The Lantilles Officers' Assembly impressed at first glance.
Vast panoramic windows revealed the endless lights of Lantilles below — a sea of traffic lanes, landing beacons, and skyscrapers piercing the night. Polished stone floors shimmered beneath carefully positioned light panels. Rare woods, crystal fixtures, and leather furnishings filled the hall. Everything whispered wealth. Influence. Power.
Ilius Terbon — newly appointed Moff and commander of the Twelfth Sector Army, Azure Spear — had spared no expense. A luxurious two-story restaurant in the heart of the planetary megacity had been quietly "repurposed" for Fleet use.
The first floor, suspended a hundred meters above the ground, was reserved for junior officers. The second — with its vast transparent central atrium and private alcoves — belonged to senior command.
Officially, it was a social venue.
Unofficially, careers were forged here. Strategic decisions shaped here. Personnel reassigned over vintage wine and soft laughter.
War didn't pause for luxury — it simply dressed it in uniform.
---
On the first floor, a cluster of newly commissioned midshipmen and second lieutenants celebrated their first week of service. The atmosphere was already warm with excitement — and mild intoxication.
At one table sat four inseparable Academy graduates.
"And yet, I still insist it was planned!" declared Sumeragi Li Noriega, flipping her cascade of red hair back with sharp emphasis. "There was barely a gap between hyperspace exit and weapons discharge. The turbolasers were already aligned!"
"Now, now, little genius," Ensign Grace O'Connor teased, grinning. "If you say it was planned, we'll accept your brilliant theory. Just don't scowl — it ruins your dramatic aesthetic."
Sumeragi shot her a glare sharp enough to score durasteel.
"That's why you're still a midshipman, Grace. Try seriousness for once."
The dark-skinned Zeltron stretched languidly in her chair, white hair gleaming against her vibrant complexion. Her uniform fit impeccably — tailored precision.
"Girls," Christen Mirro interjected, raising his glass. "We survived our first real engagement. Let's focus on what matters. Drinking."
"Chris," Lichtendal Cerri sighed, "you've had enough."
"Heartless," Chris gasped theatrically. "And from my best friend."
"You're surprisingly perceptive," Lichtendal replied smoothly. "Like any proper Atoan, I operate without one."
Sumeragi watched the familiar exchange with detached certainty. They would reconcile within minutes. Probability: 99.7 percent.
---
A speeder taxi stopped outside the tower.
I stepped out first. Behind me, Ahsoka Tano adjusted her armor and glanced up at the illuminated façade.
The doorman stiffened but wisely did not interfere.
Inside, I surveyed the interior.
Decadence layered over military necessity. The Republic certainly knew how to disguise its machinery.
"Snips," I said quietly, "you'll probably enjoy the first floor more. I'm heading upstairs for dull conversations with admirals pretending to be politicians."
"You're not old, Master!"
"There, you admitted it."
"When did I say that?" she protested, eyes widening.
I smirked and patted her shoulder. "Try not to overthrow the junior officer corps."
She grinned.
We separated.
---
"Look who just walked in," Chris muttered, leaning across the table.
The group turned.
A man in unfamiliar combat armor — dark plating, spiked black gauntlet, a modified Temple Guard-style helmet clipped at his side — moved with quiet confidence. At his belt hung a lightsaber.
Beside him stood a young Togruta in light armor.
"Jedi?" Sumeragi whispered.
"Has to be," Chris breathed.
They didn't look like monks.
They looked like soldiers.
The man headed upstairs. The Togruta remained.
"Be right back!" Grace announced suddenly, springing from her seat.
Moments later she returned — with Ahsoka.
"Gentlebeings," Grace declared dramatically, "this is Ahsoka Tano. And these are my friends — Sumeragi, Lichtendal, and Chris."
"Good evening," Ahsoka said politely, taking the empty chair.
"May I ask," Chris began carefully, "are you the ones responsible for the rather… spectacular destruction of those frigates today?"
"I'm Padawan to Jedi Knight Dagon Marek," she replied proudly. "We arrived to reinforce the sector. Commander Kinaun invited my Master tonight. I just tagged along."
Sumeragi leaned forward instantly.
"How did you achieve such synchronization between hyperspace emergence and targeting lock? Statistically speaking—"
"Don't mind her," Grace cut in smoothly. "She's brilliant. Fondorian mind — runs at triple speed. Sometimes forgets the rest of us operate on normal settings."
"That sounds like my Master!" Ahsoka laughed, pointing upward toward the second floor. "He's always reading or discussing complicated strategies with the clones."
"See?" Grace said triumphantly. "Two peas in a pod."
"Grace," Sumeragi hissed.
The boys burst into laughter.
The tension dissolved.
A droid waiter approached.
"What will you have, officers?"
"Fruit juice," Ahsoka said promptly. "And cakes."
"Excellent choice!" Grace clapped. "Same for me."
---
Upstairs, conversations revolved around fleet rotations, supply chains, and the increasing boldness of Separatist raids along the Perlemian.
Below, however, a different alliance was forming.
Sumeragi watched in silent disbelief as Ahsoka and Grace dismantled an impressive stack of cream pastries with alarming efficiency.
"Metabolic inconsistency," she murmured under her breath, observing both their perfectly maintained physiques. "Statistically improbable…"
Ahsoka looked up mid-bite.
"Want one?"
Sumeragi hesitated.
Then, cautiously, she accepted.
War might decide the fate of sectors in rooms above.
But down here, among laughter and sugar, something just as important was happening.
Connections.
And sometimes, those shaped the future more quietly than fleets ever could.