Sword of Shiraya
Lorn caught the last of the freed slaves stumbling from the mangled hatch. He steadied a Twi'lek woman, then shoved her toward safety.
A deep metallic groan tore through the bay. The shuttle gave out completely, lurching forward. It slammed nose-first into the deck and erupted in a fireball. A heavy wave of heat crawled over his back. He turned, cloak whipping in the blast, and guided the refugees farther from the wreck. Smoke rolled upward, staining the ceiling black.
Dozens of slaves clustered together, still shackled in pairs. Lorn moved through them, cutting the binds one by one. The golden blade flashed quick and clean. Chains fell to the floor with dull clangs. When the last of them was free, Lorn exhaled, scanning their faces. They were exhausted and bruised, but alive.
Elias approached, his own strength clearly drained. Lorn spoke quietly. "Most of them look healthy enough. They'll need food, water, and time."
He paused, watching Elias a moment longer, a faint smile crossing his tired face. "What you did back there, holding that shuttle…"
Lorn shook his head, his tone caught somewhere between awe and gratitude. "I've seen Jedi Masters lose focus under less strain. I can't imagine the sheer will it took to keep that ship grounded."
He clasped Elias' shoulder, the gesture steady and sincere. "Thank you. I couldn't have done this without you."
