Green and red lightsaber blades clashed in a violent spectacle of light and sound. Kalden deflected the Eighth Brother's aggressive strikes, his defensive Soresu form creating an impenetrable barrier against the flurry of attacks. Each impact sent vibrations up his arms, each parry required perfect timing against the Inquisitor's dual-bladed weapon.

  The cargo bay echoed with the distinctive hum and crackle of their duel, punctuated by the Eighth Brother's frustrated grunts as his attacks failed to penetrate Kalden's defense.

  "Still hiding behind Soresu," the Inquisitor taunted, spinning his lightsaber in a deadly arc. "Always defending, never striking. Typical Jedi weakness."

  Kalden didn't waste breath responding. Every second he kept the Eighth Brother occupied was another second for Lyra and the others to prepare their escape. He centered himself in the Force, allowing it to guide his movements, anticipating each attack milliseconds before it came.

  A particularly vicious strike forced Kalden to leap backward, putting distance between them. The Eighth Brother didn't immediately pursue, instead circling slowly, his masked face betraying nothing of his thoughts.

  "I wonder," the Inquisitor said, voice distorted through his helmet, "did you feel it when the Jedi died? When Order 66 purged the galaxy of your kind? Were you there when the younglings fell in the Temple?"

  The words struck deeper than any lightsaber could. Images flashed through Kalden's mind – memories he'd spent years trying to suppress.

  The skies above Mygeeto were filled with smoke, the snow-covered landscape scarred by artillery fire. Kalden stood at the command post, reviewing tactical displays with Commander Grip, his most trusted clone officer.

  "We'll move on the Separatist stronghold at dawn," Kalden decided, pointing to the holographic map. "If we can secure their communications array intact, Republic Intelligence might be able to—"

  He froze mid-sentence, a sudden coldness washing over him through the Force. Something terrible was happening – not here, but everywhere. Countless lights in the Force, extinguished in an instant. Jedi. His brothers and sisters, dying across the galaxy.

  "General?" Commander Grip looked at him with concern. "Is something wrong?"

  Before Kalden could answer, Grip's comlink activated. A hologram appeared – robed, hooded, the face hidden in shadow. A voice Kalden recognized with growing horror.

  "Commander Grip," said Chancellor Palpatine. "The time has come. Execute Order 66."

  "Yes, Lord Sidious," Grip responded mechanically, his voice suddenly devoid of the warmth and respect Kalden had come to know. "It will be done."

  The hologram disappeared. Grip turned to Kalden, his blaster already rising.

  For a moment, their eyes met – soldier and general, comrades who had fought side by side for years. In that instant, Kalden saw confusion flicker across Grip's face, a momentary resistance to the programming that compelled him.

  It was enough. That split-second hesitation gave Kalden the warning he needed.

  As Grip's finger tightened on the trigger, Kalden thrust out his hand. The Force responded, sending Grip flying backward into the other clones who were reaching for their weapons. In the chaos that followed, Kalden ignited his lightsaber, deflecting the first volley of blaster fire back at his attackers.

  "Commander, stand down!" Kalden shouted, even as he knew it was futile. Whatever was happening, whatever "Order 66" meant, it had turned his loyal troops into enemies in an instant.

  More clones poured into the command post, blasters firing. Kalden deflected what he could, moving in a blur of defensive forms, but there were too many. A bolt grazed his shoulder, another his leg. He couldn't hold them off forever.

  Through his battle meditation, Kalden felt the clone troopers' minds – once familiar, now twisted by something dark and artificial. Not hatred, but cold purpose. They were following orders they couldn't refuse.

  In a desperate move, Kalden used the Force to collapse part of the ceiling, creating a barrier between himself and his attackers. In the confusion, he fled toward the landing pad where his Jedi starfighter waited.

  Behind him, he heard Commander Grip's voice, strained but determined: "Let him go. I'll pursue alone."

  Kalden reached the landing pad, cutting down two clone guards who opened fire. As he prepared to board his fighter, he sensed a presence behind him.

  "General," Grip said, his blaster aimed at Kalden's back. "Don't make me do this."

  Kalden turned slowly, lightsaber lowered. "You don't have to do this, Grip. We've fought together for years. Whatever this order is, you can resist it."

  Sweat beaded on Grip's forehead, his hand trembling. "Can't... resist. The order... good soldiers follow orders."

  "You're more than a soldier," Kalden urged. "You're a man. A good man."

  For a moment, it seemed to work. Grip's blaster wavered, lowering slightly. Then his comlink crackled with the voice of another clone: "Commander Grip, have you neutralized the Jedi?"

  The internal struggle playing across Grip's face was agonizing to watch. "I... I can't..."

  "Then stand aside," came another voice – cold, mechanical. A squad of clone troopers appeared at the far end of the landing pad, weapons raised.

  In that moment, Grip made his choice. He turned, firing at his own men, buying Kalden precious seconds. "Go, General! Now!"

  Kalden leapt into his starfighter as blaster fire erupted across the landing pad. Through the viewport, he saw Grip fall, riddled with blaster bolts from his own brothers.

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  As the starfighter lifted off, evading pursuit ships, Kalden reached out through the Force, seeking other Jedi, other survivors. What he felt nearly overwhelmed him – death, betrayal, slaughter. The Jedi were being exterminated across the galaxy in a single, coordinated strike.

  And at the center of it all, a darkness so profound it could only be one thing: the Sith Lord they had been searching for. The enemy who had hidden in plain sight all along.

  Chancellor Palpatine. Lord Sidious.

  The memory of that day threatened to consume Kalden, but he pushed it aside, refocusing on the present danger. The Eighth Brother was studying him, sensing his emotional turmoil and waiting to exploit it.

  "I wasn't there when the Temple fell," Kalden admitted, circling cautiously. "But I felt it. Every death. Every betrayal."

  "And yet you survived," the Inquisitor observed, spinning his lightsaber casually. "While better Jedi than you perished. Masters. Council members. Younglings."

  "Is that what you tell yourself?" Kalden asked, sensing a weakness in the Inquisitor's hatred. "That you serve a noble cause? The Empire slaughtered children, Doran. Children we were sworn to protect."

  "They would have grown into Jedi," the Eighth Brother snapped, his composure cracking. "Perpetuating the lies, the hypocrisy. The Temple had to be cleansed."

  Kalden's starfighter limped into Coruscant's atmosphere, battle damage from escaping Mygeeto limiting its capabilities. He knew returning to the Jedi Temple would be suicide, but he had to see, had to know if anyone else had survived.

  He abandoned the fighter in a lower-level district, continuing on foot, disguised in civilian clothes taken from a sympathetic shop owner. As he neared the Temple district, the magnitude of the disaster became clear.

  The Jedi Temple, once a beacon of light and wisdom, now smoldered under the night sky. Clone troopers – no, storm troopers now – surrounded the building, executing anyone who attempted to flee. Bodies lay on the steps, some so small they could only be younglings.

  Kalden nearly vomited at the sight, grief and rage threatening to overwhelm his control. He reached out with the Force, searching desperately for any sign of life within the Temple. There were a few – faint, frightened presences hiding in the deepest levels. Not Jedi, he realized. Temple staff. Archivists, maintenance workers, those without Force abilities who had served the Order faithfully.

  They would be slaughtered too if discovered.

  Moving through back alleys and service tunnels he had learned as a Padawan, Kalden made his way to a rarely used entrance. Two storm troopers guarded it, alert but unprepared for a Jedi's speed. Kalden knocked them unconscious rather than killing them – not out of mercy, but to avoid raising an alarm.

  The interior of the Temple was worse than he could have imagined. Scorch marks from blaster fire covered the walls. Bodies lay where they had fallen, defending their home. The smell of burned flesh and ozone from lightsaber strikes filled the air.

  Moving silently through familiar corridors now transformed into a nightmare, Kalden reached the lower archives. There, huddled in darkness, he found seventeen survivors – archivists, medical staff, technicians. Among them was Mateo Reeves, a young assistant archivist who had often helped Kalden research obscure Force techniques.

  "Master Nyros," Mateo whispered, eyes wide with hope and fear. "We thought everyone was dead."

  "Most are," Kalden replied grimly. "I can sense storm troopers sweeping the upper levels. It's only a matter of time before they reach you here."

  "What do we do?" asked Selina Narol, a medical technician who had treated Kalden's injuries more than once.

  "We leave," Kalden decided. "Now. Through the maintenance tunnels. I have a contact who might be able to get us offworld."

  "To where?" someone asked.

  Kalden had no answer for that. The Republic was falling, transforming into something monstrous before their eyes. Where could they go that the Empire wouldn't follow?

  "Somewhere safe," he promised, knowing it might be a lie. "But first, Mateo, we need to access the secure archives. There's knowledge there that must not fall into the Emperor's hands."

  The clash of lightsabers brought Kalden back to the present as the Eighth Brother launched another assault. This time his attacks were wilder, fueled by the rage Kalden had deliberately provoked.

  "The Jedi were weak!" the Inquisitor snarled, each word punctuated by a vicious strike. "Too blind to see what was happening! Too arrogant to change!"

  Kalden parried the blows, conserving his energy, waiting for the opening such unfocused aggression would inevitably create.

  "Is that why you betrayed us?" he asked calmly. "Or was it fear, Doran? Fear of dying with the rest of us?"

  The Eighth Brother's attack faltered for a split second – enough for Kalden to counterattack, his green blade slicing through the Inquisitor's armor at the shoulder. Not a killing blow, but enough to draw first blood.

  The Inquisitor howled in pain and rage, leaping back. "You know nothing of my choices," he spat. "The Jedi would have lost the war. Sidious showed me the truth – the only path to peace was through power. Through control."

  "And how's that working out?" Kalden asked, gesturing to the dying ship around them. "The galaxy lives in fear. People disappear for speaking their minds. Is this the peace you wanted?"

  "Better than chaos," the Eighth Brother insisted. "Better than the corruption of the Republic, the ineffectual hand-wringing of the Jedi Council while people suffered."

  Kalden recognized the propaganda the Emperor had fed his followers – twisted half-truths designed to justify atrocity. He had heard similar rationalizations from others who had turned to the dark side.

  "And the younglings?" Kalden pressed, circling slowly. "What was their crime?"

  The Eighth Brother didn't answer immediately, and in that hesitation, Kalden sensed conflict – buried deep, but still present. Not all of Doran had been consumed by the dark side.

  "Necessary sacrifice," the Inquisitor said finally, but his voice lacked conviction.

  The ship's automated system interrupted their confrontation: "Warning: Collision imminent in ten minutes. All personnel evacuate immediately."

  Time was running out. Kalden needed to end this, one way or another. He had to trust that Lyra and the others were ready for departure.

  "It doesn't have to end this way, Doran," Kalden said, lowering his lightsaber slightly. "You can still choose a different path."

  The Eighth Brother laughed, a harsh sound through his damaged vocoder. "Now who's being naive? There is no redemption for me, Kalden. No going back." He raised his lightsaber again. "And no escape for you."

  "I'm not looking to escape," Kalden replied with calm certainty. "Only to ensure that others can."

  Understanding dawned on the Inquisitor. "The shuttle," he said. "You're sacrificing yourself to save them." He shook his head. "How predictably Jedi of you."

  "No," Kalden corrected him. "Not Jedi. Human. Protecting those I love."

  "Love," the Eighth Brother spat the word like a curse. "Your greatest weakness."

  "My greatest strength," Kalden countered. "Something you've forgotten."

  With that, he attacked with renewed purpose, driving the Eighth Brother back across the cargo bay. No longer fighting defensively, Kalden pressed forward with precise, economical strikes that forced the Inquisitor to give ground.

  For the first time, uncertainty flickered in the Eighth Brother's Force presence. He had expected Kalden to continue his defensive strategy, to play for time. This sudden aggression caught him off-guard.

  "Captain Tarrick," the Inquisitor spoke into his comlink, dodging another strike. "Status of the boarding party."

  "Delayed by structural collapse," came the terse reply. "We're rerouting to alternative entry points."

  Good, Kalden thought. The ship's deteriorating condition was working in their favor, slowing the Imperial troops.

  "Divert all available forces to the shuttle bay," the Eighth Brother ordered. "The Jedi is stalling."

  "Too late," Kalden said with quiet confidence. "By now, they're ready to launch. Nothing you can do will stop them."

  The Inquisitor's rage exploded through the Force. With a roar, he charged Kalden, lightsaber spinning in a lethal red blur. The attack was powerful, relentless, driven by hatred and fear of failure.

  Kalden met the onslaught head-on, green blade weaving a pattern of light that matched every strike. For a moment, they were locked in perfect opposition, the balance between them absolute.

  Then the ship shuddered violently, throwing both combatants off-balance as another explosion tore through a nearby section. Warning klaxons blared with increased urgency.

  "Hull breach detected. Collision imminent in eight minutes."

  The final countdown had begun.