Last Westgard Standing
He never believed it would come to this, but Coruscant was lost.
The Galactic Alliance had fought with unwavering resolve against the barbaric invaders, but in the end, their sheer numbers and brutal tactics proved too much. The Senate fell first. The Jedi Temple was among the last.
When the enemy breached the Temple's ancient walls, chaos swept through its sacred halls. Jedi and soldiers fought side by side, only to be cut down in waves. The floors ran slick with the aftermath of their desperate stand. Survival came by luck, skill, or sheer stubbornness. Silas was one of the few who escaped, slipping into the lesser-known tunnels beneath the Temple. But the tunnels only went so far. Eventually, they were forced back into the open, into a city that was now a warzone, swarming with Imperial forces.
By the time Silas emerged on the surface, he was alone.
Exhausted, battered, and bleeding, he limped through the smoke-stained alleyways of the ruined city. A scorched wound on his side pulsed with every heartbeat, a raw reminder of the blaster bolt that had nearly killed him. Gritting his teeth, he pushed forward, each step an act of will as the last traces of adrenaline drained away. Up ahead, a high-rise towered over the broken skyline. Its facade was torn apart by bombardment, chunks of duracrete missing, windows shattered, but it looked abandoned. More importantly, it offered cover. Shelter. A moment to breathe.
Silas scanned the streets, then slipped through a half-jammed entrance door. The lobby was a mess of shattered glass and collapsed ceiling panels, but he'd seen worse. Groaning, he dragged himself to the stairwell. The lift was useless, if the entrance doors didn't work, the mechanics behind the elevator surely didn't. With a grim nod to no one but himself, he began the slow, agonizing climb.
The building must've once housed luxury apartments, fifty floors of wealth and comfort. Now, "luxury" was just a memory. Some units had been torn open entirely. Others stood like hollow shells of forgotten lives. But Silas didn't care. He just needed a door that closed and a few feet of floor to collapse on.
He stopped on the 18th floor. That was far enough.
Panting, he staggered down the corridor until he found a door left slightly ajar. Whoever had lived here had fled in a hurry—belongings still scattered in place. Silas slipped inside, wincing as pain lanced through him. The apartment was quiet, dusty, but intact. He limped to the window and looked out across the smoking ruins of Coruscant. The Jedi Temple was still burning, black smoke coiling into the sky. His heart twisted. The Temple had been more than stone, more than a symbol. It had been home.
Silas exhaled a slow, broken breath and slid down the wall until he was seated on the floor. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to grieve. But there was no time for that. The knight had to survive. Wincing, he peeled off his jacket and placed a trembling hand over the scorched wound on his side. His breath hitched, and he closed his eyes, trying to still the storm within.
Then, reaching out with the Force, he sent a message into the void, thin, quiet, but unmistakable.
"If anyone's out there... 18th floor, Room 86... Moonlight Projects."
A pause. A flicker of hope.
"A Jedi still breathes."
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