Prologue
87 ABY – Mandalore, outskirts of Sundari
Torren Vale crested the top of the rise.
Pain walked with him—sharp, hot, constant. Less than two kilometers from Sundari now. The city gates stood clear against the bruised sky, close enough to taste if he could keep his legs moving. Blood soaked the tattered flight suit beneath his armor, dark and sticky, trailing behind him in small drops that soaked into the red dust.
An animal had gotten him during the hunt. A failed hunt meant hunger. Hunger meant weakness. Weakness meant death out here. Simple arithmetic.
He set his mind on walking.
One foot. Then the other. Breath hissed through clenched teeth. The wound in his side pulled with every step, fresh blood welling against the hasty kolto patch. Vision tunneled at the edges, but the gates stayed in focus. All he had to do was reach them.
Meter after meter.
The city grew larger. The gates loomed. Guards on the wall spotted him—two silhouettes turning, shouting down to someone below. A call for aid. Movement inside the gate. Figures running.
Torren’s knees buckled right outside the threshold. Armor clanged against stone. He caught himself on one hand, head bowed, breathing ragged. Blood dripped onto the ground between his fingers.
Boots approached—fast, purposeful. Voices overlapped.
“Medic! Now!”
“Get him inside—careful with the armor—”
“He’s bleeding bad. Lift on three—”
Strong hands gripped under his arms, under his knees. Lifted. Carried through the gate. The world tilted, then steadied.
Torren let his head fall back against a shoulder plate.
He had made it.
For now.
