I didn’t know the Millennium Falcon could sound nervous, but that morning it did.

  I had always imagined its engines had a comfortable, worn-in hum, like something old and stubborn refusing to die. But as the tall, handsome, suave form of Lando Calrissian paced the hangar below, the engine vibration rode up the struts differently, a restless tremor that made the air feel unsettled. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was the Force. Or maybe the Falcon had learned to worry about her owner.

  Tionne had said once that machines sometimes borrowed the mood of the beings around them. “Emotional osmosis,” she’d called it. Luke had smiled faintly, like he wanted to disagree but couldn’t.

  ? ? ?

  Now I stood on an upper walkway of the Great Temple hangar, hands around the banister, watching sunlight spill across Lando Calrissian’s cape as he paced between crates like a man trying to outrun something only he could see.

  Kirana Ti stood at my side, arms folded. She looked carved from jungle bark—solid, rooted, calmly assessing. “He’s afraid,” she said simply.

  “Of Luke?” I asked.

  “Of what comes next.”

  Below us, Lando stopped pacing. He looked up toward Luke, who stood beside the Falcon’s lowered ramp, posture straight, face unreadable. They had been talking for the past half an hour. Lando spoke with quick, sharp motions—too sharp for his legendary smooth charm. Luke listened, quiet as an unmoving pool. Then he called over Kyle Katarn and everything… started moving along.

  Toran appeared across the hangar, duffel slung over his shoulder, heading toward Kyle with the determined energy of someone who wanted to pretend nothing unusual was happening. Meral trailed behind Kyp Durron on the other side, listening, nodding, pushing her braid back over her shoulder. Everyone was in motion except me.

  “He wants to do good,” Kirana said. “People rarely understand how much that costs.”

  I wasn’t sure if she meant Lando or Luke.

  Probably both.

  ? ? ?

  The moment I went down the stairs, I could feel the thickness in the air—like the whole hangar held its breath. The closer I got to the center, the clearer the tension felt. Not fear. Not danger. Just… weight. Plans, consequences, responsibility. The sort of things adults carried even when they smiled.

  Lando saw me first. He tried a smile anyway.

  “Well, kid,” he said, “you ever been to Kessel?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Don’t start thinking you’ll enjoy it.”

  “I’m not expecting a vacation.”

  He huffed something like a laugh. It didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s what everyone says the first time.”

  Luke’s gaze flicked toward me — steady, reassuring in a way that didn’t ask anything of me. “Lando was just explaining the situation,” he said. “You should hear it with the others.”

  So I did.

  We gathered near the Falcon’s landing gear, six of us forming a loose circle while Lando cleared his throat and tried to straighten his cape into something that carried more confidence than he currently felt.

  “Here’s the short version,” he began. “Kessel’s always been a hell-hole. Deep mines, convicts who mostly just looked at the wrong person the wrong way being worked to death, darkness, hope nowhere in reach… Until now. I happened to become the new owner, and I want it to be… not what it used to be. Nien Nunb and I have been working on — well, reforms isn’t the right word. More like cleaning up a nightmare with a spoon. Either way, the slaves are free. All ten thousand of them.”

  Meral inhaled quietly.

  Toran frowned. “Ten thousand?”

  “Ten thousand four hundred and sixty-two,” Lando corrected. “And we’ve arranged relocation transport for all of them. Payment, supplies, fresh starts.”

  Kyle’s expression didn’t change much. “That sounds good,” he said cautiously, “so what went wrong?”

  Lando’s shoulders drooped. “The Zann Consortium caught wind of it.”

  Kyp muttered something that didn’t make it past his teeth.

  “Karrde intercepted a few things,” Lando said. “Encrypted chatter—nothing you could take to a New Republic courtroom, but enough to understand what Tyber Zann’s planning. He wants Kessel.”

  “And he plans to get it,” Luke said softly.

  Lando nodded. “By sabotaging the relocation. He’ll hijack the transports, re-enslave the miners, and then leak the story so it looks like it was my plan all along. That would ruin me—and without the revenue or support, I won’t be able to keep the mines safe or free. Zann swoops in, buys Kessel cheap, and takes control.”

  It was surprisingly quiet after he finished. Toran looked down at the floor. Meral pressed her fingers together, thinking. Kyle’s eyes narrowed, already mapping the worst-case angles in his head. Kyp looked like he wanted to punch the nearest wall.

  I didn’t say anything. My stomach felt tight.

  Luke’s voice broke the silence. “The Jedi don’t involve themselves in spice operations,” he said, “but this is not about spice. It’s about the freedom of sentient beings.”

  He turned to us. “We’re going in quietly. Three transport ships. Three pairs.”

  Kyle gave Toran a brief nod. “You’re with me.”

  Meral glanced at Kyp with an expression halfway between resignation and reluctant respect.

  And Kirana placed a firm hand on my shoulder. “You and I,” she said. I wasn’t surprised. But something tight in my chest loosened anyway.

  Luke stepped closer. “Each pair will take on the role of crew replacements. You will observe. Blend in. Prevent the takeover quietly if possible. Lethal force if necessary. Remember, you’ll be dealing with slavers and killers, with many lives on the line.”

  “It won’t be easy. There can be no lightsabers flashing bright in the hangar,” Kyle added dryly. “Which means subtlety, people. Real subtlety.”

  Kyp exhaled sharply. “Great. Subtle. Against killers.”

  Meral nudged him lightly with her elbow. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe you’ll be fine,” he muttered. “I’m one hyperspace jump from reliving my worst memories.”

  She didn’t say anything—but her expression softened, like she understood without needing to.

  Luke moved his gaze from one of us to the next. “Communication between ships will be limited. Use the encrypted channels sparingly. If absolutely necessary… use the Force.”

  He didn’t say more than that. Didn’t need to.

  Because all three of us—me, Toran, Meral—knew exactly what that meant.

  The last mission, during Wetyin’s Colony, had changed something between us. Not just friendship. Not just shared danger. There were strings now—quiet, invisible, taut like harp wires—linking our thoughts when emotions ran high. It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t controlled. But it was there.

  Toran caught my eyes across the group. Just for a heartbeat. A question without words.

  Are you ready?

  I nodded back.

  With you? Always.

  Luke finished the briefing with a simple phrase. No theatrics. No pomp.

  “Lives depend on this. Stay centered. Stay honest. And return home.”

  He said home like it meant something bigger than a temple made of stone.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  ? ? ?

  Luke dismissed us with that quiet sense of finality he had. We stepped out into the warm corridor where light slanted across the stone, and for a moment nobody spoke. Then Kirana glanced at me, at Toran, at Meral, and said, “You three. Armory.”

  No room for debate.

  No softness, either — just the blunt practicality of someone who knew what kind of danger we were walking into.

  The armory wasn’t much: a small chamber carved into ancient stone, racks of training sabers along one wall, pieces of real hilts sealed in transparent cases on the other. It smelled like oil and dust and something faintly metallic — the scent of tools that remembered better days. Kirana keyed the cabinet open, revealing three unfinished hilt assemblies and a tray of basic Adegan crystals, each one dull and unremarkable. Not the kind that sang when you touched them. Not the kind that chose you. Just stones that would ignite if treated properly.

  “These aren’t yours,” she said, handing each of us a crystal.

  “They’re temporary. Don’t get sentimental.”

  We set to work in near silence. Toran bent over his components with a precision I’d only ever seen him use with flight controls. Meral handled hers like someone decoding a memory etched into metal, every gesture deliberate, every screw tightened with a kind of reverence she wasn’t admitting to.

  I felt clumsy by comparison — the hilt pieces heavier than they should’ve been, the crystal cold in my palm. But Kirana crouched beside me once, checking a connection, glancing at my emitter matrix with a grunt of approval. “You don’t need elegance,” she said. “You need functional.” When the three of us activated our blades together, the room filled with three imperfect hums — uneven, slightly unstable, but sharp and real. Real enough.

  They didn’t feel like extensions of our will. They felt like tools. Borrowed ones. But when I held mine, weight balanced just enough, humming faintly in my hand, I understood why Kirana had dragged us here. We weren’t going to Kessel as children with half-trained instincts. We were going armed. Not with symbols. With purpose.

  ? ? ?

  We left at afternoon’s end, the jungles of Yavin turning gold under a low sky. The temple stood in its eternal quiet, vines shifting in the breeze, the air smelling of moss and warm stone. Nien Nunb’s shuttle was waiting for us—plain, functional, more practical than elegant.

  I hoisted my bag and followed Kirana up the ramp. She walked lightly, like someone who trusted her feet more than the metal beneath them.

  Inside, the shuttle smelled faintly of coolant and citrus disinfectant. Three small compartments branched off from the hold—one for each team. Kyle and Toran were already in one of them, discussing the technical schematics projected above the table.

  Kyle glanced up. “Everything ready?”

  Kirana nodded. “We’re set.”

  Toran didn’t look up from the diagram. “Hyperdrive access controls are on a separate panel from the main deck?”

  “Correct,” Kyle said. “And that’s what makes this interesting.”

  Meral stepped in behind us. “Interesting is a bad word.”

  “Interesting,” Kyp countered, “is the exact word.”

  The ship lifted off with a low hum, the jungle falling away beneath us. I felt the shift in gravity as we breached the atmosphere, then the smooth glide into the upper layers. The clouds parted like one long curtain, yellow light spilling over their tops.

  Kirana and I took seats opposite each other in our designated compartment. The walls hummed. The engines steadied. The soft flicker of hyperspace calculations lit the panel beside me.

  “You’re quiet,” Kirana said.

  “You’re not.”

  She smiled faintly. “I’ve learned quiet doesn’t help much if you’re thinking too loudly.”

  I looked down at my hands. “I just keep thinking about them.”

  “The miners?”

  “The people who lived in those tunnels. Ten thousand of them. I can’t imagine carrying that many years of pain in one place.”

  “You will,” Kirana said gently. “Once you set foot there.”

  I didn’t ask what she meant. I already had an idea.

  She crossed one leg over the other, posture relaxing just slightly. “You should prepare yourself. Kessel holds residue from more than bodies and sweat. Suffering lingers. You’ll feel it.”

  “I know.”

  “No. You think you know. That is different.”

  I tried a breath. It didn’t go far enough into my lungs.

  Kirana tilted her head slightly. “What are you fearing?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  She raised a brow. “Try again.”

  I looked up. “I’m afraid of not being enough.”

  The admission felt like ripping open a sealed crate. Kirana didn’t look surprised. “Trainee fear. Very common. Nothing you need to dignify.”

  “That doesn’t help.”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t.” She leaned forward. “But let me ask you something. When you stand in a corridor with blasterfire and explosions and someone you care about three steps away from danger… do you freeze?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re enough.”

  Her voice carried no softness. It didn’t need any. Truth rarely does.

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been keeping.

  We dropped into hyperspace with a familiar lurch, the stars stretching into long, thin light as we punched into the blue-white blur. Everything settled. Everything hummed. Everything felt suspended.

  Across the corridor, I could feel Toran’s presence—quiet, steady, contained but flickering at its edges like he was trying not to think too loudly back. Meral was harder to sense—Kiffar minds kept their shadows tucked in neatly—but I felt the brush of her calm when she steadied herself.

  Kirana reached above her seat, grabbed a small data-slate, and flicked it on. Maps projected in faint light.

  “Study these,” she said. “These are the personnel rosters of the transport company. You’ll need to memorize the crew you’re pretending to be part of. It took time to find a cover for you — a meaningless but plausible backwater world where an Arkanian Offshoot would not be out of place.”

  I slid into focus. “I literally come from one of those. So who am I?”

  “Jeryn Halvek. Junior systems officer. Homeworld: Attahox, but don’t lean on the accent unless you want to confuse everyone. You’re good with power routing and cargo pressure locks. You’re also responsible for cleaning the bridge support consoles, which means you get to be invisible. Make use of that.”

  “And you?”

  “Kirana Selin,” she said. “Shift supervisor. No history. No personality either, if possible.”

  I blinked. “You?”

  She smirked. “I excel at being aggressively forgettable when needed.”

  “You do not.”

  “I can when required. You will see.”

  For a while, we studied our holos. For a while, the hum of hyperspace became the background to my breathing. The images of Kessel hovered in the corner of the display—brown, battered, cratered; a rock that had known too much pain and not enough sun.

  My eyes drifted. Kirana noticed.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “I just…” I hesitated. “I felt something. Toran.”

  She didn’t look surprised. “Of course you did.”

  “He’s worried,” I said quietly. “Not about the mission. About me.”

  Kirana leaned back in her chair. “He cares for you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you care for him?”

  The question was blunt enough to make me look up sharply.

  “Yes,” I said. The truth came out before I’d even thought about it. “I do.”

  Kirana smiled at that—a real smile, not one of her sardonic ones. “Then let that be strength, not distraction.”

  “He’s not a distraction.”

  “No. But you are afraid it could become one.”

  I didn’t answer. She already knew.

  “Listen,” she said. “The Force binds. It doesn’t ask permission. It creates connections that can be frightening, because they matter. But a Jedi doesn’t run from what binds. She learns to listen.”

  “I’m trying,” I murmured.

  “Good.” She tapped her slate closed. “Because on Kessel, you will hear many things. Screaming echoes. Old sorrow. And among all that noise, you’ll need to find the one voice that matters. Yours.”

  I swallowed. “Kiran—”

  A chime interrupted us.

  A soft, pulsing tone from the cockpit.

  Kyle’s voice came through the intercom, low but alert. “All teams. We’re approaching the Kessel corridor. Drop out in fifteen.”

  Kirana stood. “Come.”

  I followed her into the cockpit where Kyle, Toran, Kyp, and Meral were already settling into their positions. The air felt tighter. The stars pulled close.

  “Any trouble?” Kirana asked.

  “Not yet,” Kyle said. “But I’m not planning on trusting that.”

  Kyp barked a laugh. “Same.”

  Meral bent over the navigation panel. “Gravitational shear looks stable. Kessel approach vector clear.”

  “Ten minutes,” Kyle said.

  Toran looked at me over his shoulder. Something in his dark eyes asked a second question.

  You ready?

  The Force carried my answer without words.

  Yes.

  When I’m with you? Yes.

  ? ? ?

  When the shuttle dropped out of hyperspace, it felt like someone had taken the universe, wrung it out, and left the leftover weight sitting on my chest.

  The blue-white tunnel snapped back into a starfield, and Kessel appeared ahead of us—ugly, small, and too heavy for something that size. It hung against the darkness like a wound that hadn’t decided whether to scar over or stay open.

  I’d seen holos. None of them had smelled.

  The first thing that hit me wasn’t the sight. It was the feeling.

  ? ? ?

  Even at a distance, the Force around Kessel felt thick and granular—like breathing in dust instead of air. Old fear stuck in it the way grit lodges in a wound. I had the sensation of standing at the edge of a shaft and knowing it went down further than light could follow.

  I must have tensed, because Kirana’s hand found my shoulder.

  “Breathe,” she said quietly.

  I tried. The air went in, but I had to force it all the way to the bottom of my lungs.

  Narrow lines of traffic winked around Kessel—freighters, administrative transports, a few patrol craft trying to look more official than they probably were. Beyond it, the AWSA belt glimmered faintly, colder and cleaner.

  Meral leaned forward in her seat, studying the sensor readouts. “Docking pattern’s busy,” she said. “Looks like Nunb’s been moving people faster than expected.”

  “Good,” Kyle said. “The sooner they’re off that rock, the better.”

  Kyp’s jaw was tight as he stared out at Kessel. Every line in his face looked carved, like someone had gone in with a scalpel and tried to cut out memories and failed.

  “You okay?” Meral asked him, not loudly.

  “Fine,” he said, without looking away. It was a lie big enough that even the pilot board should’ve picked it up.

  The closer we got, the more intense the feeling became. It wasn’t just the residue of pain. It had… a shape. A downward drag. Every instinct inside me wanted to pull back, turn away, give the place a wide, polite distance.

  Instead, we went in.