You can’t have them!
Takodama
On the Ground
Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Sariel, Raphael, Jeremiel,REEK
The once-tranquil forests and lakes of Takodana, now scarred by Sith occupation, were patches of Alliance personnel escorting frightened citizens. The streets lay either dark or burning. Much of this was not the Sith, it was of others, others not wanting them to have anything to lay claim to.
After clearing the Sith airfield, Omega Squad set up for evacuation coordination in the ruins of an ancient Jedi waystation. They sent out beacon pulses to the incoming Galactic Alliance 42nd Evac Battalion.
Suddenly—all systems went dark.
In a bit of a panic, Gabriel yelled out:
Systems fried—spectrum’s jammed. We’ve got cloaked perimeter disruptions. They planned for this.
Snipers in the tree lines. We are surrounded.
From all directions, Sith troopers, Sith beasts, and dark-robed acolytes descend. Connel planted his foot on a broken stone column, scanning the horizon.
Fall back. Defensive formation. Don’t break.
They’re fast—but the enemy was faster. Raphael took a glancing saber swipe to the shoulder. Azrael’s detonite packs went off too early—EMP interference.
Connel threw his combat shield, it ricocheted off two troopers before returning. He ignites his shortsaber in reverse grip. Then the pressure
shifted. A quiet hum precedeed it—like the world itself
bracing. Darth Saliss appeared, walking through flame, cloak trailing in the embers, twin red sabers angled low like claws.
Darth Saliss (to Connel):
"Your chaos bought them hours. But I am time reclaimed. My Master sends regards."
Michael grit his teeth:
That’s him. Apprentice to Illicitus. This is his show.
The air thickened. The squad was surrounded. Nowhere to run.
Connel knew what was next and yelled out to the squad:
Form fallback perimeter. You move when I say. Don’t stop for me.
We don’t leave—
Connel normally did not try to command any of them, so when he did, it meant something big.
You don’t stop. Go.
Jeremiel wanted to stay and fight as long as Connel did, but Sariel grabbed him.
Azrael, Come on… don’t question him. He’s doing his job so we can do ours.
In the chaos of crossfire and retreating Omega Squad, Connel faced Saliss in the open, amidst a ruin choked with smoke, stone, and fire.
Saliss moved like liquid rage—dual sabers spinning with pinpoint violence. Connel is a wall of technique—shield absorbing blows when not thrown at and off of Sith attackers, sabers responding in minimalist counters, each movement precise,
like poetry hardened into steel.
The battle was ferocious, Saliss channeling a storm of dark-side hate, projecting illusions of fallen comrades, mimicking Michael Angellus’ voice, his mother
Chrysa Vanagor
. He was a barrage of brutality and power, but he was fighting a losing battle against a Jedi of two disciplines. Connel pressed forward anyway, wounded, grimacing, not to kill—but to end the threat to his team.
At last—Saliss drove both sabers down, Connel caught them in an X block with his own sabers, locked them—and pulled him forward with a headbutt that cracked Saliss’ mask.
Connel just growled:
Your master should’ve come himself.
In one brutal sequence, Connel sidestepped, spun his shortsaber into a reverse strike, and drove it into Saliss’ abdomen. Then he whispered:
Tell him… I’m coming.
And pulled the blade out sideways.
Better yet, I’ll do it myself.
Saliss collapsed, gasping, staring at the forest canopy as it darkens. Connel was leaving, but not before pulling one of his
Throwing Lightknives and jamming it into his chestplate. Not enough to pierce the skin, that deed was done, but so that someone will see it.
Omega Squad regrouped, dragging wounded, detonating charges behind them to halt Sith pursuit. The evac transports broke through the sky above, Alliance banners on their hulls.
Michael then spoke over comms:
[Evac secured. Repeat—Takodana sector safe. Civilians inbound. Get us out.]
Connel staggered toward the ship last—limping, blood on his vambrace, but still standing.
Gabriel went quickly over to Connel to try to hold him up:
That was a Sith apprentice?
”Was.” Illicitus sent a whisper. Now he’s going to hear thunder.
He didn’t regret it. He didn’t waver. He remembered
why he walks the shadows now—because someone must.
Aboard the Alliance medivac transport, high above Takodana. The cabin was dim. Civilians slept in bundled rows. Omega Squad was scattered—some getting patched up, others cleaning weapons in silence.
Connel sat alone in a utility hold just off the main corridor, legs planted, elbows on knees. His helmet rested beside him. His armor is scorched and smeared with ash. His knuckles raw. One lightknife still dangled from his belt, faintly glowing.
He looked down at the blood on his gauntlet—not his own. The door behind him slid open quietly.
Jeremiel just stood there and spoke softly:
Heard he was Illicitus’ apprentice.
Connel didn’t look up.
He was.
A beat.
And now he’s not.
Connel didn’t respond. The silence stretched. Eventually, Jer left him alone.
Connel then closed his eyes.
The sounds of war fade. In his mind’s eye, he saw Takodana before the flames—peaceful, green, teeming with life. And then… the Sith flags, the enslaved, the airfield full of death machines.
He replayed the duel in his head, over and over—not for doubt, but to study it. To
know. Not every Jedi would have done what he did. He knows that. He then opened his eyes and spoke quietly to himself..
This isn’t the path I thought I’d walk. But it’s the one that needed walking.
He ran his fingers along the scorched edge of his shield—once a symbol of defense. Now, it bore gouges from red blades. Once his “safety” from having to use a lightsaber, it was now his “safety” protecting those closest.
I didn’t fall today… I didn’t stray… I stood… and I stopped him.
He thought of Michael, of Sariel’s cold focus, Azrael’s brutal fire, Jeremiel’s quiet strength, Gabriel’s tormented brilliance, Raphael’s grit.
They needed him to hold the line—and he did.
And he’ll do it again. Standing and speaking to himself more firmly.
I’m not the Guardian I was. But I guard just the same.
His gaze hardened. He reached for his helmet and pulled it back on—sealing in the resolve. As the ship hummed through hyperspace, a Shadow watched over it—scarred, silent, and unshakable.
Because the Jedi have peacekeepers.
But sometimes, the galaxy needs a sword drawn in silence.
Aboard a Sith Frigate
Vox Tenebris, Orbiting Takodana amid a brimson ambient glow, rain streaked the observation windows. A silent chamber where light barely touched the dark.
The body of
Darth Saliss lay at the center of the chamber—still armored, pale, blood now blackened against his robes. Sith guards knelt silently, heads bowed. The air smelled of incense, static, and the bitter tang of rage long since burned cold.
Darth Illicitus approached without a word. His cloak whispered against the floor like the edge of a guillotine. No one dared speak.
He knelt before Saliss’ body—
his apprentice, his blade, his creature of shadow. He did not mourn.
But something was wrong.
Pinned to the center of Saliss’ chestplate—just over his heart—is a
single object: a
throwing Lightknife, elegantly crafted. Familiar.
He pulled it free slowly.
Etched into the
hilt in an archaic Aurebesh script—
a phrase that hadn’t been spoken since
Kelada:
"Still standing."
And burned into the blade’s edge, so fine only a Sith could read it in the Force:
"You should have come yourself."
Illicitus studied the blade for several long seconds. Then he stood.
Darth Illicitus (quietly):
“Not a warning. Not a challenge.”
“A promise.”
TAGS
• TAGS
Regular, [Comms], ~Through the Force~,
Thinking
Adean Castor
