The Polestar felt like a tomb. It was a vessel of pristine High Republic aesthetics—ivory panels, gold filigree, and an air of quiet, meditative certainty that Revan Shan found increasingly claustrophobic. Following the recovery of Osha Aniseya from the snowy wastes of Carlac, the mood among the Task Force had shifted from urgent concern to a heavy, unspoken tension. Master Sol sat in the center of the common area, his eyes fixed on Osha with a paternal intensity that hovered somewhere between protectiveness and a desperate need for absolution.
Revan, however, was currently in the galley, meticulously organizing his sixty bags of lemon candies by acidity levels.
"You know," Revan said, not looking up as Jecki Lon—Sol's remarkably efficient and terrifyingly literal Padawan—walked in. "Acidity is a spectrum. Much like the Force, or the quality of tavern music in the Outer Rim. Some are sharp and immediate, others linger with a subtle, zesty existential dread."
Jecki blinked her pale eyes, her posture perfect. "Knight Shan, Master Sol has requested your presence on the bridge. We are approaching the Olega system. He wishes to discuss the tactical deployment for the temple visit. Master Torbin has been in a state of silent meditation for over a decade; his security is... absolute."
"Absolute is a very optimistic word, Jecki," Revan replied, popping a particularly sour candy into his mouth. "In my experience, 'absolute' usually means 'we haven't found the exploit yet.' But lead the way. I've always wanted to see a Jedi who's turned himself into a very powerful, very stubborn rock."
The Task Force's Trajectory
The bridge was a hive of quiet activity. Yord Fandar, looking as if he'd spent the entire hyperspace jump starching his robes, was cross-referencing sensor logs. Sol was standing by the primary holoprojector, which displayed the architectural layout of the Jedi Temple on Olega.
"Mae is targeting the four of us," Sol stated, his voice calm but tinged with a shadow only Revan truly understood. "Indara is gone. Torbin is the most vulnerable in his current state, yet the most protected by his Barash Vow. He has not spoken or moved in ten years. A physical barrier of Force energy surrounds him."
"And Mae is currently looking for a way through that barrier that doesn't involve a frontal assault," Revan added, leaning against a bulkhead and crossing his arms. "She's not just a killer, Sol. She's an acolyte. She's being taught to kill without a weapon. To kill the idea of a Jedi."
"A cynical view," Yord remarked, adjusting his belt. "We are the guardians of peace. One rogue assassin cannot kill an idea."
"Oh, Yord," Revan sighed, a flash of the 12th Doctor's weary wit dancing in his eyes. "Ideas are the only things that can be killed. You just have to find the right poison. And speaking of poison, have we considered that Mae might be looking for an alchemical solution to Torbin's Vow? Something to force the 'rock' to crumble?"
Sol looked at Revan, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "You think she will use the town's resources. The apothecaries."
"I think she's already there," Revan said. "And I think we're arriving just in time to watch the second act of a play we don't have the script for. Well, most of us don't."
The Smuggler's Moon Ambition
While the Polestar prepared for the Olega descent, Revan's mind was already light-years away, drifting toward the neon-soaked, filth-encrusted skyline of Nar Shaddaa. In the hidden sub-levels of the Black Pearl, his Kyber-quantum computers were finishing a localized decryption of the Rakatan coordinates he'd recovered on Alaris Prime.
"Cortana," Revan whispered into his gauntlet, stepping into a secluded corner of the bridge. "Status on the 'Personality Core' lead."
"The signature is confirmed, Revan," the AI's voice chimed in his ear. "Grakkus the Hutt's private collection. It is listed in his manifest as 'Ancient Assassin Droid Logic-Gate (Inert).' He acquired it from a scavenger who raided a sub-sector of Malachor V three standard years ago. He keeps it in his primary museum at the top of the Grakkus Tower."
"Grakkus," Revan mused. "The Hutt who loves Jedi artifacts. He's a collector, which makes him much more dangerous than a simple spice-runner. He doesn't want to sell it; he wants to own the history it represents."
"He also has a fondness for gladiatorial combat," Cortana added. "And he is notoriously difficult to 'negotiate' with using standard Jedi mind tricks. His brain is as thick as his hide."
"I don't do 'Standard'," Revan grinned. "I do 'Elaborate and Slightly Ridiculous.' We finish the Olega mission, we drop Osha off with the Task Force, and then we take the Pearl to the Smuggler's Moon. I need HK-47 fully reactivated. If Qimir is moving, I want a droid who doesn't have a moral compass to act as my navigator."
The Descent into Olega
The Polestar broke the atmosphere of Olega, the planet's Mediterranean-like climate a sharp contrast to the cold tension on the ship. The Jedi Temple here was an open-air structure, built into the cliffs overlooking a sprawling, peaceful city.
Revan insisted on taking the Black Pearl down separately, utilizing the Invisible Cloak to ghost the Polestar's landing. He wanted to see the city from the ground up, not the top down.
"Stay with the ship, D6," Revan commanded as the ramp lowered into a quiet alleyway near the Temple district. "And Cortana, keep the ion cannons hot. If I signal a 'Lemon-Alpha,' level the apothecary shop at Grid 4."
"A 'Lemon-Alpha,' Revan?" Cortana's hologram crossed her arms. "You're getting very creative with your distress codes."
"It's a brand, Cortana. Consistency is key."
Revan stepped into the sunlight, his Phrik-weave robes shifting from their deep black to a more neutral, dusty grey to blend with the local populace. He pulled his hood up, masking his youthful face.
He found Sol and the Task Force at the Temple gates. They were already meeting with the local authorities. Osha was standing slightly apart, looking up at the high walls with a mixture of nostalgia and pain.
Revan walked up to her, handing her a fresh bag of lemon candies. "You're doing great, Osha. The first step to unravelling a cover-up is usually standing in the place where the lie feels the heaviest."
Osha took the bag, her fingers trembling slightly. "It's not a lie to them, Revan. They really believe they saved us."
"Belief is a powerful thing," Revan said, his voice dropping into that rhythmic, 11th Doctor cadence. "It can build cathedrals or burn covens. The trick is knowing when the cathedral is built on the ashes."
Suddenly, the Force spiked. It was a sharp, cold needle of intent—the same resonance he had felt on Alaris Prime.
Mae.
She was nearby. Not at the Temple, but in the city below. She was visiting the apothecary. She was looking for the poison to kill a Master who couldn't be touched.
"Sol," Revan called out, his sassy tone replaced by a focused authority. "Stop talking to the guards. The audit is moving to the town square. Mae is looking for the Bunbun solution."
Sol spun around, his hand moving to his lightsaber. "How do you know?"
"I have a very good nose for chemistry," Revan lied, already starting to run toward the city stairs. "And I really, really hate it when act two of the play starts without me!"
The Audit of the Apothecary
The apothecary shop was a cluttered, aromatic space filled with jars of dried flora and bubbling vials. Revan reached it first, his Force Enhance allowing him to move like a blur through the crowded streets.
He didn't burst through the door. He walked in, his hands in his pockets, whistling a jaunty tune.
A man was standing behind the counter—Qimir, wearing his 'bumbling shopkeeper' persona. And standing across from him was a girl with long braids and eyes full of a righteous, burning anger.
Mae Aniseya.
"You know," Revan said, leaning against a shelf of Bantha-root. "I've always found that the best poisons are the ones you don't have to drink. The ones that just... sit in the air and remind you of everything you've done wrong."
Mae spun around, her daggers flying into her hands in a fluid motion. Qimir dropped a jar of herbs, looking properly startled and clumsy.
"Who are you?" Mae hissed. "Another Jedi come to protect the cowards?"
"I'm the Maverick," Revan said, winking at Qimir, who he knew was watching his every move with predatory interest. "And I'm not here to protect anyone. I'm just here to make sure the math adds up. You want Torbin? You want him to wake up? You don't need Bunbun poison, Mae. You need a mirror."
"Get out," Mae snarled, lunging forward.
Revan didn't draw his lightsabers. He utilized Force Stasis on her leading foot, causing her to stumble, then used a localized Force Push to nudge her away from the delicate glassware.
"Rule number two," Revan noted, pulling a candy from his pocket. "Don't fight in an apothecary. It's a logistical nightmare to clean up."
Behind him, Sol and the Task Force burst into the shop.
"Mae!" Sol shouted, his voice full of a decade's worth of grief.
Mae looked from Sol to Revan, her eyes widening as she saw Osha standing in the doorway. The world seemed to stop. The twin bond flared in the Force—a chaotic, weeping resonance that threatened to shatter the room.
Qimir, meanwhile, was slowly backing toward the rear exit, his 'clumsy' movements perfectly calculated to avoid any Jedi's line of sight. Except Revan's.
Revan looked directly at Qimir and offered a small, knowing salute with two fingers. I see you, Smiling Man.
Qimir's smile didn't reach his eyes, but he offered a microscopic nod before vanishing into the shadows of the back room.
The Choice on Olega
The skirmish in the town was brief. Mae was fast, fueled by a decade of Sith-adjacent training, but she was facing a Task Force of High Republic Masters and a Maverick who knew her every move. She escaped into the rooftops, a smoke bomb masking her retreat.
But the damage was done. The peace of Olega was broken. And Master Torbin, sitting in his Barash Vow, was no longer safe.
"We have to protect him," Sol said, his face pale.
"You can't protect someone who wants to leave, Sol," Revan said, deactivating his Beskar-alloy gauntlet's holovid. "Torbin isn't meditating. He's waiting for permission to die. And Mae is the only one who can give it to him."
Sol looked at Revan with a mixture of fear and respect. "You talk as if you've already seen the end of this."
"I've seen the end of a lot of things," Revan said, his voice dropping into the 12th Doctor's weary gravity. "Empires, Republics, friendships. The trick is to make sure the middle bit—the journey—is worth the ending."
He turned back toward the Black Pearl.
"Sol, stay here. Guard the rock. I've got an appointment on Nar Shaddaa. I need a new brain for my 'furniture,' and Grakkus the Hutt doesn't like to be kept waiting."
"Nar Shaddaa?" Sol blinked. "The Council—"
"The Council thinks I'm meditating on the beauty of the Living Force," Revan laughed, walking toward his ship. "Don't ruin the surprise. Try to be nice, Sol. Do good. But never fail to be kind. Even to a girl with daggers."
As the Black Pearl lifted off, its black hull disappearing into the clouds of Olega, Revan looked at the Rakatan shard on the console.
"Next stop, the Smuggler's Moon," he whispered. "D6, get the 'Negotiation' protocols ready. We're going to buy a murderer's soul from a Hutt."