The undercity of Coruscant was a world unto itself — a place where sunlight had never touched and the air reeked of oil, ozone, and a thousand unspoken secrets. Towers of corroded durasteel and ancient piping curved like skeletal remains of forgotten machines. Neon signs flickered in alien dialects overhead, casting dim light on alleyways slick with rainwater and spilled coolant.
Eli Kaen moved through it like a shadow.
The rough-cut cloak he'd pulled from a discarded vendor stall hung heavily around his shoulders, concealing his Temple tunic and lightsaber. The fabric smelled of smoke and spice and old metal, but it gave him anonymity — something more valuable than credits now.
Above, the sky still glowed with the distant flames of the Jedi Temple. That far up, the screams were lost to the wind, but the pain in the Force remained. Faint. Cold. Like a severed limb still twitching with phantom agony.
Clones had already begun fanning into the lower levels, squads in plainclothes or modified armor, slipping through the criminal zones with practiced menace. Anyone moving too fast or looking too clean was a target. Jedi were ghosts now — hunted ones.
Eli stuck to side paths, service rails, half-collapsed speeder corridors — anywhere the clones wouldn't patrol aggressively. It was instinct by now. A skill honed over lifetimes.
Still, the pulse of the city beneath his feet felt foreign. So many lives stacked atop each other, generations buried beneath ferrocrete and neon. Here, war didn't echo. It oozed. Quiet and hungry.
He ducked into a shadowed alcove beneath a shuttered barfront, letting the sounds of a patrolling speeder drift past overhead. He pressed his back to the durasteel wall, breath slow, hands curled in the cloak.
And then—
A spike.
Not in the air. In the Force.
Raw, searing pain. Fear. Grief wrapped tight in a thread of desperation.
Not his own.
Someone else was here.
A survivor.
Eli closed his eyes, exhaling. He focused, peeling through the noise and chaos of the undercity, like brushing dust off a memory. It wasn't far — maybe five levels below him, near the old reactor lines that powered the lower merchant districts.
He moved quickly.
—
The smell hit him first — ozone and burnt leather. Then the crackle of blaster fire.
He dropped from a rusted catwalk onto a maintenance platform, cloak fanning out around him as he landed silently. Below, tucked behind a row of busted coolant tanks, a figure knelt — one hand raised in a shaky Force push, the other clutching a glowing green lightsaber. The blade trembled, as did its wielder.
A clone body lay nearby — stunned, not dead. But two more were circling back, weapons raised.
Eli didn't think.
His saber was in his hand before his thoughts caught up.
Blue clashed with red bolts as he leapt forward, intercepting one shot midair and deflecting another into the second clone's chest. The soldier crumpled with a mechanical gasp. The other wheeled on Eli — too slow. One clean strike. Silence.
The surviving Jedi stared up at him, eyes wide beneath a cracked forehead. He was older than Eli — late teens — robes scorched and bloodied, braid still intact. His grip on his saber was precise, trained.
"You're—" the young man started, voice hoarse. "You're one of the younglings."
"And you're not dead," Eli replied, lowering his blade but keeping it active. "That makes two of us."
The older Padawan gave a breathless laugh. "I was a day away from my trials. My Master… she held them off. Told me to run. So I did."
Eli nodded. "What was her name?"
"Master Ven Tolar." His voice cracked. "She didn't even hesitate."
Eli swallowed hard, eyes lowering briefly. "Then she gave you a gift most of us didn't get."
They stood there for a beat, the sounds of distant footfalls echoing faintly above.
"I'm Eli," he said finally. "Eli Kaen."
The older Padawan straightened, face tightening as he deactivated his saber. "Ryen Daros. Padawan to Jedi Master Tolar… until a few hours ago."
They stared at one another, two survivors stitched together by ash and chance.
"Have you seen any others?" Ryen asked. "Anyone who made it?"
"None alive. Not from the Temple."
Ryen grimaced. "Then we need to get offworld. The longer we stay—"
"I know," Eli said. "But finding a way out won't be easy. The clones are everywhere. The ports are locked down. Even the shadow docks will be crawling with informants."
Ryen looked away, jaw tense. "I've… heard of someone. A smuggler. Works in the Deeper Verge — industrial tunnels past level 1400. Old Selkath contact. No love for the Republic."
Eli studied him, wary. "How do you know that?"
"My Master made me memorize half the blackmarket names in the underworld. Said understanding the darkness was the only way to survive it."
Eli gave a grim half-smile. "Smart Master."
"She was."
They didn't speak for a moment. The silence stretched between them — not awkward, but heavy. Real.
Then Eli turned, cloak brushing the floor. "Lead the way, Ryen."
The older Padawan blinked. "You're following me?"
"You've got a name," Eli said. "I've got survival instincts. Let's combine our talents before we both end up in a body bag."
Ryen gave a small, tired laugh and nodded. "All right then. Let's disappear."
They slipped back into the darkness, two blades hidden beneath rags and grief, walking side by side into the ruins of the world they once knew.
They weren't Jedi anymore.
Not truly.
But they weren't broken yet.
And they weren't alone.
Not anymore.