And then there was Bell and his charhound chasing after a young teenage boy who was racing full pelt toward Stellan, yelling one heartbreaking word:

“Mom!”

Kitrep Soh crashed down on his knees in front of Stellan, in front of his mother who was lying limp in Stellan’s arms. No one would blame Kip for his tears, no one would blame him for his grief. He wasn’t a Jedi, he was just a son fearing for a mother who might already be dead.

Matari and Voru padded around to the teenager, nuzzling into him. Kip buried himself into the targons’ fur, sobbing openly.

And Stellan wept with him.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Grizal

The camp on Grizal reverberated to the sound of blasters fired repeatedly into the sky. Pan strode through the throng that had gathered outside the main complex. He would have rather been at the Great Hall in the depths of No-Space, but actually, there was something satisfying coming back to this varp-heap of a planet after the success of the raid.

He had led the largest Nihil attack in their long and torturous history. Pan Eyta, not Marchion Ro for all his brave words about Lina Soh. While Pan had rained terror down upon the Republic, how exactly had the so-called Eye whiled away his time? By skulking in his relic of a ship on a rain-drenched world as far from the action as you could get.

Who would the Nihil listen to now? Who would lead the Storm? Ro thought he had secured his position by ordering the assault on Valo, but all he had done was play into Pan’s hands. Even Zeetar looked impressed as Pan swaggered toward the main doors, the Talpini having emerged from the building without his ridiculous powersuit. A sign of respect? Of submission? Maybe. Perhaps Zeet wasn’t as big a fool as Pan had thought.

Pan smiled, slowly turning on his heels before disappearing into the building to meet with Ro. He wanted to savor this moment, to soak up the admiration of the assembled Tempests, to see the reverence in their faces, for them to see the strength in his. He stood, arms stretched wide, chest heaving with pride. As the blasters fired, Pan threw back his head and bellowed three simple but victorious words, once Ro’s but now forever his.

“The Storm triumphant!”

The Nihil responded with a collective roar, the jubilant shouts intensifying. Some of the crowd had been with him in the attack. Others had heard about it from afar, but all were united behind the Tempest Runner who had secured the victory.

“The Storm triumphant indeed.”

Pan turned at the voice. Ro stood in the doorway of the building, in full regalia: his father’s ragged cloak flowing in the wind, Arratan wolf skin around his shoulders, that damned cyclopean helm replacing the one that Pan had reduced to scrap metal.