Depa Billaba adjusted the fall of her robe over one shoulder and studied the faint reflection in the metal panel beside the hangar entry.
Lean frame. Warm brown skin. A single pale line under her right eye from an old mission. Dark eyes steady and clear beneath level brows. Tight braids kept her hair close for travel, and the robe draped cleanly over a body honed by years of training. At her hip, her lightsaber hung in easy reach, the silver hilt burnished where her grip favored it.
She drew a slow, even breath.
A mission with Master Yoda to Kashyyyk for youngling candidacy.
Facts arranged themselves in her thoughts with the same order she brought to saber work. Two Wookiee cubs. Elevated readings. Twins from a respected clan in the mid-canopy of a key Mid Rim world. Wookiee customs wrapped tightly around clan and family, so any talk about sending children to the Temple demanded care, respect, and patience.
Strength flowed naturally through that species. Even a modest well of Force ability inside a Wookiee could one day create guardians with tremendous physical presence and deep spiritual momentum. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she pictured two tall figures in Jedi robes, presence filling a corridor, sabers humming with calm intent. The Force moved in patterns; some children reached the Temple, others remained with their people. Her task focused on offering a path, not dictating one.
Her boots carried her along the corridor toward the private hangar. Air grew cooler, touched by the scent of fuel, metal, and distant traffic lanes. Beyond the transparisteel, Coruscant spread outward in glittering tiers, ship-lanes threading between towers like flowing streams of light.
Inside the bay, the transport waited on its mag-plates.
A Republic diplomatic shuttle rested there, a compact variant of the red Consular-line couriers. The hull ran in a deep crimson band from pointed nose to tail, broken by polished durasteel panels and slim viewports. Silver Republic crests marked each flank and the broad dorsal fin, catching the hangar lights in sharp glints. Twin ion engines sat recessed in the rear housing, their cores already awake with a steady, low hum that vibrated through the deck. A short ventral ramp extended from the nose section toward the floor, framed by soft guide-lights, while a narrow cockpit canopy curved forward above it, giving the pilot a clean line across the stars.
Flight crew stayed away from this run; the shuttle carried full clearance for Jedi operation. Only two lifeforms would ride this vessel: Master Yoda as envoy and Depa Billaba at the controls, a lean, precise ship for a lean, precise mission—one Master and one Knight traveling in person to Kashyyyk. Among Wookiee clans, such a direct visit from the Grand Master himself, without a larger diplomatic entourage, signaled deep trust and long-standing friendship: elder to elder, ally to ally, coming to speak face-to-face.
At the edge of the ramp, Master Yoda stood ready.
He leaned lightly on his gimer stick, ears angled forward. Fine wrinkles traced his small green face like carved root-work, and his eyes held that familiar blend of welcome and careful observation.
Depa bowed, robe falling in a controlled line. "Master."
Yoda's gaze warmed. "Ready, you are, Depa Billaba."
"Ship stands prepared," she answered, voice steady. "Route filed for Kashyyyk along the Mid Rim lanes. Standard waypoints through the corridor. The journey should take several days in hyperspace."
A small, satisfied hum rose from him as he walked up the ramp.
Depa matched his pace, lights dimming behind them as the hangar doors sealed and the outside roar softened into distance.
They moved together through the short corridor toward the cockpit. Her thoughts settled briefly on Yoda's long history with the Wookiees. Records in the Temple spoke of him striding along wroshyr platforms during earlier cycles, sharing council with chieftains in open-air halls, standing beside Wookiee warriors against Trandoshan hunters along the shadowed branches. He learned their songs, honored their rituals, and treated their warriors as comrades in spirit. Their people remembered those things.
That bond would open many doors among the elders.
Depa carried a different weight. Her presence represented the broader Order, another witness for the children's potential and another listener for the family's concerns. She would read the feelings beneath proud roars and quiet pauses, bringing clarity back to the Council. Wookiee honor responded strongly to courage, honesty, and direct speech; every word she spoke on this mission would rest on those pillars.
She settled into the pilot's chair, hands moving across the controls with practiced ease. Indicator lights came alive in a soft cascade: engine status, shield grids, nav-computer alignment, traffic clearance codes. Yoda took the co-pilot seat, small frame settling with a gentle exhale, gimer stick resting across his lap.
"Depart, we shall," he said.
Depa keyed in final clearance. The shuttle lifted on its repulsors, turned smoothly on vector thrusters, and slid through the bay's energy field into Coruscant's upper lanes. Towers fell away beneath them, traffic streams thinned, and the stars gathered ahead in a dense, waiting field.
Once the ship cleared the gravity well, the nav-computer chimed readiness for hyperspace. Depa wrapped her hand around the hyperdrive lever and glanced once toward Yoda. He offered a small nod, eyes already on the starfield.
She eased the lever forward.
Starlines stretched into bright threads and folded into the deep blue tunnel of hyperspace, the shuttle riding a clean corridor through the void—aimed toward Kashyyyk and two small cubs whose futures waited among the towering trees.
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Elder Varraak sat in his high-branch dwelling, broad back resting against the curved wroshyr wall. Lantern light caught along the silver in his fur, turning his mane into a pale ring around his lined face. Outside, the village platforms settled for the evening; ropes creaked softly, boards thudded as hunters returned, and a low mix of voices drifted through the leaves.
He felt tired more often these days. Four hundred years weighed on joints and bone. The thought of stepping back from council work, spending more time with great-grandcubs, teaching at the communal circles, had started to sound appealing.
Tonight, though, his thoughts stayed on one thing: the twins, and the Jedi coming for them in a few days.
Two cubs in one litter with that kind of gift.
Among Wookiees, children arrived less often than among many other species. Long lives. Careful bonds. Each birth carried weight for clan and village. Force-touched cubs appeared rarely across those long years, sometimes absent for entire generations. A single gifted child already meant stories for the elders' fire. Two, born to parents who had waited centuries, sent ripples through every platform.
He thought back to the council discussions.
Three nights they had sat together in the meeting hut—old warriors, crafters, clan speakers, and himself. Mats on the floor, root-pillars at their backs, oil lamps burning low while voices traded views until the stars swung far overhead. They still hadn't told the parents…
The elders and the clan chieftain wanted to be of one accord before telling the parents everything.
They still had a few days before the Jedi arrived.
Most elders viewed the Jedi interest as an honor.
To raise a cub who joined the Order meant raising a defender recognized across the whole Republic. Among their people, warriors commanded respect, and Jedi held a place even higher in skill, reach, and duty. Wookiees valued strength joined with service to something larger than the self, and the Jedi path embodied that. If the twins chose Coruscant, they could one day reach guardians whose authority reached from the highest branches to the Senate itself.
Some minds also weighed the broader ties.
A world that sent younglings to the Temple strengthened its bond with the Republic and the Order.
Doubts had their place as well.
Elders with a more inward-looking view reminded the circle that cubs carry the future of the village. Children grew the clan, tended the bonds, learned the stories face to face. Their argument held that such strength stays best within the branches that raised it. Others pointed to the unusual nature of the birth—the white and black fur, the timing, the readings—as a boon for the clan that many wished to keep close. Auspicious signs stirred old beliefs, and some hearts leaned toward seeing the twins as a gift meant to remain under their own trees.
Through every argument, one point stayed steady: the Jedi arrived as friends. Master Yoda's history with Kashyyyk stretched across decades—visits during calm years, help during border troubles, counsel when off-world slavers tested the branches.
In the past he had treated chieftains and elders as partners, listened more than he spoke, and honored their customs.
His presence would make the matter feel less like losing cubs and more like sharing them with a wider circle of allies.
By the end of the third night, the path had shape.
When the Jedi arrived, the clan would greet them properly: platforms cleared, fires prepared, hunters in full gear to show respect. Before that, the elders would sit with Asharra and Carruck in their home and explain what the Temple offered—the chance for their sons to walk the Jedi path.
The choice would sit with the parents, guided by clan wisdom and the clear understanding that, if the twins went, they would leave the daily life of the clan behind. They would still belong to Kashyyyk in spirit and origin, and if the trees or the people ever faced danger, perhaps those sons would answer the call.
It was a heavy thing to place before any mother and father.
Varraak pushed himself upright with a low exhale and reached for his carved staff. Voices floated up from the main platform—familiar patterns, a hint of excitement.
Time to go speak with the family.