-Wan still said nothing, and Zakriahs was becoming irritable.

"Really, I don't see why you haven't been featured on a laser-vinyl!" He prodded his Master and complimented his vocal cords, hoping this would placate whatever he'd incurred. Obi-Wan still said nothing, and Zakriahs shrugged.

"But then again, free will. As it will triumph."

Zakriahs continued to study his books. With a wave of his hand, a biography on the great Orion Hawkins flew into his hand. Orion Hawkins was a fascinating Jedi, and Zakriahs felt a smile prickling just from thinking his name—the great bane to the Zygerrian slavers, the compassionate, the seeker of justice. Zakriahs sighed contentedly as he read once again the lines of his duel with the slaver Comdos, sapping the will to fight and enslave and destroy from the other Zygerrians, and Obi-Wan was not speaking.

Zakriahs cleared his throat and pulled another book to him. This time, a chuckle escaped his throat as he read the biography of the controversial Zayne Carrick. Poor, clumsy, brave Zayne Carrick—accused of a heinous crime he did not commit. Spurred on by a desire to prove himself and save his friends and, fighting alongside many individuals, and finding love on the battlefield. Most Jedi try to pretend he doesn't exist, but not even they can deny the underdog tenacity of this outcast-turned-hero. Either it was tenacity or sheer dumb luck.

"But, you see, therein lies a mistake, Master," said Zakriahs to his Master, "many of our kind believe themselves immune to the luck of the common man when, in fact, luck is their word for the Force! Imagine that!"

Not a word from Obi-Wan. Zakriahs grunted and pulled another book to him, this one recently renewed with holo technology. Zakriahs wasn't sure if he liked the holo-book design, but the new translation of these poems could spoil his curiosity.

"I'm sorry for pushing you out," Zakriahs said abruptly. The boy blinked but glimpsed toward his Master. The man had raised a brow, his face unreadable. Zakriahs decided he couldn't ignore the unknown, but if he did, it could be educational, so he tried anyway.

The Adro, a perfect poetic piece to pave the way to a good four hours later!

The mysterious Adro was a collection of poems written by an unknown author about an unknown number of planets. One poem could be about Coruscant and the Mandalorian Wars, the next might be about Theron Shan, or Freedon Nadd's rule of Onderon, or something related to Haruun Kal and their wildlife, or some distant planet he's never heard of. The debate on who, how, when, and what still rages on.

Oh, I need to rework some of these. I could create my own book of flimsiplast, fill it with nonsense, and bury it somewhere. I should make sure I spray it with something that gives it that 'old book' look; it'll really sell it, and he's still looking at me. Okay, this is annoying now.

Zakriahs faced his Master, "I'm not apologizing for this. After all, it's unbecoming of an up-and-coming Jedi to be ignorant; the Force would never take me as its vessel."

Obi-Wan said nothing, but Zakriahs hadn't finished.

"And another thing: I was quite generous to all those younglings. I promised to complete their mundane tasks and studies in exchange for their contributions to my wisdom. And there's more than enough for the two of us, seeing as you're never too old to learn new tricks."

Zakriahs reeled back at his own words.

"I'm not calling you old, though. I mean, you are, but it's nothing to be ashamed of." He paused, "Won't you say something?"

Obi-Wan said nothing.

"You can say anything." Zakriahs said weakly, "You don't even need my permission, just speak."

Another pause.

"C'mon! Please!" Zakriahs dropped the book and got to his knees, "Why won't you speak to me?!"

"Because, Padawan," Obi-Wan smirked, "sometimes less is more."

"What?" Zakriahs said flatly.

Obi-Wan said pointedly, "You would have maintained that demeanor if you hadn't wasted your breath telling me everything."

Zakriahs blinks and says slowly, "So, by running my mouth, I've been," His face scrunched as if tasting the words, "letting you know more than I would rather have you know."

"Even a lie, tall or small, can reveal much to you," Obi-Wan said, nodding.

Zakriahs turned right, then left, his eyes rolled, and his jaw set. He set himself on his knees and said to his Master with a clear, resolved eye:

"It makes sense."

"But," Obi-Wan said, "in time, I will teach you to feel lies through the Force."

"The emotions, yes?"

"That's part of it, yes. You did well in finding out Slick's true intentions." Even though Obi-Wan's tone was mild, Zakriahs did his utmost to associate that as a word and not a name, "You applied logic and reasoning to the situation. This tells me that teaching you Truth-sense will not be so difficult. The Force will allow you to feel a person's true intentions; however, if they believe in a lie, that would become a liability. Thankfully, you have an exceptional memory."

"Oh, I wouldn't say—"

"Zakriahs," said Obi-Wan to silence his apprentice, "it's a fact. I know what you've told Rex." A pause, "I won't judge your decision to ignore the war. Perhaps that wasn't your intention, but that is what you did; not even you can deny that." Another pause, "Perhaps you never intended to join the war, but now you have. Were those mere words you said to Master Yoda, or was it a promise?"

Zakriahs swallowed, "It was a promise."

"And will you go back on your promise?"

Zakriahs breathed, "No, Master, I will not."

Obi-Wan nodded, "You claim you are ignorant, but you will not be ignorant forever. I think you're too proud to do that." And Zakriahs smirked, "You know you need experience as much as wisdom. And perhaps the only way you'll get wisdom," Obi-Wan sighed, almost exasperatedly, "is to have experience."

Zakriahs was silent throughout this exchange. He did not appear bored or impatient, nor did Obi-Wan feel he was speaking to a wall or a restless Reek ready to charge. Zakriahs smiled.

"Yes, my Master." He said and bowed his head.

"Obi-Wan smiled, then shrugged, "That said. I will have you think about your actions."

"What actions?"

"Remember when you pushed me out?"

Zakriahs blinked, "I did? When?" and to his credit, Obi-Wan couldn't tell if he was lying—a strange thing.

Obi-Wan looked upward, "Ten or so minutes go."

"Why did I do that?"

Obi-Wan resisted throwing his hands up, "Because, as I recall, you were busy reading."

Zakriahs' face creased, and he turned around him and gasped. As if noticing the books for the first time, he jumped in alarm.

"This isn't enough!" He declared, pulling Obi-Wan off his seat, "I need wisdom and knowledge! Fetch me their wisdom!" and struggling with his Jedi Master, he manhandled the bearded man and pushed him out again. Obi-Wan stumbled outside and floundered with his words as the door shut on him again.

This time, an indignant anger swelled in Obi-Wan, and he marched back into his room.

"No! Master, wait! Don't deprive me of this! I can't waste this time! This is some kind of sick—"

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Jokes on Obi-Wan. No punishment can deter the swelling wheel within a wheel mind of a dreamer. Zakriahs Asher will conjure and contrive how he pleases. And besides, there was a silver lining. I was in the meditation gardens of the Temple when I finally had a chance to talk to the Jedi Master, who sent me my new set of robes and thank them for it.

"I want to talk to you about you sending my new robes and thank you for it," I said.

"Please you, do they?" Master T'ra Saa asked, briefly looking away from her work on a tree the size of my seat.

"They will do." I said, "That comment about a 'blank slate' was much."

Master T'ra Saa chuckled a faraway sound, "A blank slate is what a blank slate becomes. Resent me for seeing you as golden, do you?"

I chuckled somewhat, "Now, I didn't say that. Perhaps I am saying that you've been sluicing for treasure."

Master T'ra Saa removed the evergreen tree and placed it into a hole by her side. I helped her cover it with the healthy dirt it needed and hoped for the best and looked up at her.

"I sense you have allowed fear to enter your mind." She said softly.

I did not look down, "I have. You once said to me that there is no fear, save that which I allow. And I said to you, in childish defiance, that I would never allow any fear at all. I said these words and a part of me still believes them, but I said them because I did not fully understand your words." I aligned my hands, "I… can't say I understand now, but I think I'm ready to try."

Master Saa smirked, "My old Master has neglected to remind you that Jedi will do or do not."

"No, no, no," I smiled and inhaled the sweet contrasting scent that the meditation room provides. The lapping pools of water and the fish swimming around. The wood from trees and cavernous grottoes collects and fills the right amount of humidity. The air is not tainted with smoke, only herbs and maybe a few decaying plant life that would seep into the soil and nourish and nourish.

"No, no, no," I said again, thankful for her pause, "I have not forgotten. But as long as I am a Padawan, I will try today and do tomorrow. I will always do something tomorrow."

Master Saa hummed, "And if tomorrow never comes? If today decides it will stay where it is, and yesterday will never catch us."

I thought for a moment, "Yesterday is a sad loser."

The Neti laughs, "You are rude, young Zakriahs!"

I shrugged and was half-tempted to respond with something ending with 'old T'ra,' yet something held me back. Maybe that was for the best.

"I saw…much death put there. On the crystal world of Christophsis." I admitted reluctantly. Her face, I observed, became a face combined with feelings of nostalgia and sadness and empathy and resignation. Master T'ra Saa was an old Jedi. She was as old as Master Yoda and could one day outlive him. How many times had a Padawan approached her with these words? How often were they on the scale of this latest cavalcade of crashing stars we call war?

She responded with an answer that seemed to belong to a different question, "But you only remember a few of my words." We walked up the slant of grass to a tall tree, "You've chosen not to be ignorant, I hear. Now, do not ignore this: there is no pain, no death. There is only the moment. A Jedi strikes in the moment, feels it, and knows it."

I nodded, at first somberly, then with something new.

"Can I say, then, that this moment is the greatest moment of my life?"

Master T'ra Saa paused in her stride. She was above me as I had hung back, halfway between the old tree overhead and the young evergreen below us. Her face was blank. Not necessarily serene, but not unreadable. It was like watching a sun decide if it would rise. And I won't lie now and say I didn't feel wary. My breath bated and feet firm, I waited for her answer.

Master T'ra Saa, former Master of Mace Windu, smiled.

"If you want."

I smiled and let out a breath. It wasn't a yes or a no. This is why I loved speaking with Master T'ra Saa: I could be as ambiguous as I wished, and sooner or later, she would understand. It was so difficult to be upfront about certain things, and these certain things didn't need to be forced out with her. Master T'ra Saa was old enough to know how to play with her words.

And that made me glad.

"What kind of tree was that, by the way?" I asked her as we reached the top. I knew it was an evergreen, but that's the extent of my knowledge of this flora—something I would have to correct.

"It's a Veshok tree." She said, looking at the tree-ling, "Native to Mandalore." Her tone turned somber, "The situation on Mandalore escalates still. But with hope, the Veshok can live among friends in our garden."

I nodded ruefully, "Mandalore will not be a yesterday." So much of Mandalore's history has brought it to divide in terror and astonishment, so signs like these are welcome. I'm sure they would disapprove, but what can they do? Except maybe attack us one day out of the blue.

"If I ride these tides, take these floods, I should probably be slucing for the moment." I said.

Master Saa considered my words, then nodded.

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Ryloth.

The epitome of pick your poison.

Perpetual light on one side and perpetual darkness on the other. Arid deserts of unending, searing heat that would make Tatooine blush. Subarctic lands with unforgiving, freezing winds and ghoulish beasts. Sudden heat storms, which could reduce anyone not underground to cinders, were unpredictable and like a strike from a god. Surface water was rare at best and nonexistent at worst, with a few patches of ice water on the night side.

This planet was apocalyptic. It was like the worst nightmare from the mind of someone with a split personality. It shouldn't be, and yet it was. It makes you wonder, would anyone even notice a war?

Shockingly, yes. I would.

For two standard weeks, they had gone without reinforcements. And we were about to change all of that.

I stood alongside my Master on my right, and on my left was Anakin Skywalker, and on his left was Ahsoka Tano.

"You ready for this?" He asked.

I answered honestly but hoped it didn't reveal how humbled I felt.

"I don't know."

And I would need to know soon. Because this ship before us, this gigantic, elongated black ship shaped like a nail in front of Ryloth with its fin-like bridge at its back and aggressive bow shaped like two uneven daggers, was easily the largest ship I've seen writing this. From our distance, it appeared to me as a dwarfed snake creature with a long, flat jaw, but I know for a fact that we were swimming in treacherous waters, so to speak, especially if the rumors were correct because of their General.

"I have a bad feeling about this," I heard Ahsoka say.

"Who doesn't?" I said, trying to work up a smile, "Probably General Grievous."

We were facing General Grievous. Our Venator was getting closer and closer to face our newest challenge.

The Malevolence.