He watched the fire of atmospheric entry sheathe the ship, and pondered something he recalled from his time at the Sith Academy on Dromund Kaas.

It was said the ancient Sith of Korriban purged their bodies with fire, learned strength through pain, encouraged growth through destruction.

There was wisdom in that, Malgus thought. Sometimes a thing could not be fixed. Instead, it had to be destroyed and remade.

“Remade,” he said, his voice harsh through the respirator. “Destroyed and remade.”

“Darth Malgus,” said the pilot over the comm. “Where shall I fly you? I do not have a flight plan.”

The fire of reentry had faded. The smolder in Malgus was growing into flames. Aryn Leneer’s unexpected presence had started him down a path he should have trod long ago. He was grateful to her for that.

Below, the cityscape of Coruscant, pockmarked and smoking here and there from Imperial bombs, came into view.

“The Jedi Temple,” he said. “Circle at one hundred meters.”

If nothing else, he would soon have his own personal war. Aryn Leneer had come to Coruscant looking for him. And he had returned looking for her.

They would meet on the rubbled grave of the Jedi Order.

ARYN POINTED over the windscreen at an enormous building of duracrete and steel that could have held ten athletic stadiums. The peak of the dome stood several hundred meters high, and the innumerable venting towers and smokestacks that stuck from its surface looked like a thicket of spears. Not a single window marred the metal-and-duracrete façade.

“The Works,” Aryn said. “Or at least one of the hubs. Set down there.”

As Zeerid piloted the speeder down, Aryn looked back over the urbanscape, orienting herself to the relative position of the Jedi Temple. She could not see the actual ruins from their location—the intervening terrain blocked it—but she could see the smoke plumes.

The image of the ruined temple still haunted her memory.

Zeerid put the speeder down atop a nearby parking structure. Few other vehicles shared the structure. A single speeder and two swoops—both tipped onto their sides—were all that Aryn saw.

“Where is everyone?” Zeerid asked.

“Hiding in the lower levels, maybe. Staying home.”

Though it seemed a lifetime ago, the attack had happened only a day before. The populace was still in shock, hiding perhaps, picking up what pieces they could.

They took a lift and autowalk to the Works hub. A large gate and security station provided ingress through the ten-meter duracrete walls. While the gate remained closed, the security station stood empty. Ordinarily it would have been well guarded. Aryn and Zeerid climbed over and through unchallenged.

The mammoth structure of the hub, larger even than a Republic cruiser, loomed before them.

Zeerid drew a blaster from his hip holster, then pulled another from a hidden holster in the small of his back and offered it to Aryn. She declined.