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Chapter Text

Tatooine — Evening
The suns were dipping low over the dunes, washing the sands in gold and rose. The air shimmered with heat even as the shadows grew longer. The noise of Mos Espa drifted faintly—vendors closing shop, speeders whining, laughter somewhere distant.

Anakin crouched beside a half-built podracer engine, hands dark with grease and eyes bright with determination. He hummed softly under his breath, the tune of a lullaby their mother used to sing. Just behind him, sitting cross-legged in the sand, was Jules.

Her brown hair stuck out in messy tufts, her cheeks smudged with dust, and her little hands were busy drawing uneven shapes in the sand—circles, lines, suns. Every now and then, she’d glance up at her big brother and beam, her gray-blue eyes catching the last bit of light.

“An’i?” she piped up, mispronouncing his name. “It go vroom yet?”

Anakin laughed quietly, the sound tired but warm. “Not yet, Jules. But it will. I’m gonna make it the fastest podracer ever.”

She tilted her head. “Faster than Watto’s?”

“Way faster.” He grinned. “So fast, I’ll win. And when I win, Mom won’t have to worry anymore.”

Jules didn’t really understand what that meant, but she liked the way his voice sounded when he said it. Safe. Hopeful. She scooted closer and pressed her little hand against his arm. “Then can we have a house with windows?”

Anakin’s hands stilled. He looked at her—those bright eyes, full of belief—and smiled, soft and sad. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, Jules. With windows. And you can see the stars from your bed every night.”

A hot wind stirred the sand between them, and for a moment the desert was quiet, as if listening.

A warm breeze whispered through the narrow street, carrying the smell of spice and sand. Jules giggled as it tugged at her hair, her laughter light against the heavy air.

From the doorway of their home, Shmi stepped out, her hands wiping on her worn apron. The lines on her face softened when she saw them—her children, her whole world.

“Anakin,” she called gently, “it’s getting late. Come inside soon.”

“In a minute, Mom,” he said, not looking up from the podracer coil he was tightening.

Shmi smiled faintly, but her gaze drifted toward Jules. The little girl had gone quiet, her small hand hovering over the sand. She wasn’t drawing anymore—just staring at something invisible, as if the air itself had changed.

“Jules?” Shmi asked softly, stepping closer. “Sweetheart?”

Jules blinked up at her, expression distant for a heartbeat too long. Then she whispered, “Momma… someone’s coming.”

Shmi froze. “What do you mean, little one?”

Jules’ brows furrowed as she looked toward the marketplace—nothing but heat and haze. “I don’t know. Just… I feel it.”

Anakin finally looked up, his curiosity piqued. “She gets that look sometimes,” he murmured. “Like when the sandstorms hit early.”

Shmi’s stomach twisted. She crouched beside her daughter, brushing sand from her knees. “Maybe it’s just the wind, darling. The desert plays tricks.”

But even as she said it, she could feel it too—the strange stillness before a shift. The Force moved faintly here, quiet but alive, brushing against her awareness in a way it hadn’t for years.

Shmi looked back toward her children, the light of the suns fading behind them. Anakin’s eyes were full of dreams, and Jules’ full of wonder—and something else. Something that felt like the edge of a storm.

Shmi whispered, half to herself, “The winds are changing.”

Chapter Text

The suns had finally slipped beneath the dunes, and the wind outside hummed through the cracks of their little home. Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of roasted roots and steam.

Anakin brushed sand off his hands as he ushered Jules toward the door. “Come on, you,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Dinner first, then you can help me finish Threepio.”

Jules gasped, eyes wide. “You mean the shiny droid with no skin?”

Anakin laughed, tousling her hair. “Exactly. He needs a face, remember?”

Jules wrinkled her nose. “He’s kinda scary without one.”

From across the room, Shmi smiled softly as she set down three mismatched bowls. “Maybe that’s a sign you should finish him soon, Ani.”

He sat beside his mother and little sister, his legs bouncing with restless energy. “When he’s done, he’s gonna help you, Mom. With everything. Cooking, cleaning—everything Watto makes us do.”

Shmi’s expression softened, but her eyes glistened faintly in the lamplight. “That’s very kind, my son.”

Jules was already eating with tiny, quick bites—half-humming, half-mumbling to herself. “When C-Threepo’s done, can he play with me?”

Anakin smirked. “He’s a protocol droid, not a toy.”

“But he talks,” she said matter-of-factly, swinging her legs. “That’s close enough.”

Shmi chuckled under her breath, watching her children—the boy with his untamable dreams, and the little girl who always seemed to see more than the world around her.

After dinner, Jules climbed up beside her mother, eyes already drooping. “Mama,” she murmured, tugging at her sleeve, “can you read a story tonight?”

Shmi hesitated for a moment, then nodded with a smile. “Of course, little one. Which one?”

“The one about the stars,” Jules whispered sleepily, “where they fall into the sand and make wishes come true.”

Anakin rolled his eyes affectionately from his workspace in the corner. “That one’s for babies.”

Shmi gave him a look that silenced his teasing. “Even the oldest among us need to believe in wishes sometimes.”

Jules giggled softly, curling against her mother’s side as Shmi began to read. Her voice filled the small house, gentle and rhythmic, like a lullaby that tried to keep the night away.

Outside, the wind rose again, carrying whispers through the desert streets—low, almost mournful. And though Shmi’s voice never faltered, she felt it once more: that same strange stirring in the Force, like something vast shifting just beyond the horizon.

As Jules drifted off, her tiny fingers still clinging to Shmi’s sleeve, a single thought brushed through the woman’s mind—quiet, fragile, and full of fear.

Chapter Text

Morning came to Mos Espa slow and bright, the twin suns rising over the dunes like molten glass. Their home glowed in pale gold light that slipped through cracks in the walls and dust in the air.

Anakin was already awake. He sat cross-legged on the floor, wires and scrap metal scattered around him, C-3PO’s half-built frame propped awkwardly against the wall. The droid’s eyes—empty sockets for now—caught the sunlight like coins.

Behind him, a small yawn echoed. Jules padded out, her bare feet scuffing against the sand-covered floor. Her brown hair stuck up in wild tufts, and she carried her blanket like a cape.

“An’i,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes, “you didn’t wait for me.”

He looked up from a tangle of circuits, smiling. “You slept in.”

“Did not.” She sat beside him, legs crossed, blanket pooled around her. “You promised I could help.”

Anakin laughed softly, passing her a small tool. “Fine, but you can’t touch anything that sparks, okay?”

Jules frowned in concentration, mimicking how he squinted at the wires. Her tongue poked out just a little as she tried to hold the tool the same way he did.

Shmi peeked in from the kitchen, a gentle smile curving her lips. “Breakfast first, both of you.”

“In a minute, Mom!” Anakin called.

Jules looked up innocently. “A big minute or a little one?”

Anakin grinned. “A podrace minute.”

Jules gasped, dramatically clutching her blanket. “That’s forever!”

Their laughter filled the tiny home, light and easy. For a while, everything was warm—just the sound of metal clicking, their quiet voices, the hum of Tatooine waking up outside.

Then the shadow fell over the doorway.

“Skywalker!”

Watto’s voice rasped through the air like sandpaper. The Toydarian flitted into the room, wings buzzing irritably. “You’re late! The parts from junkpile seventeen are still not sorted!”

Anakin tensed, his small shoulders straightening. “I was just—”

“No excuses,” Watto snapped, waving a stubby hand. His gaze slid toward Jules. “And what’s the little one doing? Playing engineer again?”

Jules instinctively moved closer to her brother, clutching the edge of his tunic. Watto’s laugh was sharp. “She’s too young for that junk. Better hope she grows up fast enough to be useful.”

Shmi stepped forward, calm but firm. “Watto. They’ll finish the parts today. You have my word.”

Watto grumbled something in Huttese, then jabbed a finger at Anakin. “Don’t keep me waiting, boy. The suns won’t stay high forever.” With that, he turned and buzzed back into the bright morning.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Anakin set the tool down with more force than needed. “One day,” he muttered, voice hard. “One day I’ll make something so good he’ll have to let us go.”

Jules blinked up at him. “Then we can have the windows house?”

Anakin looked at her, the anger softening in his eyes. “Yeah. The windows house.”

He reached over and pulled her close, her tiny fingers still clutching the tool he’d given her.

Outside, the wind whispered faintly through the streets again, carrying the same sad song through the sands.

Even the smallest spark can light a storm.

Chapter Text

The morning light faded as Anakin left with Watto, the hum of his voice and the sound of metal wings disappearing into the busy Mos Espa streets. The door creaked closed, and suddenly the house felt too still.

Jules sat on the floor beside her mother’s chair, tracing her fingers in the dust. The faint outlines of her drawings—suns and stars—were half-erased by the breeze that slipped under the door.

“Why’s An’i have to go?” she mumbled, voice small.

Shmi knelt beside her, tucking a strand of hair behind the little girl’s ear. “Because he’s helping, my love. The more he works, the more Watto needs him. That means we stay safe.”

“But Watto’s mean,” Jules said simply. “I don’t like him.”

“I don’t either,” Shmi whispered. “But sometimes, we have to live inside the storms until they pass.”

Jules tilted her head, confused. “Then we can fight the storm?”

Shmi’s eyes softened, heavy with something deeper than weariness. “No, little one. Not yet. Right now, we listen to it. We survive it.”

Jules frowned, her tiny hands balling into fists. “I don’t wanna just survive. I wanna leave.”

Shmi smiled faintly, pressing her forehead to her daughter’s. “So do I, my sweet. And maybe one day, we will.”

The room was quiet except for the whisper of the wind. Shmi’s heart ached—because she knew her children dreamed of freedom, and because she feared what freedom would cost them.

When Shmi rose to wash the dishes, Jules stayed still for a long time. Then, with that stubborn spark she shared with her brother, she stood and tiptoed toward the door.

Outside, the suns were climbing higher, painting the streets in molten gold. She could see Anakin’s small figure up ahead, following Watto into the workshop.

Jules glanced back once—her mother’s silhouette soft in the doorway—and then she started after them, her bare feet quiet on the hot sand.

The market buzzed with noise: voices shouting, speeders passing, the hiss of engines. Jules darted between stalls, clutching her blanket like a cape. She wanted to see her brother. She wanted to help.

But when she reached the corner near Watto’s shop, she froze.

Watto’s shadow loomed over Anakin as he barked orders, tossing parts and shouting in Huttese. Anakin just nodded, jaw tight, hands moving quick and practiced.

Jules hid behind a crate, her tiny heart thudding. She wanted to yell at Watto, to tell him to stop being mean, to leave her brother alone. But Shmi’s words echoed faintly in her mind.

Sometimes, we have to live inside the storm until it passes.

She pressed her face into her blanket, her eyes burning.

And then, quietly, she whispered, “When I’m big, I’ll stop the storms.”

The wind picked up around her—soft, swirling through the sand like a promise.

Chapter Text

The afternoon suns burned white above Mos Espa. The hum of engines mixed with the calls of traders and the hiss of sand shifting in the wind. Shmi wiped her hands, turned toward the corner where Jules usually sat drawing—and froze.

The space was empty.
The blanket lay folded neatly on the floor.

“Jules?”
She expected the giggle the normally came.

No answer.

The fear came all at once, sharp and cold. She pushed out into the streets, calling her daughter’s name again and again, her voice swallowed by the wind.

At Watto’s shop, Anakin jerked upright at the sound of his mother’s voice. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

“Jules—she’s gone.”

They both started running, Shmi’s breath catching, Anakin’s bare feet kicking up sand. And then they heard it—far down the alley—a cry, small but piercing:

“Mama!”

They reached the corner just in time to see a group of armed Zygerrians forcing their way through the crowd. Between them, a small figure struggled, her little hands reaching out.

Anakin lunged forward, but Shmi grabbed him, holding him back. “No—Ani, don’t!”

The crowd broke into chaos. A flash of speeders tore through the air—newcomers, larger, faster, their insignia glinting gold and green. The Zygerrians froze as the new group surrounded them. Words were shouted in Huttese, sharp and commanding.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the scene shifted. The Zygerrians backed away. The new riders swept the child up, the colors of the Hutt Cartel blazing in the sun.

Anakin shouted her name again, but the engines drowned him out. The speeders turned, kicking sand into the air, and were gone.

Only silence remained.

Shmi sank to her knees, the desert wind tangling her hair. Anakin stood beside her, fists trembling, his throat tight with sound he couldn’t release.

The wind does not forget. It only waits.

And somewhere beyond the dunes, a little girl cried out once more—
—but the wind carried her voice away.

Chapter Text

The world outside was all wind and sound. The speeder jolted over the dunes, every bump knocking the breath from Jules’s chest. She sat wedged between cold metal and the thick arm of a Hutt enforcer whose armor smelled of oil and spice.

She didn’t understand the words he spoke—deep, rough syllables that rolled like thunder. Huttese. Every time she tried to ask a question, the enforcer only grunted and shook his head.

The desert blurred past in streaks of gold and white. The suns were too bright, and her eyes stung. Jules pressed her small hands over her ears and whispered, “Mama… An’i…”

No one answered.

In the distance, the dunes broke open into stone. The speeder slowed, sand giving way to carved rock and the yawning mouth of a canyon. At the end of it stood a fortress—massive and cruel against the sky. Towers of rusted bronze rose like broken bones, and banners fluttered in the wind.

The enforcer nudged her forward as they stopped. “Yoka Jabba,” he said roughly, gesturing toward the gates.

Jules stumbled, nearly falling as her bare feet met the hot stone. The gates opened with a low groan, revealing the dim halls beyond. The air inside was heavy—thick with smoke, strange music, and the smell of fear.

She wanted to run. She wanted her brother’s laugh, her mother’s voice, her blanket. But something tugged at her senses—a quiet pulse beneath the noise. The Force.

It whispered through her, small and steady, like a hand brushing against her cheek.

Don’t be afraid.

She blinked, heart pounding, and looked up toward the shadows above the throne room. For just a moment, she thought she saw something there—shapes moving in the dark, unseen by the guards. Like the air itself was alive, watching her.

The enforcer spoke again, bowing low before the dais. The sluglike form of Jabba the Hutt loomed there, massive and glistening, his laughter echoing through the chamber.

Jules didn’t understand the words that followed—just the tone, the mockery, the decision made without her name ever being spoken.

The enforcer handed her off to a pair of attendants. One of them draped a rough fabric over her shoulders, the other pointed down a hallway.

“Go,” he said in broken Basic. “You stay. Work. Quiet.”

She nodded, because she didn’t know what else to do. Her throat hurt from not crying.

As she walked away, she heard Jabba laugh again—deep and cruel. The sound chased her through the hall, echoing like thunder inside her chest.

She pressed her palm to the cold wall, eyes squeezing shut.

Please, she whispered inside her mind. Please let the wind remember me.

And for a heartbeat, she thought it did. Somewhere far away, a voice—warm, young, and determined—answered her in the Force.

I’ll find you, Jules.

Chapter Text

The night in Jabba’s palace never truly came. The air was always thick with torchlight and music that slithered down the halls like smoke. Somewhere, a creature laughed—a sound too high, too sharp. Metal clanked, chains rattled, and the low hum of the generators never stopped.

Jules sat in the corner of a storage room, knees pulled to her chest. The stone beneath her was cold. She could still hear Jabba’s laughter echoing in her head.

Her hands trembled when she lifted them to her face—still sticky from the sand and tears she hadn’t meant to cry. She didn’t know what the creatures outside were saying. She didn’t know what would happen to her. She only knew the feeling—the dark pulse in the air, the pressure of something ancient and hungry.

She whispered, “maker…” like it was a secret word. Something to protect her.

The door slid open with a hiss. Jules flinched.

Light spilled in—a warmer light, softer. A woman stood there. Her skin was a pale purple that shimmered under the glow, and her lekku were wrapped in a silken cloth. She wore golden bands on her wrists and a look in her eyes that wasn’t cruel—it was tired, and kind.

Behind her stood a human man, his hands stained with grease and his voice low when he spoke. “Rina, is this the one Jabba brought in?”

The Twi’lek woman nodded. “Yes. The little one.” She crouched down to Jules’s level, her tone gentle. “Hello there. What’s your name?”

Jules hesitated. “Jules.”

“Jules,” the woman repeated softly, as if testing the sound. “That’s a pretty name. My name’s Rina. This is my husband, Kalen. We fix the lighting systems and perform when Jabba demands it.”

Kalen knelt beside his wife. “You’re safe with us, kid. At least as safe as anyone can be here.” He gave a small, crooked smile.

Jules looked between them. “Why… are you helping me?”

Rina’s eyes softened. “Because someone once helped me.”

The Twi’lek held out her hand. Jules hesitated again, then took it—small fingers curling around Rina’s.

Rina led her out of the storage room, through winding corridors lit by flickering torches. The music grew louder, the laughter of the court filling the air. They passed strange shapes in the shadows—Gamorreans, Weequays, droids with glowing eyes. Jules clung to Rina’s hand, heart pounding.

Kalen guided them to a small alcove behind the main stage, where an old cot and scattered tools were hidden from sight. “You can stay here,” he said. “No one will bother you. We’ll bring you food from the kitchens.”

Jules looked up at him, unsure if she should smile or cry.

Rina brushed a strand of hair from Jules’s face. “Try to sleep, little one. The stars will still be there when you wake up.”

“The stars?” Jules whispered.

“Yes,” Rina said, glancing toward a narrow window slit high in the wall. “Even here, in this place, they can’t be taken from you.”

Jules lay down, her eyes fixed on that faint patch of night. The hum of the palace faded into a lullaby.

Before sleep found her, she reached out through the Force—tentative, fragile—and felt something answer.

Not words. Just warmth. A flicker of love that reminded her of home.

Chapter Text

Morning—if it could be called that—crept through Jabba’s palace like dust through cracks. The faint light of Tatooine’s twin suns filtered in through the high vents, illuminating swirls of sand on the floor.

Rina hummed softly while sorting fabrics in a basket, her voice carrying a haunting beauty that even the creatures in the halls seemed to quiet for. Jules sat nearby, legs crossed, holding a piece of metal that Kalen had given her.

“See that?” Kalen said, crouching beside her and pointing to the tiny blaster part. “That’s your trigger assembly. Don’t pull it, though—it’s not loaded.”

Jules looked up with big gray-blue eyes. “What if I did?”

Kalen froze, then laughed—a deep, rusty sound. “Then I’d be missing a hand, kid.”

Rina gave him a warning look. “Kalen, she’s five.”

“She’s smart for five,” he said with a grin. “Look, she already knows the difference between a hydrospanner and a power cell. She’ll be fixing the palace gates before I do.”

Jules smiled shyly, fingers tracing the blaster piece. “Anakin says machines talk if you listen.”

Rina’s humming stopped. “Anakin?”

“My brother,” Jules said, glancing toward the window slit. “He builds things. I think… I think he misses me.”

Something in Rina’s expression softened even more. “I’m sure he does, sweetheart.”

Jules looked down at the blaster part again. The air seemed to hum faintly around her. It wasn’t just the sound of machinery—it was something else. She could feel it. The hum of metal, the faint heat of life from Rina, the steady calm from Kalen… and farther away, a dark, heavy presence pulsing from Jabba’s throne room.

Her stomach twisted.

“Rina?” she whispered. “Why do some people feel… cold?”

Rina blinked. “Cold?”

“Not like air cold. Inside cold. Like they don’t have… light.”

The Twi’lek froze for a heartbeat. Kalen looked up sharply, the joking tone gone.

Rina finally said softly, “That’s just how the galaxy is sometimes, Jules. Some people lose their warmth. But you… you still have yours. Hold onto it, alright?”

Jules nodded, though she didn’t quite understand.

Kalen clapped his hands together, trying to shake off the tension. “Alright, lesson two—don’t point that thing at anyone unless you mean it.”

“I mean it,” Jules said seriously.

He blinked, then snorted. “Maker help whoever crosses you when you’re older.”

Rina laughed quietly. “You have no idea.”

For a moment, it was almost peaceful. The smell of spice bread baking somewhere in the kitchens drifted through the air. The faint sound of music echoed down the corridor.

But then came a shout in Huttese—a guard barking orders, footsteps heavy against stone. Rina quickly took the blaster part from Jules and shoved it behind her back.

Kalen whispered, “Stay behind us.”

Jules obeyed, but as the guard stomped past without a glance, she felt it again—cold, hollow, wrong. She pressed her small hand against the wall and whispered, “The light’s hiding.”

Neither of them heard her. But the Force did. It rippled through the palace like wind through a canyon.

Chapter Text

The next day in Jabba’s palace smelled of metal, oil, and damp stone. The heat hadn’t reached this deep yet, so the halls were cool and shadowed. Kalen carried a small toolkit slung over his shoulder, while Jules skipped beside him, her bare feet padding softly on the floor.

“Stay close, kid,” Kalen said, glancing down at her. “Some of the creatures here don’t play nice.”

Jules tilted her head. “Are they bad?”

He sighed, rubbing his neck. “No. Just scared, like everyone else in this place.”

They turned a corner and entered the holding tunnels where Jabba kept his exotic creatures—some for shows, others for trade. The air buzzed with strange sounds: chirps, clicks, growls, and the wet hiss of something large and unseen.

Jules slowed, wide-eyed. Behind the energy fields and thick bars were beings of every color and shape she’d ever imagined. Winged lizards slept in coils of heat lamps. A fuzzy creature with three eyes blinked at her curiously.

Her small fingers curled around one of the bars. “Kalen… can I let them go?”

Kalen froze mid-step. “What?”

She looked up at him, her voice barely above a whisper. “They’re sad.”

Kalen frowned, crouching beside her. “You can feel that?”

Jules nodded, eyes shining. “They don’t want to be here. They keep asking for the sky.”

He didn’t know what to say. Force or not, the way she spoke made the air feel different—like the whole palace was listening.

Kalen sighed. “If Jabba finds out—”

But before he could finish, Jules had already moved toward another enclosure. Inside was a small creature no bigger than her arm—sleek, silver-furred, with scales running down its back. It whimpered softly, its golden eyes meeting hers.

“What’s that?” Jules asked, pressing her hand to the glass.

“That,” Kalen said, kneeling beside her, “is a baby Merqaal. They’re from some jungle planet. I heard they can sense electrical currents.”

Jules stared at the little creature, heart aching. The Merqaal pressed its nose against the glass where her palm was.

Without a word, she reached for the lock mechanism.

Kalen hissed, “Jules! Don’t—”

But the control pad blinked once—and unlocked.

The door slid open with a soft hiss.

The Merqaal blinked at her, uncertain, then wriggled forward and into her arms. Its skin shimmered faintly, cool against her skin, and it let out a soft trill that sounded almost like a purr.

Kalen ran a hand over his face. “Maker above… You really are something, kid.”

Jules giggled, hugging the creature close. “He’s not scary. He’s just lonely.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna be lonely when Jabba has my head for this,” Kalen muttered, but he was smiling.

Jules looked down at the Merqaal and whispered, “Your name’s Styx. Like the river Anakin told me about—the one between life and dreams.”

The creature chirped, eyes glowing faintly as if it understood.

Kalen stared at her for a long moment. “You’ve got a gift, Jules. Just… keep it hidden. Promise me.”

She nodded solemnly, stroking Styx’s fur. “I promise.”

As they walked back through the corridors, the little Merqaal coiled around her arm like a ribbon of light. For the first time in weeks, Jules smiled without fear.

Chapter Text

The years in Jabba’s palace passed like sand through fingers—slow, endless, and impossible to hold. But somehow, Jules had made it a home.

Now eight years old, she darted down the narrow halls with her laughter echoing behind her, her small boots thudding against the stone. Beside her slithered a flash of silver-blue light—Styx, no longer a baby but still small enough to weave around her like a ribbon of water and sound.

“Come on, Styx!” Jules whispered, breathless, as they rounded the corner.

A shout came from the kitchens—gruff and loud, the deep rasp of a Nikto chef waving a ladle in the air.
“Jules Lars! No run in here! You make mess again, I feed you to rancor!”

Jules grinned over her shoulder, switching smoothly to Huttese.
“You wouldn’t! I clean up last time!”

“You break three dishes!”

“Two!” she corrected, before leaping over a stack of crates with a laugh. Styx followed in a blur, letting out a shrill trill that made two droids back away in alarm.

She landed, turned the corner—and ran straight into someone’s legs.

Rina looked down at her, arms crossed, one lekku twitching. Her accent was thick and melodic as ever.
“Ah, there you are, little storm. What did I tell you about running in the palace?”

Jules looked up, caught mid-giggle. “Uh… not to?”

Rina arched a perfect purple brow. “And?”

“And… I wasn’t running. I was… doing exercise!” Jules said, flashing a smile.

“Exercise?” Rina repeated, smirking. “In Jabba’s halls?”

Styx peeked around Jules’s legs and made a burbling noise like a guilty laugh.

Rina sighed, shaking her head. “You and that creature… both trouble.” But there was warmth behind her words as she bent slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Jules’s cheek. “Now, go. Your papa needs help slicing the data Jabba asked for.”

Jules groaned dramatically. “But, Mom—he just makes me watch!”

Rina gave a soft laugh, her accent wrapping around the words like silk. “Then watch and learn. You want to survive this place, no? Better you learn how to think before you act.”

Jules’s eyes twinkled. “But you said I think too much already.”

“Only when it gets you in trouble,” Rina teased, tapping her nose.

With an exaggerated sigh, Jules turned and started toward the lower tech rooms, Styx following faithfully at her heels. Rina watched her go, that same soft ache in her chest she always felt—equal parts pride and fear.

Because she knew someday… that girl would leave.
And Rina wasn’t sure the galaxy was ready for her.

Chapter Text

The tech room was dim and hot, lit only by the bluish glow of data screens and the hum of old slicing equipment. Wires coiled across the floor like snakes, and the scent of metal and ozone filled the air.

Jules sat cross-legged on the floor beside Kalen’s workbench, eyes wide as he tinkered with an old datapad. Styx sat draped around her shoulders, fins flicking idly in the heat.

“Okay, kid,” Kalen said, tapping at the screen, “we’ve got to clean up these old logs for Jabba’s record keeper. Don’t touch anything glowing red, alright? That means encrypted.”

“Encrypted,” Jules repeated. “That means… locked?”

Kalen smirked. “Locked, scrambled, and full of trouble if you open it. Which means don’t.”

She grinned. “Got it.”

Five minutes later, she was already opening one.

The pad flickered, lines of code spilling across it like streams of light. Jules’s brow furrowed in focus, her small fingers moving fast over the keys.

“Hey—Jules—wait, wait!” Kalen reached for it, but the pad let out a sharp ping!

A new file opened.

They both froze.

Across the display, strange numbers scrolled down beside names and locations—worlds Kalen had heard whispered only in the darkest corners of the galaxy. Then came the words that made his stomach twist:

Shipment logs: Zygerrian Consortium.
Cargo classification: sentients.

Kalen’s mouth went dry. “Oh… stars.”

Jules looked up at him, her voice small. “Dad… what’s ‘sentients’?”

He swallowed hard. “It means… people.”

Her brows knitted together. “People? Like slaves?”

He hesitated. “…Yes.”

The datapad glowed in her hands. She stared at the words for a long time, something behind her gray-blue eyes hardening. “That’s wrong,” she said finally.

Kalen sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Yeah, kid. It is.”

She pressed her lips together. “We could stop it.”

He crouched down to her level, his rough hands resting on her shoulders. “Jules, listen to me. In this place, the more you see, the less you say. Promise me, you’ll stay quiet about this.”

She stared at the screen again, then nodded—but her eyes stayed on the names. Every single one burned into her memory.

After a long silence, she said softly, “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we practice my shooting later? I wanna be the best shot in the cartel. Then Jabba will make me the best outlaw and bounty hunter out there.”

Kalen laughed under his breath. “The best outlaw, huh? Big dreams, kid.”

“Bigger than his palace,” she said proudly.

He smirked, leaning back. “Well, if you’re gonna be a bounty hunter, you’ll have to learn to fly.”

Jules made a face, scrunching her nose. “Ugh. Flying’s scary. I don’t like it.”

“Then you’re in trouble,” Kalen teased. “Every great bounty hunter flies.”

She crossed her arms. “Then I’ll be the first one who doesn’t.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve got your mother’s stubborn streak, that’s for sure.”

Jules smiled—then turned back to the datapad one last time. The glowing words reflected in her eyes, and something deep inside her began to stir.

A spark. Small now. But one day, it would set the galaxy on fire.

Chapter Text

The twin suns were sinking when Kalen and Jules made their way out to the old cargo bay—her favorite “training range.” The air shimmered with heat, and the hum of the palace walls echoed like distant thunder.

Kalen set down a small crate, pulled out a blaster, and checked the charge. “Alright, kid, rule number one—don’t shoot your teacher.”

Jules grinned, eyes bright. “What about rule number two?”

“Rule number two,” Kalen said, handing her the blaster, “try not to shoot the walls. Jabba notices scorch marks.”

Styx sat coiled beside her, flicking his fins and chirping softly. Jules took the blaster in both hands—her grip steady, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration.

Kalen chuckled. “Maker, you look just like Rina when she’s trying to fix the laundry droid.”

“Quiet,” Jules said, aiming at an empty metal drum. She fired. The bolt sizzled past, narrowly missing its target and leaving a smoking mark on the wall.

Kalen blinked. “Okay. So we’ll work on aim.”

She groaned. “I was close!”

“Close only counts when the other guy can’t shoot back.”

He adjusted her stance, lowering her elbows. “Feet apart. Focus on your breathing. The trick isn’t pulling the trigger—it’s knowing when.”

Jules squinted, took a deep breath, and fired again. This time, the bolt hit dead center.

Kalen let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be danged.”

She grinned, lowering the blaster. “Told you! I’m gonna be the best shot in the cartel!”

He smirked. “Yeah, maybe don’t tell Jabba that. He’ll have you guarding the dungeons by next week.”

Jules giggled—and then her smile faltered when she saw Rina standing in the doorway.

The Twi’lek’s expression was thunder.

“Jules Ka’len Skywa’ka,” she said in that melodic but deadly tone, her accent sharper than the edge of a vibroblade. “What did you do?”

Jules blinked innocently. “Uh… shooting practice?”

Rina’s eyes narrowed. “Not that. The data slicing, Jules.”

Kalen froze mid-motion, the guilty look of a man who just realized he’s in deep trouble. “Ah… you heard about that.”

Rina crossed her arms, lekku twitching. “Jabba’s assistant came looking for me this morning—saying a child opened encrypted trade files! Tell me, how does a little girl learn to do that?”

Jules shuffled her feet. “I didn’t mean to. I just… wanted to see what it was.”

Rina knelt down, voice trembling between anger and fear. “You cannot do things like that, Jules. This is not a game. You think this palace is your playground, but it’s a cage. For all of us.”

Jules frowned. “But I thought we worked for Jabba.”

Rina hesitated—just long enough for the truth to show in her eyes. “We do. But working and being free are not the same thing.”

Jules looked at the ground, small hands tightening around the blaster. “Then why don’t we just leave?”

“Because,” Rina whispered, her voice breaking, “he owns everything. Even the air we breathe.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Styx let out a low, sad trill.

Kalen reached over, resting a hand on Rina’s shoulder. “Hey. She’s just curious, love.”

Rina closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again, softer. “Curious will get her killed one day.” She turned to Jules, brushing her cheek. “Promise me, no more slicing, no more secrets.”

Jules swallowed hard, then nodded. “I promise, Mama.”

Rina kissed her forehead, whispering something in Ryl, a prayer that sounded like it hurt to say.

As she left, Kalen sighed and sat back down beside Jules. “You know… she’s not wrong.”

“I know,” Jules murmured. She looked down at Styx, who blinked up at her with glowing golden eyes. “But I don’t like cages.”

Kalen gave her a long, sad smile. “Then one day, kid… make sure you’re strong enough to break them.”

Chapter Text

The night air over Tatooine was warm and dry, whispering across the dunes. Most of Jabba’s palace slept—or whatever counted as “sleep” in a place like this.

Jules climbed carefully up the old maintenance ladder, Styx clinging to her shoulder like a scaled shadow. She reached the roof and let out a long breath, the first one that didn’t smell of oil and fear.

Above her, the stars stretched wide and endless.

She sat cross-legged on the dusty stone and tilted her head back, eyes shining. “You see that one, Styx?” she whispered, pointing to a cluster near the horizon. “That one looks like a krayt dragon… if you squint.”

Styx chirped softly, curling around her like a scaly scarf.

Jules sighed. “They’re so far away. But they look free.”

“Maybe they are,” a gentle voice said behind her.

Jules jumped and spun around—then relaxed when she saw Rina standing there, a shawl draped around her shoulders, her purple skin glowing in the starlight.

“Mom,” Jules murmured, sheepish. “I just wanted to see the sky.”

Rina smiled faintly. “I know, ch’ika. But you scared me half to death.” She sat beside her, legs tucked under her, and together they looked up at the sky.

For a while, neither spoke. The desert wind sang its soft, lonely song.

Then Jules whispered, “Do you think the stars can see us?”

Rina turned to her, lekku curling softly. “Maybe. But they don’t look down to judge us. They just shine. No matter who’s watching.”

Jules looked back up, voice small. “You said we’re all in a cage. But the stars aren’t.”

Rina’s gaze softened, her accent warm and melodic. “No, me’ka. The stars can’t be caged. They belong to no one—not to Hutts, not to kings, not even to the Force itself.”

Jules smiled faintly, the wind brushing through her tangled brown hair.

Rina studied her for a long moment, as if memorizing her face. Then, softly: “When you feel alone, or trapped… think about them. Or better yet, think about the one who tried to steal them.”

Jules blinked, curiosity lighting her eyes. “Who?”

Rina chuckled. “An old tale from Ryloth. About a mischievous god who once looked at the night sky and thought, ‘Why should the heavens keep all that beauty to themselves?’ So he snuck across the galaxy and tried to steal the stars—one by one—to scatter them closer to the worlds that had none.”

Jules giggled. “Did he get caught?”

“Oh, many times,” Rina said with a grin. “They say his name was Zephir—the god of mischief, speed, and thieves. Every time they caught him, he’d wink and say, ‘You can’t lock up light forever.’”

Jules’s eyes went wide. “I want to know more about him, Mom.”

Rina brushed her cheek tenderly. “Maybe one day you will, stara’li. Maybe he’ll find you himself.”

They fell quiet again, mother and daughter sitting beneath the endless stars.

Jules leaned her head on Rina’s shoulder, her small voice drifting like a whisper on the wind.
“I don’t like cages.”

Rina smiled sadly, pressing a kiss to her head. “Then promise me, Jules—when you grow up… be a star. Because the stars can’t be caged.”

Chapter Text

The palace was alive with noise. Droids clanked through the corridors, guards shouted in Huttese, and somewhere in the distance, Styx chittered irritably as Jules tried to braid a strap onto her small blaster rifle.

“Don’t fidget,” Rina scolded gently, pulling Jules’s hair into a quick braid. “You’re shaking like you’ve swallowed a vibroblade.”

“I’m excited!” Jules grinned, trying to hold still. “Jabba never lets me go on real missions! He said I get to ride in the gunship and everything!”

Kalen leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, amused. “You’re not riding in anything until you check your power cell.”

Jules huffed, rolling her eyes but doing it anyway. “Checked it three times already.”

Rina gave her a look that was half fond, half worried. “You listen to your father, Jules. The Hutt doesn’t hand out chances for free.”

Before Jules could answer, a loud announcement echoed through the halls in booming Huttese:

“JABBA DESIRES THE PRESENCE OF KALEN, RINA, AND THE SMALL ONE. NOW.”

Jules gasped and almost tripped over Styx. “That’s us!”

⸻

The throne room was darker than usual, thick with the smell of spice and fear. Jabba sat on his dais, laughing wetly at something one of the Gamorreans said. His tail twitched as they entered.

Beside him stood a figure wrapped in tan and brown—tall, calm, and entirely out of place in a den of thieves.

A Jedi.

Jules froze halfway up the steps.

Something inside her… stirred. Like a whisper in her blood. Like the stars from her dreams were suddenly close enough to touch.

Obi-Wan turned slightly, sensing it too. His gaze landed on the little girl peeking out from behind Rina’s leg. For a heartbeat, their eyes met—warm blue meeting soft gray-blue—and the world seemed to still.

Jabba’s translator droid broke the silence. “The Jedi representative, Master Kenobi of the Republic, wishes to discuss treaty access through Hutt airspace.”

Jabba rumbled, waving a pudgy hand. “Bo shuda… the Jedi will accompany my slicers to inspect the perimeter routes. A show of good faith.”

Kalen stiffened. “You want us to take him?”

The droid relayed the Hutt’s words. “Indeed. You will escort Master Kenobi to the north ridge. And…” it paused, gears whirring, “the small one will observe as a marksman.”

Jules’s heart skipped. “Me?!”

Rina opened her mouth to protest, but Jabba laughed—a horrible, slimy sound. “Ho ho ho… the child aims well. Let her prove it.”

Kalen glanced at Rina, then at Jules, who was practically vibrating with excitement. “All right,” he muttered. “But she stays behind the line.”

Jules saluted dramatically. “Yes, sir!”

Obi-Wan’s lips twitched, just barely, in a hint of a smile. “Quite the young recruit you’ve got.”

“She’s… persistent,” Rina said dryly, squeezing Jules’s shoulder.

The Jedi knelt slightly, meeting Jules’s gaze again. “And brave, I imagine.”

Jules blinked up at him. There was something about his voice—steady, kind, familiar somehow. “You’re really a Jedi?”

“I am,” he said, smiling softly. “Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “I think I’ve seen you before.”

He tilted his head, curious. “Have you now?”

Jules frowned, the faint hum of the Force fluttering through her chest like wings. “Maybe… in a dream.”

Obi-Wan studied her a moment longer, then rose. “Dreams are powerful things, young one. Sometimes they tell us what we’ve yet to understand.”

Kalen coughed. “Right, well—dreams later. We’ve got coordinates to check.”

Jules grinned wide, clutching her blaster as they walked out together, Styx trotting beside her. The Jedi’s presence was like a quiet warmth that followed her down the hall.

Somewhere deep inside, the Force whispered again—soft, insistent, remember this.