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Those were indeed the days, Den reflected, hurrying to keep up with Laranth as she crossed the flagstones and made her way through the exit.

“Slow down!” he complained. “Not every species has grotesquely long legs, y’know.”

The Twi’lek glanced back over her shoulder without slowing her pace. “Then stretch yours.”

Swearing under his breath, Den broke into a trot. “I gotta tell you,” he muttered as he caught up to her, “this whole fatal fem thing is getting old. You know you’re hard, I know you’re hard. Anyone around you for more than five minutes who doesn’t know that you’re hard isn’t operating in the same sensory framework. So as a personal favor, why don’t you lighten up?”

Laranth halted sharply and looked down at him. “What makes you think I have a choice?”

This was not the response Den had expected. Not that he’d had any particular rejoinder in mind. He came to a stop as well, thankful for the respite. Gazing up at the unsmiling Twi’lek Paladin, he observed how the various krypton, argon, and neon spectra from a nearby floating advert-sphere shone off the glossy scar tissue of her face. He noticed as well something he hadn’t seen before in her eyes. Instead of the usual bleak mixture of determination and resignation, Den was surprised to see a flash of hurt—hurt, and an infinite weariness. It vanished quickly; so quickly that anyone else might have wondered if there had really been anything there at all. But Den was, above all, a reporter, and he trusted his perception. Not every insight came through utilization of the Force. He knew he had just gotten a glimpse of some very real and very old scars.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, abashed. “Didn’t mean to—”

She interrupted him with a shrug as she turned away. “Forget it.” She was in motion again, strong legs striding. After a moment, he followed.

As he hurried to keep up with her he found himself turning over in his mind what he knew about Laranth Tarak. There wasn’t much. He knew that she had been a Gray Paladin, a member of the renegade group that had splintered from the Jedi mainstream. He didn’t know much about them, save that they were dedicated to the Jedi Code but considerably more militaristic than the Order itself. Since the Jedi Knights weren’t exactly mantra-chanting pacifists to begin with, this suggested that the Gray Paladins were capable of some serious butt kicking. Den knew this to be true from experience and not just anecdote, as he’d had the privilege of seeing Laranth in action. The Twi’lek’s weapons of choice were the twin DL-44 blasters he had rarely seen her without, and her skill and accuracy with them were uncanny. Aided by the Force, she was good enough to block enemy fire with her own blasts. It was not quite the same as parrying shots with a lightsaber, but it was still impressive.

That was pretty much all he knew about the Gray Paladins. Little as it was, it was more than he knew about Laranth herself. This despite the occasional research he had carried out employing his reportorial skills. Laranth Tarak had dropped off the grid of the knowable a long time ago. He knew that she and Jax had first encountered each other during the slaughter of innocents known as Flame Night, a nocturnal massacre of Force-sensitives designed to rid the Empire of potential future threats as well as to draw any remaining Jedi out of hiding. It had been one of the first actions taken by the newly formed Inquisitorius. By the standards of that formidable and menacing body, the operation had been a great success, winning high praise from the Emperor himself.

By combining forces, Jax and Laranth had managed to barely escape from the ambush, although Laranth had not emerged unscathed. Den didn’t know if the Paladin’s grim nature had always been a part of her personality, or if it had been annealed that night by the blasterfire that had truncated a lekku and seared one side of her face. It didn’t really matter. Whoever Laranth Tarak had been before had been thoroughly purged by the horrors of Flame Night.

Inquisitors, those “truth officers” steeped in the dark