Public Ragoon VI (Witch no more)

[Zori Galea]

The winds of Ragoon VI struck colder than she remembered. It wasn't the chill of danger—it was thinner, more distant, like the final exhale of a world that had seen too much war and tried to forget it.


Zori stepped off the transport platform with a slow, deliberate pace, the steel ramp groaning beneath her boots. She kept her chin tucked, shoulders relaxed, and spine straight—not out of pride but necessity. No one here knew the name "Zori Galea." And if they did… they wouldn't find her. That name was buried now, scattered like ash across the stars she had once tried to conquer.


Here, on Ragoon VI, she was Loren Sacher.


Her black dress clung like memory, understated in its silhouette, modest in its design—yet no amount of fabric could truly shield her from the vulnerability of her freedom. Her once-prized armor had not been forged of beskar or phrik, but identity. Now she had none. She wasn't hunted, exactly. Not anymore. But she had nowhere to return to either. She was unanchored. Naked.


The spaceport was quiet—frigid air coiling in from the mountains, snow dusting the worn stone of the landing area, and refugees and travelers making quiet transactions in corners. Droids carried crates, and a few wary children darted between shadows. No stormtroopers. No bounty hunters. Just silence and motion.


And then she saw them.


A cluster of figures in cream and rust-colored robes waited at the far end of the port. Their sashes bore the spiral insignia of the Sisters of Peace, an obscure traveling order that had dedicated itself to tending broken worlds and broken people. They were healers, midwives, scholars. Listeners. Not warriors.


The eldest among them stepped forward, her hood drawn low, but her voice was clear and warm.
"Loren Sacher?" she asked, not demanding—offering.


Zori nodded once. "Yes."


The woman smiled gently, her eyes narrowing with sincerity. "Welcome to Ragoon. You're safe here."


It was a small thing, those few words. But they hit harder than any accusation. Safe. She had not heard the word in years without preparing for betrayal.


Another Sister stepped forward and offered her gloved hand, calloused and worn from decades of care. "If it suits you, we walk to the monastery by foot. It's not far. Time to think. Or not think."


Zori accepted the hand, though the contact made her flinch just slightly. She hadn't been touched in kindness in far too long.


As they moved down the worn path leading toward the snowy hills of Ragoon's western steppes, she felt the cold begin to thaw her mind in strange ways. Her connection to Azis had been severed—burned in the ritual that bartered her chains for a different kind of uncertainty. The dark sorcery she had once clung to like a crown felt more and more like a cage she had willingly decorated. It had never given her peace. Only control. Only pain.


Perhaps she had been wrong. About the galaxy. About others. About herself.


She let her gaze lift toward the pale sun breaking through the clouds. The Sisters walked with quiet grace beside her, not pressing her for answers, not demanding her history. And in that silence, a thought arose—not in defiance, but in discovery:


"What if redemption wasn't something you earned? What if it was something you allowed yourself to begin?"


She didn't know yet. But maybe Ragoon VI would give her space to ask.


For the first time in a long time, Zori—Loren—walked without needing to look over her shoulder.
And the galaxy felt wide again.

 

[Zori Galea]

The journey from the port to the oasis was quiet—quiet in a way that didn't press. The Sisters of Peace didn't try to fill the silence with chatter or ceremony. Their robes whispered with the breeze as they led Loren across a narrow stone trail cut into the cold valley wall, where the snowy peaks began to give way to steam.

The hot springs appeared like something from a dream. Nestled between ancient, cratered rock formations and lightly dusted pines, the waters shimmered with mineral-blue warmth. Veils of mist curled above them, and faint lights—no brighter than fireflies—hovered in the air, illuminating the attendants in muted tones. There were no weapons here. No walls. Just peace, cultivated and intentional.

As they reached the edge of the oasis, one Sister motioned politely. "These waters have restored the minds of many who've carried too much. You are welcome to enter. The attendants will help with anything you need."

Loren nodded, keeping her arms folded tightly across her chest. She didn't move toward the waters just yet. She didn't want to be seen without the armor of fabric. Or lies.

Another Sister, younger, spoke as she knelt near the edge. "Forgive the question, but… do you remember what your peace looked like? Before the fire? Before the names others gave you?" Her voice was kind. Not prying. Just curious.

Loren gave her a tight, noncommittal smile. "Not really."
It wasn't a lie. Not completely.

The Sisters exchanged a glance but said nothing more. They understood refusal better than most.

As they stood to leave, the oldest among them paused. Her voice was low, but her words rang like a bell.

"Even the ones who burn the garden down deserve to lie in the grass again. You don't owe us answers. But you do owe yourself the truth—when you're ready."

And with that, they were gone. Their presence faded into the warm mist, like morning fading into afternoon.

---

Once alone, Zori—still Loren, for now—exhaled and turned toward the small reception booth half tucked under a rock shelf. A droid in soft synth-skin robes waited behind the desk.

She extended her gloved hand and let the tiny scanner read her ident chip, bound to the fake credentials and the encrypted credit line. A moment later, the screen blinked green. The funds had cleared. A favor returned by someone who had once owed her much—and perhaps still did.

"Room Cresh-Two," the droid said gently, handing her a carved bone key with embedded circuitry. "Ocean view. Personal spring access. No registered visitors."

Zori accepted it with a nod and a mumbled, "Thank you."

Inside her private retreat, she found quiet in its purest form. Smooth stone floors, thick furs, soft lighting that mimicked the natural flicker of firelight. A single, wide window overlooked the valley below, where the hot springs caught the fading sun like a mirror.

She dropped her bag, then slowly approached the view.

Snow danced in the far distance. A mist rolled through the cliffs, delicate and indifferent to war, power, or names like Azis.

Zori rested her hand against the glass.

She wasn't free yet. Not in her soul. But here, in this untouched silence, it felt like something was… possible.

A beginning. Maybe. Or at least a place to breathe.

 

[Zori Galea]

The pale light of Ragoon's morning stretched across the stone walls of the chamber, painting them in muted gold. For the first time in months, Zori had slept deeply, her body cocooned in furs, her mind eased by the warmth of the private spring that burbled just beyond her window. The silence was not empty—it was gentle. She could almost imagine a world where silence didn't mean abandonment.

A soft knock drew her from the drifting haze of sleep.

"Room service," came a careful voice from beyond the door.

Zori hesitated, clutching the sheets close around her, then forced herself to stand. She was Loren Sacher here. She had nothing to fear. She opened the door.

A woman in simple attendant's garb stepped inside, carrying a silver tray. On it rested a delicate dish of fruit and soft bread, steam rising from a cup of fragrant tea. Balanced beside it was a single flower—white, thin-petaled, its stem bound in a thread of silk.

"Compliments of the springs, madam," the woman said softly, setting the tray on the low stone table. Her tone was respectful, but not distant. She glanced once at Zori, as though checking to see if she'd even want it.

Zori's throat tightened. Her gaze lingered on the flower, on the absurd gentleness of the gesture. She hadn't been given something so small—so unnecessary—in years. The weight of it broke something inside her.

She stumbled forward, hands trembling, and before she could think, she reached for the attendant, wrapping her arms around her. The tray rattled slightly, but the woman didn't resist.

The tears came hot and sudden. "I can't—I don't know who I am anymore," Zori choked out, her voice muffled against the stranger's shoulder. "I've been everything they told me to be, everything I thought would make me… strong. But it was wrong. It was all wrong. And now I'm… nothing. Just nothing."

Her sobs came raw, tearing at the composure she had so carefully built over years of ritual and command.

The attendant's hands rested lightly on her back. Not restraining. Not pushing away. Just there.

Zori pulled back slightly, her face streaked with tears, eyes desperate. "Please. I need… something. Anything. A connection. Just tell me I'm not alone."

The woman looked at her with the calm patience of one who had seen many broken travelers pass through these rooms. She reached for the flower, pressing it gently into Zori's hand.

"You don't need to be everything today," the attendant whispered. "Just be here. That is enough."

Zori clutched the flower as though it were a lifeline, her shoulders trembling. For the first time, she let herself believe that maybe, in this fragile place carved out of silence and warmth, she could start to rebuild—not the empire she once sought, but herself.

 

[Zori Galea]

Zori sat at the edge of her bed long after the attendant had gone, the untouched tray of food resting nearby. The flower remained in her hand, its fragile stem trembling each time she exhaled. She hadn't let herself cry like that in years, and the aftermath left her hollow but strangely lighter—like the ache after pulling poison from a wound.

The thought of being seen again, of facing others, tightened her chest. And yet… the Sister's words from the day before returned to her: "Even the ones who burn the garden down deserve to lie in the grass again."

She rose slowly, almost afraid the sudden motion might break the fragile balance she'd found. Gathering her dress about her, she left the quiet room behind and walked the narrow path back toward the springs. Steam rose thick in the morning air, clinging to her skin, wrapping her in its soft warmth.

The Sisters were there. Not waiting for her, not watching—but present. A group of them moved among the travelers and pilgrims who had come to soak in the waters. They offered gentle guidance, herbs steeped in clay cups, quiet prayers when asked for.

Zori lingered at the edge of the mist, torn between the urge to flee and the faint pull of something she couldn't quite name. She clutched the flower tighter. Her voice felt broken when she finally forced it past her lips.

"…Sister."

One of the robed women turned, her face hidden by a hood until she stepped close. It was the eldest—the one who had spoken to her yesterday. She studied Zori's trembling figure, but she didn't rush to fill the silence.

Zori's throat worked. "I… don't know how to do this. I don't know how to… talk."

The Sister smiled faintly, not pitying, not proud. Simply kind.
"Then don't talk," she said. "Just sit with us. You can let the silence speak for you until you're ready."

Something inside Zori loosened at that. She didn't need to bare everything, not yet. She could… just be.

She moved forward, lowering herself to the warm stone beside the Sister, the flower still held in her hand. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to be in another's presence without performance, without defense, without demand.

 

[Zori Galea]

At first, Zori only sat with them. The Sisters did not press her with questions, nor did they whisper about who she might be. They told stories instead—softly spoken tales passed among themselves like songs around a campfire.

One Sister recited an old parable about a hunter who sought to capture the moonlight and ended up discovering his own reflection instead. Another spoke of her childhood on a desert world, the way her mother had hidden water in hollowed stones to keep them alive through dry seasons. Each story was simple, but the cadence was soothing, lulling Zori's racing thoughts.

When she kept her eyes down, the Sisters didn't mind. When she offered a small nod or a single word in response, they treated it as if she had given them a gift.

Later, they invited her into a ritual of the springs. No incantations, no sorcery—just bowls of steaming water scented with herbs. Each Sister dipped her hands, then pressed them to her heart, murmuring gratitude for life. When it came to Zori, she hesitated, her fingers trembling above the steam. The Sister beside her leaned close and whispered, "Gratitude does not need to be spoken aloud."

Zori lowered her hands at last, feeling the warmth seep into her palms. For the first time in years, she said nothing, and yet… it felt as if she had spoken volumes.

The shift came quietly a day later. A traveler at the springs—a man with a limp and sunburnt skin—struggled with his pack. One of the Sisters motioned to Zori. "Would you help him? He's too proud to ask us."

Zori froze. Her instinct was to recoil. She wasn't ready to expose herself, not even in this small way. And yet, something in the Sister's eyes—calm, certain—pushed her forward.

She crossed the stones and bent down, fingers working clumsily at the straps of the man's pack. He glanced at her in surprise but said nothing, letting her take the weight. The act was so simple—just easing a burden from another's shoulders—but it shook her. She had spent so long taking, guarding, grasping. To give—without price, without expectation—left her feeling oddly raw.

When she returned to the Sisters, the eldest only smiled. "There. You see? The garden begins to regrow, not from confession, but from care."

Zori looked at her empty hands, then at the steam curling from the waters. Something within her—something long buried—stirred, like a sprout daring to push up through soil.