Star Wars: Shadow of Skywalker

Two Months Later – Northern Wastes – Dawn

Twin suns rose pale over the scattered dunes, casting long shadows through the broken shells of collapsed depots and buried pipelines. Wind carried the scent of rusted metal, dried blood, and scorched sand.

Anakin crouched beside Maul atop a jagged ridge overlooking the outpost below. His breath came in steady, shallow pulls, his chest still aching from half-healed fractures. The burned tissue along his thigh throbbed with each flex of muscle, but he kept his gaze locked forward.

Below them sprawled a low cluster of prefab shelters and storage tanks. Makeshift barricades ringed the perimeter, guarded by scattered sentries – Rodian riflemen in mismatched armor plates, Nikto thugs with vibroaxes slung across their backs, and a handful of grim-faced humans checking old carbines.

They were loud, undisciplined. Raiders. Traitors. Former Gardulla enforcers turned into a self-serving splinter under a minor warlord. Easy prey, Anakin thought.

Maul's voice broke the silence, low and edged with cold command.

"How would you take it?"

Anakin swallowed. His hand tightened unconsciously on his saber hilt.

"Fast," he said. "Kill the sentries. Strike from within."

Maul turned his gaze onto him, yellow eyes narrowing faintly.

"Brute force," he said quietly. "Always your first instinct."

He gestured down at the milling guards.

"Look. Think. Force is a weapon, but a Sith is not merely a weapon. You will learn to see the battlefield. Every movement. Every weakness."

Anakin followed his gaze, focusing deeper. Beyond the outer sentries, he saw two fuel trucks idling near stacked crates, crews clustered around a portable generator. Further back, near the command shelter, four guards leaned against a sand-scarred repulsor tank, smoking old rootleaf cigarras. Their rifles slung casually over their chests.

He spoke softly.

"The trucks… fuel lines exposed. A detonation would… scatter them. Drive them into cover."

Maul inclined his head slightly. "And then?"

"Flank from the east ridge," Anakin continued, his voice growing stronger as he traced mental lines across the sand. "They'd take cover against the wrong side of the barricade…."

"And their commander?"

Anakin hesitated. His pulse quickened. "He… he would remain in the command shelter. Guarded, but… cut off if the perimeter collapses."

Maul nodded once, his expression unreadable.

"Better," he said. "Execute it."

They moved like shadows down the ridge, sand hissing softly under boots. Anakin reached out with the Force, feeling each sentry flicker like dim sparks in the howling dawn wind.

He flicked his wrist. A stone ripped from the dunes slammed into the exposed fuel line of the closest truck. The impact sparked against rusted metal.

For a split second, silence held.

Then the world erupted.

Flame gouted from the ruptured tank, engulfing two Rodian guards in screaming orange fire. One ran, stumbling blindly before collapsing in a smoldering heap. The other thrashed against the crates until his charred limbs gave out. The blastwave slammed into the barricade, ripping old durasteel plates from welded supports and hurling them into nearby sentries. Screams tore through the camp as the mercenaries scrambled for cover.

Before the echoes faded, Maul was among them.

His saber hissed into life, slashing out in tight, economical arcs. A Nikto lunged at him with a vibroaxe, only to collapse forward as Maul's blade severed his legs mid-thigh. The Zabrak moved without pause, driving his boot into the chest of another mercenary and snapping bone with a wet crunch. He struck with brutal precision – cutting hands from weapons, tearing open calves and biceps, leaving behind screaming wreckage.

Anakin vaulted the twisted remains of the fuel truck, igniting his own saber. Pain flared through his thigh as he landed, but he wove it into focus, striking low to sever a Rodian's knee before pivoting and smashing the hilt of his saber into the alien's temple. The Rodian fell limp, twitching in the sand.

"Not dead," Anakin whispered under his breath, forcing his hand to still before finishing the blow. He tightened his grip. Focus.

A human raider emerged from a prefab, firing wildly. One bolt struck Anakin's shoulder, burning a shallow furrow through flesh. He hissed, stepped into the pain, and hurled the attacker backward with a shove of Force. The man slammed into a support beam, ribs cracking. Anakin crossed the distance in a blink, slashing through both his shins, dropping him screaming into the dirt.

The pain in his shoulder sparked hunger. The Force swelled. He reached out, fingers curled in the air. The man spasmed, gasping, as life leeched away in pulsing threads. Anakin forced himself to stop before collapse. The man remained twitching, broken, but alive.

He turned and staggered toward the next skirmish. The Force rippled through him, pain tempered into cold focus. His strikes were cleaner now – disabling, not destroying. Yet twice he pushed too far. Once he crushed a Nikto's collarbone so thoroughly the creature went limp, unconscious. Another time he severed a Rodian's hand when he meant to disarm. Maul saw it all.

From atop a burning crate, the Sith Assassin watched, silent as death.

By the time the fighting ceased, the outpost was choked in smoke and moans. Fires crackled from the generator hub. The ground steamed with blood and melted skin. Limbs twitched. Cries echoed. Not one was dead—but none would fight again soon.

Anakin stood in the center of it, saber dimmed. His chest heaved, blood soaking through torn fabric. His limbs ached. His control was imperfect. But he had not lost himself.

Maul stepped down into the field of ruin, his boots splashing through pooled blood.

"You see now?" he said, voice quiet. "Precision breaks armies. Not fury. Not chaos."

Anakin said nothing. He only nodded.

"Next," Maul said, turning toward the command bunker. "The officer inside."

Anakin swallowed bile, steadied himself, and limped forward into the smoke.

Inside, the gang leader cowered behind a half-collapsed crate wall – a stocky human with greying stubble and the remains of gang ink burned half-off his scalp. His chestplate was scorched, sigils crudely slashed by a blade. He was panting hard, eyes darting between Maul and Anakin, animal panic written into every twitch of his body.

Maul didn't speak right away. He stared, silent and still, the red glow of his saber casting long, jagged shadows across the floor.

Then he turned slightly toward Anakin.

"Control his mind."

Anakin hesitated. His pulse quickened. He looked from the bleeding man to Maul's blank expression.

"I've never—"

"You've broken bones," Maul interrupted coldly. "You've pulled life from screaming lungs. The mind is no different. It just takes more precision."

He stepped aside. Anakin approached slowly, sweat beading on his brow. His burns still ached. The interrogation room stank of blood and fear.

"Your saber is loud," Maul said flatly behind him. "Your hand is crude. Your voice, weak. But the Force—" he gestured at the cowering man, "—is quiet. Direct. You will use it. Now."

Anakin knelt. He reached forward, placing his hand on the gang leader's scalp.

The man whimpered, trying to pull away. But there was nowhere to go.

Anakin closed his eyes.

The Force pulsed around him, oily and cold. The man's fear flared sharp—hot needles pricking Anakin's senses. He focused, digging deeper, trying to feel the thoughts inside the skull beneath his palm.

Images flickered. Heat. Screams. Gunfire. Gambling tables and crude bunkers carved into rock. Laughter. Spice fumes. Pain. Women. Command codes. Then chaos. Panic.

"Too much," Anakin muttered.

"Then narrow it," Maul said. "Slice, don't crush."

Anakin gritted his teeth. His grip tightened. He tried to follow the strongest threads—locations, movement, names.

A canyon fortress. Guard rotations. Supply lines from the southern shelf. A tunnel system rigged with traps.

But it came jumbled, disconnected—no clear picture. His grip slipped. The man's nose began to bleed. His lips twitched, muttering nonsense. His mind thrashed like an animal in fire.

"His head's breaking—" Anakin gasped.

"Because you lack restraint," Maul snapped. "You tear instead of cutting. Hold your damn focus!"

Anakin growled low in his throat. Sweat poured down his back. He gripped harder—not with his hand, but with the Force—trying to shape the man's thoughts, align them into something usable.

He failed.

The man convulsed violently. Blood sprayed from his nose and ears. A final image stuttered across the Force: a Falleen in black armor overseeing crates marked with Red Sun glyphs. Then… nothing.

His mind collapsed.

Anakin let go. The body slumped sideways, twitching once.

Dead.

Silence followed. Only the faint hum of Maul's saber remained.

Anakin looked up. "I tried to be precise."

Maul didn't answer for several seconds. Then he spoke, low and flat:

"You weren't. You drowned in his fear. Let it flood your senses. Then you pulled—blind, brute, desperate."

He stepped forward, crouched beside the corpse, and turned the face toward Anakin.

"This is what failure looks like. You learned nothing. We gain nothing. You lost control."

Anakin's stomach twisted. He said nothing.

Maul stood.

"Next time, if the target dies, you bleed."

He turned toward the door.

"Follow. Knowledge means nothing if you can't control it."

Anakin rose slowly, his limbs trembling.

The corpse lay sprawled behind him, face locked in frozen terror. Another wasted death.

Another failure.

He limped after Maul into the cold hallway, jaw tight, eyes burning.

Heat shimmered across the horizon, warping the ridgeline into molten waves. Below, lodged between fractured stone and sand-choked ravines, squatted a half-buried perimeter of durasteel plating and welded spikes. Another outpost. One of many fractured limbs from Gardulla's rotting syndicate. Crude. Undisciplined. But not without teeth.

Anakin crouched on the ridge, his breath steady despite the dust clawing at his throat. Behind him, Maul stood like carved obsidian—still, silent, watching every twitch of muscle and breath.

"Last time you broke the body but lost the mind," Maul said, voice low, razor-edged. "And before that, you let rage guide your blade. This time… you will think."

Anakin's gaze locked on the figures below.

"You will isolate. Divide. Control," Maul continued. "Strike to collapse, not to kill. Watch them unravel."

He said nothing more.

The lesson had already been taught.

Anakin didn't speak. He scanned the outpost again. There were ten, maybe twelve hostiles. Two stationed at a watchtower with a repeater blaster rigged to the rail. One patrolling the north fence with a poor gait—old injury, likely favoring one side. Four gathered around a central fire pit, arguing over something small and stupid. The rest were scattered—lazy, undisciplined.

He saw it.

The weakness wasn't just tactical.

It was human.

"I'll start with the tower," Anakin said.

Maul gave no acknowledgment.

Anakin moved.

He circled wide, descending the rocky slope and keeping low in the scrub brush. His limbs ached from the last raid, but the pain sharpened his focus. The smell of sand-oil and sweat hit him first—then the low grumble of tired laughter. He reached the tower's base. One guard leaned half-asleep on the rail, legs dangling. The other scratched his neck and adjusted the repeater's power cell.

They didn't see him rise.

He reached up. The Force exploded outward, yanking the drowsy guard down in a silent, neck-snapping jerk. The man hit the sand with a wet crunch. Anakin leapt. His saber flared into life mid-air, slicing the second man's weapon clean in half before driving the hilt into the base of his throat. The body folded soundlessly.

He was already moving. He sabotaged the repeater mount with a sharp twist—jammed, unresponsive. He slid down the opposite side of the tower, angling toward the patrol on the northern side.

The limping guard turned at the wrong moment. A hand rose. The Force hit like a hammer. The man slammed into the fence with a crack of bone. His groan dissolved into choked silence.

Three down.

Anakin shifted positions, striking next from the shadows near the central generator. He caused a minor surge—enough to kill the lights and startle the mercs at the fire. Their arguments twisted into shouts. Weapons rose.

One darted to investigate the fence. Another moved toward the tower.

Anakin dropped into the center of them.

His blade moved like lightning—cutting a blaster in half, slashing tendons, rupturing knees. One man screamed as his trigger finger flew off into the dirt. Another tried to run. Anakin used the Force to grab him mid-stride, slamming him headfirst into the fire pit. The flames hissed under his body. He didn't scream. Not anymore.

The last two tried to make a stand—one with a plasma baton, the other with a vibrosword. Anakin let them close, then bent low and slid between their strikes. A sharp jab to the ribs with Force behind it shattered one. He kicked the other's knee sideways, then elbowed him hard enough to crush his windpipe.

They fell. Twitching. Moaning. Not dead.

He stood in the silence, chest heaving.

Blood and firelight danced in the sand.

No reinforcements came. No alarms. The outpost was his.

High Ridge Overlook — Minutes After the Assault

Ash still hung in the wind. Anakin knelt over one of the broken survivors below, blade unlit but held close. His posture was steady. There was control now—even if it came with sweat and blood. Maul watched in silence from the ridge above, arms folded across his chest.

The comlink buzzed once. He answered.

"Report," came Sidious's voice. Cool. Controlled. No warmth.

"The outpost is neutralized," Maul said. "No fatalities. Survivors left disarmed, crippled. Anakin obeyed."

A pause.

"Efficient," Sidious replied. "Is he learning?"

Maul's eyes narrowed. "Slowly. He fights his nature. But he's starting to listen."

Sidious was silent a moment longer, then continued.

"You will not remain in the desert much longer."

Maul didn't reply. He waited.

"There are talks underway," Sidious said. "Jabba's outer court has opened dialogue with Black Sun."

Maul's jaw tensed slightly. "Why now?"

"They believe Gardulla's collapse created a void. Black Sun offers arms, ships. They want Jabba to grant them territory. Shared trade zones. Spaceports in Outer Rim sectors. Black Sun speaks of 'stability'—but they smell blood."

Maul's tone remained flat. "You want me to stop it."

"Yes," Sidious said. "But carefully. I want the illusion of betrayal, not the reality of it."

He paused, then continued in a colder tone.

"Black Sun remains useful to other interests. I want their arrangement with Jabba to fall apart. I want Jabba to see them as manipulators. Thieves. Spies. And when that happens, I want him to act."

"You want bloodshed between them," Maul said.

"I want mistrust," Sidious corrected. "Tension. Sabotage. A clean fracture. I want their alliance to rot from within."

Maul let the silence stretch before answering. "Gardulla will benefit."

"She must," Sidious replied without hesitation. "For now. Her position is weak but not broken. Let her rebuild—slowly. With Black Sun support, she stays distracted and useful… elsewhere."

Maul looked down at the burning ruin of the camp. His voice was quieter. "You're maneuvering her back into position."

"I am maneuvering pieces where I want them," Sidious said. "And I am using yours where they're best suited."

"You still intend to protect her," Maul said flatly.

Sidious's voice lowered, tone edged with finality.

"She is not to be touched. Not until I say otherwise."

Maul said nothing.

Sidious continued after a beat. "Jabba trusts you. Use that. Stir his court against Black Sun. Plant evidence. Disrupt communications. Leak movements. Just enough to fracture the negotiations. Let him draw the blade himself."

"You want this done cleanly."

"No witnesses. No suspicion. Not yet."

There was a pause. Then:

"And the boy," Sidious asked, tone returning to calm. "How is his progress?"

Maul glanced toward Anakin, who now leaned over a weeping Rodian with his saber drawn but inactive. His back was straight. His movements deliberate.

"He's starting to understand. Still rough. But his mind moves faster now. Less rage, more intent."

"Then take him with you," Sidious said. "Into Jabba's court. Let him listen. Let him watch."

Maul raised a brow. "You want him involved in politics now?"

Sidious's reply came without pause.

"I want him to learn the difference between force and influence. Let him feel the web for once—see how it strangles."

Maul exhaled through his nose. "He won't understand."

"He will," Sidious said. "In time. He doesn't need to understand the whole game. Only how to move inside it."

There was a moment of static. Then Sidious's tone shifted—just slightly.

"Your orders are clear. Keep Gardulla untouched. Break the alliance before it forms. Jabba will do the rest."

"And after that?"

"You will be informed when it matters."

The comlink clicked dead.

Maul stood still for a long moment, staring into the horizon. The heat shimmered off broken metal and cracked bone. Below, Anakin turned his head upward—waiting for instruction.

Maul lowered the comlink and turned away from the ridge.