The jungle greeted them with its usual symphony—buzzing wings, chittering leaves, the deep creak of old trees shifting in the wind. But something felt different now.
Or maybe it was just Toren.
He moved on autopilot, navigating the undergrowth with quiet precision, but his thoughts were still in the vault. On the emblem. On the map. On the truth.
Star Wars.
It wasn't a metaphor. Not a "close approximation" or a "coincidental setting." That was the Republic insignia. The chart was the galaxy. He was in that universe.
And suddenly, his plans—his entire trajectory—needed to shift.
Not abandon his village. Not scrap the kingdom. But reframe everything. Rebuild not just a settlement, but a bastion—something strong enough to stand when the tides of galactic politics inevitably reached this planet's edge.
Behind him, Mira spoke. "You're quiet."
"I'm thinking."
"You always think. This is different."
Toren slowed. "You're not wrong."
They reached the village perimeter just as the light began to drain from the sky. Smoke rose from dinner fires. Someone banged a cooking pot in rhythm—calling in the younger kids. The faint smell of roasted root stew drifted through the clearing.
Mira stopped him before he stepped back into the main path.
"You're not telling me everything."
Toren met her eyes. "I'm not."
"You're going to tell me eventually, right?"
"…Yeah."
"Promise?"
He hesitated.
"Eventually," he said.
She frowned. Not angry. Not suspicious. Just… disappointed.
"Don't leave me behind, Vale."
"I wouldn't."
"You could."
"I won't."
Mira studied him a moment longer, then nodded and walked ahead.
Toren watched her go. Watched the flickering lights of the village houses. Watched the stars beginning to appear above the canopy—slowly, faintly.
And then, finally, he looked up and whispered:
"I need more than a kingdom."
Above him, the stars said nothing.
But they were listening.