Lianna—the fourth planet of the Lianna system—shone like a jewel threaded into the vast lattice of the Outer Rim. An ecumenopolis without equal in the Allied Tion sector, its surface was a seamless ocean of durasteel towers, transit lanes, and luminous skylines that never slept. It was the proud homeworld of House Santhe and the industrial heart of Santhe/Sienar Technologies, a nexus of commerce, innovation, and power. Positioned at the intersection of the Perlemian Trade Route, the Cadinth Run, and the Shaltin Tunnels, Lianna was more than a world—it was a beating artery of galactic traffic.
And now, it was marked for war.
The order had come from Count Dooku himself. The target was not merely strategic—it was symbolic. If Lianna fell, the ripple effects would be catastrophic for the Republic. Trade would choke. Reinforcements would falter. Panic would spread.
Overseeing its defense was Jedi Master Cei Vookto, a seasoned guardian whose mastery of the Force was matched only by his tactical discipline. But even the strongest bastion could crumble under the right storm.
And the storm had a name.
---
General Grievous stood motionless within the cavernous hangar bay of his newest command ship—the *Providential*, a freshly commissioned Providence-class battlecruiser. Beyond the translucent shielding, the void stretched wide, dominated by the distant curve of a conquered world—Utapau, now silent beneath Separatist control.
The campaign had been swift. Brutal. Efficient.
The defenders had been swept aside like dust in a hurricane of metal and firepower. Grievous had personally led the assault, his presence on the battlefield a living weapon that tore through enemy formations with merciless precision. The droid army, reinforced by elite units and a formidable fleet, had performed flawlessly.
Sixteen Recusant-class light destroyer frigates.
Fifty-two Munificent-class frigates.
Eight Lucrehulk-class battleships.
A wall of steel and annihilation.
But what truly captured the General's attention were the starfighters lined in perfect formation within the hangar.
Porax-38 starfighters.
Sleek. Compact. Deadly.
Each craft stretched twelve meters in length and width, armed with twin heavy blaster cannons, reinforced armor plating, and a deflector shield system far superior to standard droid fighters. Their dual ion engines, mounted on massive wingtip nacelles, hummed faintly—like predators waiting for release.
Grievous had not purchased them.
He had taken them.
Utapau's Air Self-Defense Force had once relied on these fighters. Now, they served the Confederacy. Production lines, once modest, now churned endlessly under Separatist control, bolstered by Military Logistics Augmentation units. The war demanded quantity—but Grievous demanded quality.
The Vulture droids had failed him. Weak. Predictable. Easily cut down by Jedi.
But these… these had potential.
The *Providential* carried four full strike wings:
* The **First Strike Wing**, marked in bold yellow fuselages.
* The **Second Strike Wing**, cloaked in matte black.
* The **Sixth Strike Wing**, adorned with crimson striping.
Each wing housed four squadrons—disciplined, lethal, ready.
And then there was the **Thirteenth Strike Wing**.
Smaller. Only two squadrons.
But far more dangerous.
Their pilots were MagnaGuards—elite warriors personally loyal to Grievous. Not mere escorts, but extensions of his will. They would fly beside him, guard him, and if necessary, die for him.
The General's gaze narrowed.
The route was hidden. A direct path from Utapau, masked from Republic sensors. The element of surprise would be absolute.
Lianna would fall.
And from its ashes, he would strike deeper—toward the Core Worlds, toward Lantilles, toward the unraveling of the Republic itself.
A faint mechanical rasp escaped his mask.
Soon… they would all know his name.
---
### **Scene II: The Weight of Knowledge**
Dagon leaned back slightly in his command chair aboard the *Terminus*, the quiet hum of the ship's systems forming a constant backdrop to his thoughts. Before him, streams of data scrolled across holographic displays—fleet formations, supply routes, predictive models.
War reduced to numbers.
Ethan stood nearby, eyes unfocused, processing layers of information faster than any organic mind could. To an outsider, he might have seemed idle. But Dagon knew better.
"Ethan," Dagon said, his voice calm but edged with urgency, "bring up the galactic map of the Twelfth Sector."
"Already ahead of you, boss."
The hologram flared to life—stars, trade lanes, and fleet markers glowing in shifting patterns. Lines of movement intersected like threads in a tightening net.
Dagon studied it in silence.
"Grievous launched three major offensives during the war," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "First—control the hyperlanes. Second—cut off the Outer Rim, force alliances with the Hutts. Third… the Outer Rim sieges."
Ethan tilted his head slightly. "According to your… unusual memory, yes."
Dagon exhaled slowly.
Memory. That was one way to put it.
"But Boz Pity has already fallen," Ethan continued. "That changes the sequence. What remains—Dooku's strongholds, the Trade Federation, the Banking Clan… Saleucami, Felucia…"
He paused.
"Not exactly impressive, strategically speaking."
Dagon's gaze sharpened.
"Except Felucia isn't just a battlefield. It's a trap waiting to happen."
A flicker of recollection crossed his mind—visions of chaos, monstrous creatures, the 501st fighting for survival. Futures that might no longer come to pass.
Or might come worse.
"Our sector still holds Raxus Prime," Ethan added. "The de facto capital of the Confederacy. And thanks to your blockade strategies, the Twelfth Sector has been… unusually stable."
"Which means," Dagon said quietly, "there's a straight line."
Ethan nodded. "Straight to the heart."
Dagon leaned forward suddenly, something clicking into place.
"Wait."
"I am waiting, sir."
"Why would the Jedi be given a stealth ship at Christophsis?"
Ethan blinked. "They weren't. Not yet. And with Rath backing you, the likelihood of Palpatine—or the Jedi—gaining that technology early is… low."
Dagon's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile.
"Exactly."
The pieces aligned.
"Grievous' first offensive began at Lianna. Not just to seize territory—but to destroy the fleet and eliminate the Jedi presence before pushing into the Core."
His eyes burned with realization.
"But now? Now we're ahead of the timeline."
Ethan's tone shifted, intrigued. "You're planning to intercept."
"Not just intercept," Dagon said, rising from his seat. "We're going to ambush him."
The hologram shifted as he input commands, fleet vectors recalculating in real time.
"Ragnos," he called out.
A moment later, a voice responded through the comm. "Yes, Commander?"
"Contact Lianna. Mobilize the fleet. Full defensive posture—no, scratch that. Offensive readiness."
A pause.
"Understood."
Dagon stared at the glowing image of Lianna, its countless lights flickering like a galaxy contained within a world.
*If I get the chance…*
His hand clenched slightly.
*I'm ending this.*
"I've already saved enough Jedi to tilt the balance," he murmured under his breath. "Maybe even enough to handle Sidious when the time comes."
Ethan glanced at him. "That's… ambitious."
Dagon's expression hardened.
"No."
A quiet, dangerous certainty settled over him.
"It's necessary."
He turned back to the viewport, where the stars stretched endlessly ahead.
"Time to change fate."