"Beware the blade that smiles—its edge bites deepest when unseen."

♡

The golden arms of dawn stretched through the arched windows of Nephthys' quarters, painting the room in hues of amber and honey. She stirred, the warmth of the sun coaxing her from the embrace of sleep. A faint smile graced her lips as she cast aside the duvet, the cool morning air brushing against her skin like a lover's whisper. Rising, she stood before the window, arms stretching high above her head, muscles taut and alive with the promise of a new day.

The ritual was familiar, grounding. She ran a brush through the dark cascade of her hair, untangling the knots with practiced ease, the bristles a soothing rhythm against her scalp. At the basin, she splashed cool water onto her face, the droplets tracing the sharp lines of her jaw before falling away, carrying the remnants of sleep with them. Clarity settled over her like a second skin.

Her ceremonial garb awaited—a finely crafted dress that fell to her knees, its fabric shimmering faintly under the morning light. Ancient patterns were stitched into the hem, each thread a whisper of tradition, of strength, of a lineage she carried with quiet pride. She fastened the garment with practiced hands, the weight of it familiar against her frame. Lastly, she lifted her mask, its jackal features catching the sunlight as she settled it atop her head like a crown of duty.

The door creaked open, revealing one of her sentinels. His armor gleamed, polished to a mirror sheen, the sun catching its edges and casting arcs of light across the hallway. His pike stood firm against the stone floor, its tip glinting like a shard of ice.

"General," he greeted, his voice low and reverent, bowing his head. "The Jedi Council summons you."

Nephthys' brows knitted, a flicker of curiosity breaking through her composure. But her resolve remained unshaken, her posture straightening as she stepped into the hall. The weight of responsibility settled onto her shoulders like an old companion, its presence both comforting and relentless.

"Lead the way," she said, her voice steady, the words carrying the quiet authority of one accustomed to command.

The sentinel turned on his heel, his footsteps echoing against the polished stone as they began their march. The air was thick with anticipation, the corridors of the Jedi Temple alive with the hum of whispered conversations and the soft rustle of robes. Padawans paused to watch her pass, their eyes wide with a mix of awe and unease. Knights nodded in respect, their gazes lingering on the mask that marked her as both protector and enigma.

As they approached the Council chambers, the sentinel halted, stepping aside to allow her passage. The massive doors loomed before her, their carvings depicting the ancient history of the Jedi—tales of light and shadow, of battles fought and balances restored.

Nephthys took a breath, her hand resting briefly on the hilt of her electro claws. Then, with a push, the doors swung open, revealing the solemn faces of the Jedi Council.

"General Nephthys," Mace Windu intoned, his voice carrying the weight of the galaxy. "We have much to discuss."

She stepped inside, the doors closing behind her with a resonant thud. The march toward destiny had begun.

SCENEBEREAK

The Jedi Council chamber felt colder than the vacuum of space, the sterile light from Coruscant's dawn slicing through the arched windows like shards of glass. Nephthys stood at the center, arms crossed, her ceremonial mask hanging at her hip—its jackal grin a silent mockery of the solemnity around her. The air hummed with the Temple's ancient energy, a vibration that prickled against her skin like static before a storm.

"So," she drawled, her voice sharp enough to cut transparisteel, "you want me to play bounty hunter. Trek through the Outer Rim's festering wounds, track a Sith Lord with a flair for dramatics, and... what? Politely ask him to surrender?"

Mace Windu's gaze remained unflinching, his hands folded in a facade of serenity. "The Separatists are carving a path through the Mid Rim. Dooku's tactics are evolving. We require... adaptability."

"Adaptability." Nephthys barked a laugh, fingers drumming a staccato rhythm on her electro-claw bracers. "Let's name it what it is, Master Windu. You need a blade that doesn't mind getting dirty. Lucky me."

Yoda's ears twitched, his gimer stick tapping the floor—a sound like a death knell. "Trust in your strength, we do. But mindful of your anger, you must be."

She leaned forward, golden eyes narrowing. "My anger is why you dragged me here. Don't scold the fire for burning, Grandmaster."

A ripple passed through the Council. Plo Koon's respirator hissed; Ki-Adi-Mundi's brow furrowed. Only Yoda seemed unperturbed, his claws tightening around his stick. "To Geonosis, Dooku returns. Roots of his power, there you will find."

"Geonosis," Nephthys repeated, her smirk venomous. "Sand, Sith, and certain death. Charming." She turned sharply, her cloak swirling like a desert wind. "I'll bring you his head. Try not to faint when I do."

"General." Windu's voice halted her at the threshold. "The Senate expects... restraint."

She glanced over her shoulder, the mask's empty sockets catching the light, hollow and hungry. "Tell the Senate to pray I'm feeling generous."

The doors sealed behind her with a resonant thud. In the silence that followed, Shaak Ti leaned forward, her voice a blade of ice. "This is a mistake. She is a storm—uncontrolled, untamed."

Yoda closed his eyes, the ghost of a sigh escaping him. "Yet when the storm passes... clarity remains."

Far below, Nephthys strode through the Temple's labyrinthine halls, her claws sparking faintly. The mission was a farce, the Council's trust a threadbare veil. But Dooku? He'd see her. He'd remember.

And when the time came, she'd make sure the galaxy did too.

SCENEBEREAK

It didn't take long before Nephthys reached Geonosis. The blood-red sands stretched endlessly below as her ship, The Scarab, cut through the hazy atmosphere with precision. The engines hummed a steady rhythm before the landing thrusters engaged, sending up swirling clouds of fine dust as they touched down.

The ship's ramp hissed open, and Nephthys disembarked, the soles of her boots meeting the scorched ground. Heat clung to the air, shimmering waves rising from jagged rocks and insect-like spires dotting the horizon.

A clone captain followed close behind her, armor dusted with sand even before they'd properly begun. His visor gleamed in the harsh sunlight. Captain Wolffe—gruff and no-nonsense, his reputation preceded him.

"Are you sure he's here, General?" he asked, voice filtered through the comm system in his helmet. His tone was skeptical, cautious.

Nephthys scanned the horizon, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her saber. "Dooku was sighted here recently. And I can feel... something." Her gaze narrowed as a ripple of unease passed through the Force. "Whether it's him or not, there's trouble brewing."

Wolffe's hand shifted to his blaster instinctively. "Well, I never met a Seppie that didn't love trouble."

A faint vibration rumbled beneath their feet—too steady to be natural. Nephthys met Wolffe's gaze, her expression grim.

"Looks like we're about to meet more than one," she said, drawing her saber with a sharp hiss. "Stay sharp, Captain."

"Always, General," Wolffe muttered, following her into the dusty unknown.