The field was silent.
Val was gone—vanished into the trees in the moments after the pulse faded, her blade deactivated, her movements sure despite the limp.
No one stopped her.
No one moved.
Toren stood alone in the circle, every breath scraping the inside of his chest. Mira's eyes stayed locked on his, fierce and unflinching, but no longer furious.
Just waiting.
The villagers dispersed slowly, casting glances like broken questions. A few murmured. Some just stared. Jakel lingered, then left without a word.
Only Mira remained.
She stepped down from the walkway.
"Talk," she said.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then began.
He told her everything.
About waking up with another life's memories.
About the system, the missions, the blueprints that came not from research but from algorithms and probabilities he never created. About the Force—how he hadn't earned it, hadn't asked for it. About the holocron. The upgrade tree. The voice of the long-dead Jedi.
He didn't dramatize.
Didn't minimize.
Just spoke.
Mira didn't interrupt.
When he finished, the silence between them felt like a hallway without an end.
She walked forward, slowly.
Then jabbed a finger into his chest.
"You're an idiot."
Toren blinked.
"You could've told me. We could've figured it out. Instead you let it eat you alone."
He tried to speak. She cut him off.
"But you're our idiot. And now we know."
She stepped back.
"We choose what happens next. Not the system. Not her. Us."
And just like that—he wasn't alone.