Chapter 101 · Eyes That Do Not Look Away

The cantina crouched beneath a sagging overhang at the far end of the bazaar, its sign flickering weakly, as though the place had forgotten the meaning of invitation. The door slid open only halfway before catching on something internal; Eli squeezed through sideways, Stent following with the smooth indifference of someone accustomed to navigating tight circumstances.

Inside, the light was dim enough to hide everything except silhouettes. A low haze of cheap vapor clung to the ceiling. A handful of patrons sat scattered across the room—workers, traders, a few Imperial labor contractors in stained fatigues—each with the universal posture of beings trying not to be noticed.

Eli chose a booth with a good view of the room, one hand resting lightly on the table, the other pretending to adjust his datapad. They had agreed to forgo the Mirialan disguise before leaving the Faded Glory. Tonight would be a test of whether the simpler approach was enough. Stent wore only a pair of slim, well-worn welding goggles; blue skin was unusual on Lothal, but not unheard of. Red eyes, however, were memorable for entirely different reasons. Stent seated himself across from him, the dark lenses concealing his eyes, his posture deliberately unremarkable as he seemed to look at nothing while noticing everything.

A barkeep shuffled over—a wide-shouldered man with tired eyes and the resigned gait of someone who’d stopped expecting good days. He dropped two cups in front of them without ceremony.

“You’re new,” he said flatly.

“Passing through,” Eli replied. “Figg and Viros. Traders.”

The barkeep gave a noncommittal hum, then leaned slightly closer. “Not many pass through anymore.”

“Anything we should know?” Eli asked, keeping his tone light.

The barkeep wiped the counter with a rag that did more spreading than cleaning. “Depends what you’re looking for.”

“Information,” Eli said. “And maybe a drink that doesn’t dissolve metal.”

The barkeep didn’t smile, but his mouth twitched like it almost remembered how.

They let a few minutes pass—small sips, idle conversation about supply shortages, the price of fuel, typical trader woes. The barkeep listened with the practiced ease of someone who’d heard every excuse and every lie.

It wasn’t until Eli casually mentioned the old stories that the man paused.

“What stories?” he asked.

“You know,” Eli said, “the ones people keep whispering about. The battle. The sky. The fleet that didn’t make it home.”

At that, the barkeep leaned on the counter, eyes narrowing just enough to suggest he wasn’t sure whether to answer or throw them out.

“You’re talking about the Seventh,” he said quietly.

Eli and Stent didn’t react aloud. But internally, both men tensed.

The barkeep continued in a low, private tone. “No one here knows exactly what happened. The Empire sure as hell won’t say. And the rebels—those still breathing—they just call it ‘the liberation’ like that explains anything.”

Eli tilted his head. “You mean the rebels destroyed an entire Imperial fleet? How?”

“Don’t know,” the barkeep said. “But they pulled something massive. Something… organized. Bigger than anything Lothal ever had any right to expect.”

Stent’s eyes sharpened, the first true flicker of interest breaking his façade. “A coordinated strike force?” he asked, voice flat but honed with genuine curiosity.

“Maybe,” the barkeep said. “Rumor says they had help.”

“What kind of help?” Eli pressed.

The barkeep hesitated, then shrugged. “Some say the wider rebellion sent a fleet. Some say smugglers and pirates joined in. Some say the Force had a hand in it. Jedi nonsense.” A bitter laugh. “But whatever they did… it worked. They tore the Seventh apart.”

Eli leaned forward slightly. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

“Right?” The barkeep threw his hands lightly upward. “That’s the thing. The Seventh was commanded by—”

He caught himself. Eyes flicked at Stent. Then away.

Eli finished for him, voice soft: “By someone who didn’t lose.”

The barkeep exhaled. “Yeah. Him. Which is exactly why no one believes the official reports. Imperial news says tactical retreat. Locals say miracle. I say someone pulled strings bigger than this world.”

Stent didn’t blink. “You saw something yourself.”

“Me?” The barkeep shook his head. “No. But the sky… the sky that night—blue and wrong. Whole chunks of metal falling. Not like explosions. Like… being taken.”

He caught himself again. Then recited, with sudden, brittle formality: “I didn’t see anything. That’s what I meant to say.”

He walked away before either of them could ask more.

Eli watched him go, then turned back to Stent. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“No,” Stent said. “You are thinking about legends. I am thinking about scale.”

“Scale?”

“The amount of coordinated force required to destroy the Seventh. A fleet does not simply vanish. Maybe the rebellion got to try a secret weapon?”

Eli tapped his finger against the table. “Unless someone made it vanish.”

Stent’s eyes narrowed. “Hyperbolic conclusions.”

“Is it?” Eli countered. “Thrawn was a brilliant naval commander. The idea that a scattered rebel cell could annihilate the Seventh—”

“Yes,” Stent interrupted. “Illogical.”

“And yet,” Eli said softly, “it happened.”

Stent didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

The silence between them said everything: Something enormous, and carefully orchestrated, had unfolded here. Something neither of them understood. And something the Empire didn’t want anyone talking about.

The cantina settled back into its low, uneasy murmur once the barkeep walked away. Conversations resumed in careful tones. Cups clinked softly. A ventilation unit rattled overhead like an old animal trying to breathe. Nothing about the room felt dramatic, and maybe that was why Eli noticed the shift.

It wasn’t sound. It wasn’t movement.

It was attention—a subtle tightening in the air, the sensation of becoming a point of focus in someone else’s line of sight.

Eli didn’t look immediately. He let his eyes wander over the room in the reflection on his cup, the distorted surface just clear enough to reveal the layout behind him.

Three laborers at the bar. Two dockhands playing cards. A woman asleep in a corner booth.

And at the far table, half-hidden behind a support pillar, a man sat with a half-finished drink, posture slouched enough to appear casual but eyes fixed far too steadily in their direction.

Not on Eli. On Stent. Or rather, on the blue-skinned mechanic in the worn work cap and welding goggles.

Stent hadn’t turned his head. Hadn’t lifted his gaze. Hadn’t altered a single line of his posture.

But Eli could tell he knew.

A heartbeat later, Stent turned his head just enough for the dark lenses of the welding goggles to face the stranger directly. There were no visible eyes behind the smoked glass, yet the effect was immediate.

The man flinched.

It wasn’t obvious. The sort of flinch you could mistake for someone shifting in their seat. But it was there: shock cutting through composure, a sudden, unmistakable awareness of being seen back.

Then, almost immediately, the man leaned into his hand and angled his face away, pretending to rub his temple. His other hand slipped beneath the table.

Eli’s stomach tightened. He didn’t need to see it to know what that motion meant.

“Stent,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Stent replied softly.

The man’s lips moved. Not loudly. Not in conversation. Quiet. Small. Speaking into something.

A commlink.

Stent didn’t rise. Didn’t tense visibly. Didn’t break character as Ren Viros, the unimpressive trader.

Only his voice shifted—a degree colder, lower. “Do not look again.”

Eli kept his expression slack, unbothered. “Already saw enough.”

“Describe.”

“Human male, mid-forties maybe. Labor jacket. Beer he hasn’t finished. Trying very hard not to stare.”

“Armed?”

“Probably.”

“Affiliation?”

Eli swallowed. “Not Imperial?”

“Correct.”

That single word hit like a stone dropped in a still pond.

Because if he wasn’t Imperial… and he wasn’t a civilian…

Then he belonged to the third category on worlds like this:

Locals with purpose. Locals with orders. Locals who watch for the kind of trouble the Empire doesn’t see coming.

Eli flicked his gaze through the cup’s reflection again.

The man finished speaking into the commlink. He didn’t raise his head. He only tightened the grip on his drink and pretended to become very interested in the table.

A classic watcher’s tactic: disappear by looking still.

“It’s us,” Eli whispered. “He’s calling someone about us.”

“Correct,” Stent said.

“And you don’t seem… bothered.”

“I am analyzing.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It is not meant to be.”

Eli let out a slow breath, adjusting the cloth strap on his satchel like any trader preparing to leave.
“We need to go.”

“Yes,” Stent said.

“Straight to the ship?”

“No.”

Eli glanced up. “No?”

“We separate.”

Of course. Basic counter-surveillance: break the pattern, split the trail, regroup later.

“Right,” Eli murmured. “Right. Got it.”

He rose from the booth with the casual air of someone who’d simply decided the drink was bad. Stent waited three full seconds before standing — enough for their departure to look uncoordinated.

Neither looked back at the man.

They didn’t need to.

His stare followed them anyway.