**Chapter 228: Paths Diverging**
It took a full day for the healers to declare Dagon stable enough to move freely. His body had been on the edge—ninety percent of his blood volume lost in the chaos of Ohma-D and the subsequent possession. Somehow, during the confrontation on Ruusan, he had pulled himself back from that brink, knitting flesh and essence together through sheer stubborn will and the chaotic energies of the thought bomb. The new lightning scars remained, faint silver-red traceries across his chest, arms, and neck, but the worst of the burns had closed.
The strangest change came when the healers ran their scans again.
"Midichlorian count at twenty-five thousand," the lead healer—a strict, no-nonsense Twi'lek woman named Healer Vira—announced, her voice clipped as she reviewed the holopad. She had been hounding him with questions since he regained full consciousness, cross-referencing every reading against his old records. "Third highest in the current Order. Only Master Yoda at twenty-eight thousand and young Skywalker at thirty thousand surpass it. How exactly did this happen, Commander?"
Dagon offered a tired shrug from the medical cot. Faint memories surfaced of the original Dagon Marek's yearly check-ups—brief, impersonal visits where the quiet knight had sat through scans without complaint. He remembered little else of that life. "The thought bomb. The possession. The Force… reacted. I don't have a better explanation."
Vira narrowed her eyes, clearly unsatisfied, but Yoda's earlier order to keep the incident quiet held weight. She muttered something about "anomalous Force events" and finally cleared him, though with strict instructions for light duty and regular follow-ups.
Master Yoda visited shortly after, leaning on his gimer stick. The small Jedi Master regarded Dagon with those ancient, knowing eyes. "Recovered enough, you are. Return to the Twelfth Sector headquarters at Lantillies, you may. Master Plo Koon will resume command of the Fourth. You, High Jedi General of the Twelfth, now stand. When healed, Aayla Secura will join you. Permission granted to requisition available ships here that will not be missed."
Dagon nodded. Fourth month of the Clone Wars, third week. The galaxy churned on, but his corner of it felt strangely quiet for the moment. "Understood, Master."
Yoda's ears twitched slightly. "Careful with the wound in the Force around you, hmm? Watch it, we will. But your own path, you must walk."
With that, the ancient Master departed, leaving Dagon to his thoughts.
He dressed in a fresh set of robes, the new mullet—half white, half black—falling across his forehead in a way that still felt foreign when he caught his reflection. The bleeding kyber crystal in his lightsaber had stabilized into a deeper, tempered red, but it carried a faint, permanent edge of corruption. A reminder.
Before leaving Coruscant, one loose end tugged at him. A message had arrived earlier from the Senate: Senator Riyo Chuchi was engaged to be married. The news surprised him, though it shouldn't have. Their paths had always been separate—his tied to endless war, hers rising through the political arena he had inadvertently helped elevate when he encouraged her involvement in clone rights.
It was good. Clean. She deserved a life beyond the shadow of battles and ancient spirits.
Still, the conversation needed to happen. He activated the secure holoprojector in his temporary quarters.
Riyo's blue holographic form materialized, elegant as always in her senatorial attire, blue skin glowing softly under the projection lights. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of him—new scars, altered hair, the subtle weariness that even bacta couldn't fully erase.
"Commander Marek," she said, her voice warm but guarded. "I… heard you were injured again. I'm glad to see you on your feet."
Dagon offered a small, genuine smile. "Senator Chuchi. Or should I say, soon-to-be Mrs…?" He left the name open, respectful.
"Cal," she supplied quietly, a faint flush touching her cheeks. "It's recent. My family arranged it, but… it's a good match."
"I called to congratulate you," Dagon said, keeping his tone steady and sincere. "Truly. You've built something real in the Senate—fighting for the clones, pushing for rights that matter. I think I accidentally helped shove you into the big leagues with that. You deserve every success. And you deserve happiness. A normal life, a family. I wish you the very best with Cal. He's a lucky man."
Riyo's expression flickered—surprise, then something softer, almost wistful. She had clearly expected a different reaction. Her mother's words echoed in her mind from the tense conversation days earlier.
"Yes, my child. Between the two of you, perhaps something could have developed… something special. Men like that do attract women—I won't argue—but with him, with that Jedi, you will never have a normal family happiness. You know me: I'm used to knowing everything. I asked someone to dig up information about him.
"He… is not a man of peace. Before the war, he was almost a nobody, and only when the fighting began did he rise to prominence. And he'll cling to this war to the very end. But… Even if he doesn't die, when he comes home, he will never truly return from the war.
"I know what I'm talking about. Your uncle—my brother—Edgar Chuchi was the same. You probably don't remember him. He left his family to become a mercenary, a bounty hunter. Risk was dearer to him than the comfort and quiet of home.
"He was lucky, yes… Once he earned so much that he could have lived in wealth for the rest of his life. He came to us then, happy, on his own ship, brought piles of gifts, his pockets bursting with credits. Your father tried to persuade him to stay, but Edgar just laughed and soon flew off again. He kept risking his life because he couldn't live without danger… and in the end, he was killed.
"I cannot allow your life to turn out like that. All the more so, you are a senator, and such a misalliance could harm your career. With Cal, things will be different. I know you liked him even as a child, and only the disagreements between our families kept you apart."
Riyo had listened then, torn. Part of her had wondered—hoped, even—if Dagon felt the same quiet pull she sometimes did. The "what if" lingered like a shadow. What if the war ended? What if he could lay down the burden? But her mother's words carried painful truth. Dagon was a man forged in fire, from a past he rarely spoke of fully. He would never truly come home from the war.
She met his holographic gaze now, voice soft. "Thank you, Dagon. That means more than you know. I… worried you might feel differently. Or that I was imagining things between us."
Dagon shook his head gently. "Our paths were never meant to converge that way. You're building something lasting in the Senate. I'm… High Jedi General of the Twelfth Sector now. Heading back to Lantillies soon. There's still a war to fight. I'm glad you have Cal. Hold onto the life you can build with him."
Riyo exhaled, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "Take care of yourself out there. And… try to come back whole sometimes."
"I'll do my best," he replied. "May the Force be with you, Riyo."
"And with you."
The hologram faded. Dagon sat in silence for a moment, the weight of diverging roads settling comfortably rather than painfully. It was the right call.
He stood, gathering his things. Before departing for Lantillies, he would pay a visit to Moff Trachta—currently overseeing ship allocations and logistics in the Republic naval yards. With permission to take what vessels wouldn't be missed, a few extra cruisers or support ships could strengthen the Twelfth Sector significantly.
The Clone Wars rolled on. New scars, higher midichlorian count, a wound in the Force, and five women waiting who anchored him better than any title ever could.
Time to get back to work.
**End of Chapter 228**