It was, Midnight, at the edge of the Dune Sea, six kilometers east of Anchorhead.
The wind howled like a wounded thing, rattling the cracked shell of the collapsed freighter they'd made camp in. Dry sand skittered across durasteel, ghosting over the ruined plating like time itself trying to bury the wreck.
Obi-Wan sat on a twisted engine block beside a flickering fire made from stripped wiring and bone-dry bantha dung. His gloves were off. His hands shook.
Across from him, Shaari and Niva slept tangled in a blanket scavenged from a Jawa trade. Shaari's head rested on Niva's chest. One of her lekku twitched occasionally in dream. Niva's bare shoulder was dusted with ash. Their breathing was slow. Steady. Peaceful, for now.
He stared at them a long time.
Not with lust.
With fear.
Not for what they were—but what he was about to make them become.
His pistol sat beside him. Loaded. Charged. The bounty puck still glowed red where it had been jammed into a cracked panel—highlighting the silhouette of a Nikto slaver wanted by three systems.
He'd planned to take them on this one.
Not because they were ready. But because he couldn't keep bleeding alone.
Now, looking at them in the firelight—skin marked by healing bruises, soft faces finally free of their collars—he saw the truth.
They were survivors. But not warriors. Not yet.
> "If I bring them with me… I'm just sending them to their deaths."
The thought landed in his gut like a stone.
He felt something twist in his chest. Something bitter. Something real.
It wasn't guilt.
It was responsibility.
He took a breath. Sand burned his lungs. The scent of fire, leather, and death sticks lingered on his coat.
He reached for his datapad. Deleted the contract.
Then he shut off the bounty board completely.
The sound it made—just a soft chime—was the loudest thing he'd heard in days.
He looked down at the women again. Saw the way Niva's fingers were still wrapped around Shaari's waist like she was afraid someone might try to take her in the night.
He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening.
> "They need time."
"They need safety."
He stood.
And for the first time in over a year, he turned east—not toward violence, but toward home.
Toward the Lars farm.
Just after dawn, the twin suns had just begun their climb, casting molten light across the Dune Sea. Long shadows stretched from the skeletal vaporators that dotted the Lars perimeter, their hum low and constant in the dry morning air.
Owen Lars stood on the edge of the bluff with his arms crossed and his blaster strapped to his thigh. Dust clung to his boots. Sweat darkened his tunic despite the early hour.
He'd seen them coming an hour ago.
Obi-Wan—hooded, sunburnt, armor hanging off him like rusted guilt.
Behind him trailed two figures, both cloaked, their steps unsure but practiced. Girls. Thin. Barely grown women by the look of them. One red-skinned with tribal tattoos on her lekku. The other a shade of soft Rutian blue, her eyes sharp even through exhaustion.
Owen didn't speak until they reached the edge of the compound.
Obi-Wan stopped first, lowering his hood. His beard was fuller, wild at the edges. He looked like something that had been pulled out of a fire and told to walk it off.
> "You brought company," Owen said, voice flat.
> "They need somewhere safe," Obi-Wan replied. "I need time to train them. They're not ready for what's out there."
Owen narrowed his eyes.
> "And you thought bringing them here—to a farm already stretched to its bones—was a good idea?"
> "No," Obi-Wan said. "I thought it was the only idea."
Behind him, Shaari shifted her weight uneasily. Niva kept her arms at her sides, but her eyes scanned the compound like a prisoner entering a cell.
Then Beru stepped up from the underground entry, shielding her eyes against the light. She took one look at the girls—dust-stained, gaunt, tired—and then at Obi-Wan.
She said nothing.
She simply opened the door.
> "Come in," she said.
Owen turned to her, incredulous.
> "Beru—"
> "They need water," she interrupted. "And shade. And so does he."
There was no fight in her voice. Just truth.
Owen looked at her. Then back to Obi-Wan.
> "You promised me," he said coldly, "you wouldn't bring the war to our door."
> "I'm not," Obi-Wan said. "I'm trying to stop it from spreading."
A long silence.
Then Owen stepped aside.
The gate creaked open.
The girls bathed in the side cistern while Beru brought out water, rations, and spare clothes. Shaari wept silently as the water touched her skin. Niva didn't cry—but she didn't speak either.
Obi-Wan sat on a bench outside the garage, his body slumped, hands still shaking faintly.
Beru brought him a wet cloth and a cup of cactus tea.
> "You staying?" she asked.
He nodded slowly.
> "For a while."
> "Owen won't like it."
> "Owen's never liked me."
She smiled faintly at that. Then, quieter:
> "But Luke... will."
Obi-Wan looked up as she turned back inside.
And through the small circular window above the steps, he saw the boy—barely walking, just beginning to wobble between Beru's hands—point toward the two girls with bright, curious eyes.
Soon evening came, the suns had dipped low, casting long streaks of crimson across the salt flats. The homestead was quiet now, the vaporators clicking in their sleep cycles, the hydroponic garden humming faintly underground.
Obi-Wan stood near the outer garage, rolling up the sleeves of a borrowed tunic as he scraped sand buildup from the edge of a rusted condenser valve. His hands moved with muscle memory—his mind somewhere else.
Owen watched him from the shade of a support pillar. Silent. Blaster in hand, not drawn, just... there.
After a moment, he spoke.
> "You staying long?"
Obi-Wan didn't look up.
> "Long enough to teach them how to survive."
Owen stepped closer, resting his shoulder against the pillar.
> "You know why I said yes."
> "Because Beru did," Obi-Wan answered.
A dry smile tugged at Owen's mouth. Faded just as quickly.
> "I meant what I said. I don't want him involved in any of this."
Obi-Wan set the tool down. Turned.
> "He won't be."
Owen studied him. "You sure?"
Obi-Wan nodded slowly. His voice was lower now, weighted.
> "Luke will never know what the Jedi were. He'll never touch a saber. Never feel the Force unless it finds him on its own."
> "Because when it did last time," he added, "it gave us Darth Vader."
That landed between them like a brick.
Owen's jaw tensed.
> "You really think you can stay that close to him… and not pull him in?"
Obi-Wan didn't blink.
> "Yes."
Owen narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
Obi-Wan exhaled through his nose.
> "Because I already ruined one life. I won't risk another."
The wind stirred the sand at their feet.
Then Owen nodded once, slowly.
> "Then you can stay. But if he so much as lifts something with his mind—"
> "I'll walk into the desert myself," Obi-Wan finished.
A long pause.
Then Owen turned, walking back toward the homestead.
Obi-Wan remained alone in the dying light.
From inside, he could hear laughter—faint and distant. The girls, Shaari and Niva, were in the small kitchen with Beru. Luke was gurgling from the floor mat, reaching toward Niva's hand as she juggled a hydro-fruit.
And for a moment, just a moment, Obi-Wan allowed himself to close his eyes.
> Not a Jedi. Not a fugitive. Not a ghost.
Just a man.
Trying to be something better than what the war left behind.
It was now early morning at the Dine sea northwest of Anchorhead, two weeks after arriving at the Lars farm.
The desert stretched in all directions like a sleeping giant—silent, dry, and unknowable.
Obi-Wan moved ahead of the others, crouched low in the sand, his eyes fixed on the trail. His fingers brushed across a set of clawed prints partially buried by the wind. Deep, heavy, fresh.
> "Massiff," he muttered. "Maybe two."
Behind him, Shaari and Niva crouched beside a dune, wrapped in their new desert cloaks—simple, beige, patched with darker cloth. Their skin gleamed with sweat. Their eyes burned with focus.
> "You sure?" Niva asked softly.
Obi-Wan nodded. "They move in pairs when they're mating. We take the male first. Fast. Quiet. The female will circle, but she won't charge unless provoked."
> "How do you know which is which?" Shaari asked.
He glanced at her. "You'll know when you hear her scream."
They moved.
The massiffs had dug themselves into a half-collapsed rock den beneath a cluster of jagged basalt columns. One was asleep—its sides heaving, jaws parted slightly. The other paced slowly, restless, sniffing the wind.
Obi-Wan handed Shaari a spear.
> "Go for the throat. Just behind the jaw. One thrust. You miss, it'll tear you open before I can get there."
Her hands trembled slightly as she took it. But she didn't back down.
Niva flanked left with a sand-carved bow Obi-Wan had helped her make. Her arrows were crude—scrap-metal tips on bantha-bone shafts—but she could hit a vaporator pipe from fifteen meters now.
> "I don't like this," Niva whispered. "I've only shot targets."
Obi-Wan's voice was steady. "This isn't about killing. It's about choosing what dies so something else can live."
They moved as one.
Shaari struck first.
The spear punched through the massiff's throat with a crack of cartilage and a wet grunt. The beast spasmed once, then collapsed.
The second massiff howled—sharp, wounded rage.
Niva fired. The arrow struck deep in the chest. Not fatal—but enough.
Obi-Wan leapt in, vibroknife in hand, and finished it with a clean thrust under the jaw.
Then silence.
Except for their breathing.
Blood pooled quickly in the sand. Shaari dropped to her knees, panting, her face pale. She didn't cry. But her hands shook badly as she stared at the corpse.
Niva stood over hers, mouth set in a thin line.
> "You did well," Obi-Wan said, kneeling beside the nearest corpse.
He pulled out a curved knife.
> "Now learn the second half."
They spent the next hour gutting and processing the kills.
The massiffs' meat was lean, tough, but high in protein—valuable for trade or long-term storage. Obi-Wan showed them how to strip the hide carefully, where to cut the scent glands for spice traders, how to carve out the jawbone for sale to local Tusken camps.
The claws could be sold to Jawas.
The meat to traders.
The hides to moisture farmers.
> "Each kill is a week of survival," Obi-Wan said. "Maybe more if you barter well."
By the time the suns reached their peak, the girls had filled their packs with dried flesh, bloodied skins, and cleaned bones. Obi-Wan bundled the organs in cloth and buried them under rocks—returning something to the desert.
As they walked back, Shaari finally broke the silence.
> "It didn't feel good."
> "It's not supposed to," he said.
> "But it felt necessary," Niva added.
Obi-Wan nodded.
> "Now you understand."
Late afternoon, two hours after the hunt. Anchorhead was louder than the girls remembered. The markets hissed and clattered—metal shutters, Jawa calls, moisture valves spewing steam as traders bartered for used filters and fuel cores. The air reeked of spice and rusted blood.
Obi-Wan stood near the speeder with his arms crossed, watching from under his hood. He didn't speak. He didn't step in.
This was their lesson.
Shaari approached the first stall, a leathery woman running a butcher's rack. The massiff meat, blood-wrapped in leather, thudded onto the scale. The trader raised an eyebrow.
> "Desert kill?"
> "Today," Shaari replied. "Neck shot. No bone split. Still warm."
The woman grunted, impressed. She offered thirty credits per half-kilo.
> "Seventy-five," Shaari countered, surprising herself.
> "Fifty," the woman replied, already slicing the gutline.
Shaari hesitated—then nodded.
She felt her heart beat with something new. Not joy.
Competence.
Niva, meanwhile, was haggling with a Jawa over two cleaned jawbones and three sharp massiff claws. The Jawa clicked and screeched, tapping a rusty datapad and shaking a tattered satchel of spare wiring.
Obi-Wan stepped in only once—to nudge Niva's foot toward a crate of coolant she didn't notice.
She understood.
By the time they regrouped, they had earned 186 credits total: meat, bone, gland, and hide.
Enough for a water tank filter upgrade and a pack of protein bricks.
> "Still want to be bounty hunters?" Obi-Wan asked quietly.
Shaari smirked.
> "Hunters," she said. "No bounties."
That night, the courtyard was bathed in amber firelight. Beru stirred stew in a pot over the open flame, her hands moving with habitual calm. Beside her, Niva sliced cactus flesh with a vibroknife. Shaari poured fresh water into ceramic jugs.
Luke sat in a cloth sling tied across Beru's chest, dozing with a half-empty bottle in one fist.
Obi-Wan leaned against the stone wall nearby, legs stretched, boots kicked off, his eyes half-lidded. He watched them without speaking.
Not like a man watching property. Not even like a protector.
Like someone seeing peace from a distance. A light he didn't dare touch—but couldn't look away from.
Beru glanced at him as she passed him a bowl.
> "They're learning."
> "They're trying," he said.
> "So are you."
He said nothing.
Inside the kitchen, Shaari giggled as Luke grabbed her finger with surprising strength. Niva smiled, dipping a cloth into warm water to clean his cheeks.
> "He's heavier than he looks," Shaari whispered.
> "You'll get used to it," Beru replied. "Babies grow fast out here. They learn fast, too."
Obi-Wan stared into his bowl.
> And sometimes they die faster, too, he didn't say.
But for now, Luke was smiling. The girls were warm. The stew was hot.
And somewhere beyond the walls, the desert kept its silence.
Quickly two weeks passed like so. The sun hung low, fat and golden over the Dune Sea. Heat rippled off the cracked sand. The air shimmered with the scent of sweat, old leather, and churned dust.
Obi-Wan stood shirtless, his chest broad and scarred, arms folded as he watched the girls run drills.
Shaari moved first—light, fast, her bare feet digging into the dirt as she spun to deflect an imaginary blow. Her lekku swung behind her, wild and fluid. Her tunic clung to her skin in all the places her youth refused to hide.
Niva followed. More deliberate. Heavier steps, but controlled. Her center of gravity was solid—hips wide, shoulders steady. She had a natural feel for weight shifts. Her tunic was cinched high for mobility, revealing toned legs and a sheen of sweat that made her blue skin gleam like polished stone.
> "Stop," Obi-Wan called.
Both froze, panting lightly.
He walked between them, brow furrowed.
> "Shaari—don't bounce your shoulder when you pivot. It telegraphs intent."
She bit her lip, nodding.
He stepped behind her, placing a hand on her hip and another gently on her back.
> "Here," he said quietly. "Press into the heel. Turn with the spine, not the knee."
She moved again—this time smoother.
> "Better."
His hand lingered just a second too long. She noticed. So did he.
Niva moved next. He stepped behind her, guided her wrist in a half-arc, then tapped her ribs softly.
> "You're holding your breath. Let it out."
She did. Her back rose and fell against his palm.
> "And keep this down," he added, placing a hand flat over her stomach, fingers brushing beneath the edge of her tunic.
Her breath caught.
He paused—just briefly—then stepped away.
> "Now let's see how well you've been listening," he said.
They both smiled—wicked, excited.
> "Two against one?" Niva asked, teasing.
> "You'll still lose," he smirked.
They lunged.
Shaari went low. Niva high.
Obi-Wan pivoted, caught Shaari by the waist mid-dive and rolled her onto her back with a thud—dust spraying around them. She laughed, breathless.
> "Too slow," he whispered.
Niva tackled him from behind. He let her drag him down, twisting mid-fall to pin her beneath him, bracing her wrists gently against the sand.
Shaari climbed onto his back, arms wrapped around his chest in mock effort.
He grunted, half-laughing, half-focused.
> "You're improving," he admitted.
> "We'll do more than improve," Niva whispered, still beneath him, eyes locking onto his.
Shaari's cheek pressed against his shoulder. Her breath was warm against his skin.
> "We trust you," she said softly. "You don't have to hold back."
> "You've already given us more than most ever did."
Obi-Wan froze.
They kissed him.
Soft. Gentle. One on each cheek. Near his lips.
His heart lurched in his chest like a misfired engine. Every instinct screamed to pull them closer.
But—
He pulled away.
Not harshly. Just... carefully.
He stood, brushing sand from his hands, breathing hard.
> "That's enough for today," he said, voice low. Strained.
They watched him.
He didn't meet their eyes.
> "You're both young. Beautiful. You deserve more than... this."
Shaari stood, lips parted. "We don't want more. We want you."
Niva followed, brushing dust from her thighs. "We're not girls anymore, Obi-Wan."
He looked away, jaw tight.
> "I'm not ready."
> "You think we are?" Niva said quietly. "We're all trying. That's the point."
He nodded. But said nothing more.
The suns dipped lower.
And for now, the tension hung unspoken.
But not unresolved.
Quickly one week passed. And now It was Morning at Lars Homestead again.
The suns hadn't cleared the ridge when the girls stepped barefoot into the garden tunnel.
The earth was cool under their feet—an unfamiliar comfort. Beneath the main structure, rows of hydroponic trays glowed with faint green light. Nutrient misters hissed at regular intervals. The scent of wet soil, fertilizer, and cactus blossom lingered in the air.
Beru stood by the nutrient tank, sleeves rolled, hands stained with leaf sap.
> "Caution when cutting sprigweed," she said, handing a blade to Shaari. "Touch the wrong end and you'll numb your fingers for a week."
Shaari nodded, wide-eyed. Her hands moved delicately, slicing the stalks clean. Her lekku twitched with focus.
Across the row, Niva pulled moisture sensors from the root chamber. A bead of sweat slid down her cheek, but she grinned when the panel lit green.
> "This one's ready to harvest."
Beru smiled faintly. "Good eye."
Above ground, In the workshop, Owen stood with a vaporator valve half-dismantled on the bench.
Obi-Wan leaned over his shoulder, sleeves rolled, smudged with grease.
Niva sat nearby, watching intently.
> "Crack here, not there," Obi-Wan said, tapping a weak point in the casing. "The inner core'll snap otherwise."
Owen grunted, nodding. "You still remember your hands."
> "Some things don't leave."
> "Like guilt," Owen muttered.
They didn't speak for a while after that.
But the part was fixed.
During midday, Inside the main hall, Luke gurgled in a sun-warmed blanket. Shaari sat cross-legged beside him, humming softly as she braided thin reeds into a teething toy.
Niva stood at the sink, filling bottles with Beru's help—pouring expressed milk, sealing caps, labeling each with a scrap of flimsiplast.
> "He drinks faster than a sand eel," Beru laughed.
> "Means he's growing strong," Niva replied, gently tickling his feet.
Luke laughed—high and bright. For a moment, the sound made everyone in the house pause.
It was the sound of something none of them had heard in years, hope.
In the evening, Obi-Wan sat beneath the entry arch, sipping cooled tea, shirt damp from repairs. Shaari approached, barefoot, a bundle of fresh sprigweed in her hands.
> "Beru says I've got good hands," she said softly, settling beside him.
> "You do," he replied.
> "I didn't think I'd ever learn things like this."
She looked at him.
> "You've given us more than training, you know. You gave us a place to grow."
He looked away.
> "It's not mine. It's theirs."
> "You brought us here," she said. "That makes it yours, too."
From inside, Luke babbled again—his voice muffled by walls, but bright as ever.
Obi-Wan closed his eyes.
For the first time in years, he let the warmth stay.