Private The Cost of Command

[Iandre Athlea]

The silence of Aurora Station could be suffocating at times. It wasn't the kind of silence that brought peace—it was the heavy, mechanical quiet that came after the alarms stopped, when the echoes of war had nowhere left to go.

Iandre sat alone in the small, dimly lit room the station had assigned her. The soft hum of the ventilation system filled the space, a steady rhythm that only made the emptiness louder. A single datapad lay on the table before her, its display frozen on the after-action report from Artisia. She'd read it a hundred times. It didn't change.

Five names. Five faces she couldn't stop seeing:

Corporal Idren Moss. Private Jharns Daan. Sergeant Kelis Dorn. Medic Oran Pell. Medic Leira Dorn.

They were more than names on a casualty list. They were her people—the Ash Dogs—a division forged from stubbornness and grit, the kind of soldiers who laughed in the face of fire and always went where the fight was thickest. They'd followed her orders without hesitation. And now, they were gone.

Her hands rested flat on the table, fingers tense, as if trying to hold the weight of the datapad down. She could feel the ghosts pressing in around her—the echo of Moss's dry humor, Jharns's restless energy, Oran's quiet steadiness, the Dorn siblings' unwavering teamwork. She'd led them through hell, and they'd trusted her to bring them back.

She hadn't.

"Five gone," she murmured under her breath, the words barely audible in the low light. "And I keep counting them like that makes it easier."

There were no tears. Not anymore. Command had taught her how to grieve quietly, how to hold the line even when it was inside her own chest. But the ache remained—the hollow burn that came when leadership demanded composure while her heart begged for humanity.

Her eyes drifted to the far wall, where a small holoprojector idled dark. The memorial ceremony had already been held. The official words spoken. The honors given. But none of that made the silence any lighter.

"You did your duty," she whispered, voice soft but certain. "And I'll keep doing mine."

It wasn't a promise to herself. It was to them.

She leaned back in her chair, the low light catching the edge of her lightsaber on the table beside the datapad. The weapon was clean, polished—untouched since the battle. But when she looked at it, she saw every choice that had led to this moment. Every command. Every sacrifice.

Iandre drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. The station's quiet hum filled the room again. Somewhere far below, ships came and went, carrying soldiers, supplies, and stories that would one day become more names etched into memorial walls.

But not tonight. Tonight, she allowed herself one quiet hour—to remember, to feel, to mourn in the only way a soldier could. In silence.

Laphisto

 

[Laphisto]

Laphisto's footsteps were nearly silent against the metal flooring as he made his way through the dim corridor of Aurora Station. The lights here flickered at irregular intervals, casting brief glints across his armor as he passed, each reflection cutting through the half-dark like a heartbeat. The air carried that same stillness that haunted the entire station the sterile quiet that came after loss, when the noise of battle had long since faded and only memory lingered.

He stopped outside Iandre's bunk, his gaze lingering on the closed door for a moment. He didn't need the Force to sense what weighed on the other side. He'd seen it during the ceremony the way her expression held steady, the way her eyes didn't. That quiet breaking behind discipline was something he knew far too well.

Drawing a slow breath, he reached up and rapped his knuckles softly against the doorframe three deliberate knocks that echoed faintly down the corridor.

"Iandre?" His voice was calm but edged with that low, grounding tone of command softened by concern. "May I come in?"

He waited there, straight-backed and silent, the faint hum of the station filling the pause between them. His right hand rested loosely against the door, the metal cool beneath his fingers. There was no impatience in his stance, only understanding the kind born from centuries of watching soldiers bear their grief in silence.

If she answered, she would find him as she always did: composed, but with that rare, human weariness beneath it. Whatever words he'd brought weren't orders. They were the kind that came from someone who had seen the cost of leadership, and who had carried far too many names of his own.

Iandre Athlea

 

[Iandre Athlea]

The room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the viewport. Iandre sat at the small table in the corner, her posture still as a sculpture. The datapad in front of her was dark—she hadn't touched it for nearly an hour. Her lightsaber lay beside it, the hilt casting a faint reflection on the polished surface.

When the knock came, her breath caught for a brief moment.

Not in surprise.

In recognition.

"…You may," she answered, her voice low, steady—only steadier than she felt.

The door hissed open. She didn't rise, but she lifted her gaze, meeting Laphisto with a quiet, weary clarity that lacked its usual sharpness. The kind of look only grief could mold into someone who refused to let it break her.

She gestured faintly to the seat across from her.

"I wasn't trying to avoid you," she said softly, folding her hands together atop the table. "I just…needed a moment before the next one came."

Her eyes drifted briefly to the corner of the room, where five small tokens sat atop a folded grey cloth—one for each of her fallen Ash Dogs. Their service tags had been returned to the Order, but these were hers.

Reminders. Promises.

"Idren Moss," she began quietly, naming them with a soldier's ritual precision. "Jharns Daan. Kelis Dorn. Leira Dorn. Oran Pell."

She didn't falter—but her breath did.

"I keep replaying the maps…the reports…the choices I made. Wondering where I could have shifted one order—moved a unit—told them to fall back sooner."

Her hands tightened, knuckles turning pale.

"I know what you'll say. I know what the protocols are. And I know what the battlefield demands."

A long silence. Not cold. Just…tired.

"But I led them."

Her eyes lifted to his again, softer, rawer.

"And they died under my watch. I can carry it, but tonight…it feels heavy."

She didn't ask for comfort—not directly. She never had. But she left the space open, the words unguarded, her posture unresisting. An invitation only someone like Laphisto would understand.

Laphisto

 

[Laphisto]

Laphisto didn't walk to the chair she had indicated.
He moved instead to the seat beside her close enough to be present, but never imposing lowering himself with the slow, deliberate care of someone who understood exactly how fragile a moment like this could be. A breath eased from his chest quiet, almost weary.

"I wish," he began, voice low and steady, "that I could tell you it gets easier." He shook his head slightly, gaze settling on the table rather than her, as if the truth he was about to offer carried its own weight. "But it doesn't. Those doubts you feel the second guesses, the what-ifs they never leave. Not for any commander worth following." His tone wasn't lecturing. It wasn't comforting in the traditional sense, either. It was honest, the kind of truth spoken by someone who had worn grief like armor for centuries.

He turned his head then, meeting her eyes. "And that," he continued, "is what makes you good at this. You feel the weight. You care enough to question your choices. A commander who doesn't? That's the ones who will fail every soldier under there command."

He rested one arm lightly on the table, not touching the datapad, not touching her just anchoring himself to the moment. "But don't let the fear of losing them drown you," he said softly. "Your men… they were professionals. Soldiers born from fire and stubbornness. They gave their lives protecting each other, and the civilians on Artisia. They fought with purpose."

He nodded toward the tokens on the cloth."And they died with honor. Honor they earned because of how you led them." A pause. Long enough for the hum of the ventilation to fill the silence again.Then, more gently: "I've carried names longer than some civilizations have existed. Men and women who trusted me to bring them home. Some I did. Others…" His voice thinned, not breaking, but dimming. "Others became part of the long march behind me."

He straightened slightly, a veteran's poise returning. "You led them well, Iandre. Even if the outcome wasn't what you wanted. The battlefield doesn't care about our intentions only that someone stands when the dust settles." He let the words linger before continuing, quieter now: "It's all right to feel the weight tonight. To sit with their memory. To grieve them."

Then his voice deepened, becoming something steadier something she could lean on if she chose. "But don't ever mistake their deaths as a failure on your part. They followed you into fire because they trusted you. And if they were here now… every one of them would tell you the same thing." His gaze softened, a rare vulnerability threading through his next words. "You did right by them, Iandre."

Iandre Athlea

 

[Iandre Athlea]

For a long moment after he finished speaking, Iandre didn't move. She sat very still beside him, hands folded in her lap, grey eyes lowered not in shame, but in the kind of reflection that only came when words struck true and landed somewhere deep beneath the surface. The soft hum of the ventilation, the faint metallic scent of the station, even the low thrum of passing traffic far outside—none of it pierced the quiet that had settled between them.

When she finally lifted her gaze to him, it was steady but unguarded, the kind of look she rarely allowed anyone to see.

"I know you're right," she said softly, each word deliberate, as if shaped from something heavy but enduring. "I know logically that they chose to stand beside me. That they accepted the risks. That they fought for something bigger than themselves." Her throat worked once in a small, controlled swallow. "But knowing and feeling are never the same thing."

She drew in a slow breath and let it out through her nose, gaze drifting toward the small tokens laid out on the cloth. Idren. Jharns. Kelis. Oran. Leira. Five names that should have returned home. Five voices that should still be among Tarain's Sword—laughing, complaining, sharpening blades, arguing over rations, training recruits. Instead, they lived here, in cold metal chips and memory.

"Every decision I made on Artisia was the best I had in the moment." She didn't try to excuse herself; she gave the truth as it was. "But the moment I felt the bond break with each of them…" Her jaw tightened, but her voice remained even. "It felt like a verdict. Like I'd failed them personally."

She turned slightly toward him, not leaning into his presence, but letting it anchor her all the same. She had always respected Laphisto—his age, his wisdom, his tactical brilliance—but tonight she was seeing the man beneath the legend. The weight he carried. The quiet grief he never advertised. It made something inside her settle.

"You've walked with loss longer than I've been alive," she murmured. "And still you stand. Still, you lead. Still, you teach." A breath. "If that is what all this is meant to shape me toward… then I will bear it. Not just for myself. For them."

She reached out—not to touch his hand, but to rest her fingertips lightly against one of the tokens, tracing the worn edge with quiet reverence.

"I don't want their deaths to harden me," she continued. "I don't want to become the kind of commander who stops seeing the faces behind the helmets." Her gaze rose to meet his fully, and this time there was steel behind the sorrow. "I would rather hurt like this than forget what they gave."

Slowly, she sat back, shoulders straightening—not in defiance of her grief, but in acceptance of it.

"Thank you for sitting with me."
Her tone softened a little, gratitude woven through the controlled cadence. "You didn't have to. And I know you've carried more names than I ever will."

A faint exhale, not quite a sigh.

"But hearing you say I did right by them… it helps."

Her voice stayed level, but her eyes—bright in the dimness—held a quiet, aching sincerity.

"It helps more than you know."

Laphisto