The second Death Star loomed above Endor like a half-finished threat.
Cindar's fleet, hidden behind the moons of Sullust, waited for the call.
Mira read the plan three times.
Toren only said: "We join when it counts."
They knew the risk.
This time, Vader would not underestimate them.
This time, they might not all come back.
But they came anyway.
From the shadows of Cindar's command ship, Toren watched the feeds.
Luke had turned himself in.
Faced Vader.
Faced Sidious.
Toren whispered to Kora: "Track his life signs."
But Kora gave no readings.
"He is beyond systems now."
Mira looked over.
"He's where he has to be."
And they?
They had a fleet to lead.
The battle over Endor erupted fast.
Faster than any before.
The Empire had learned from failure.
Cindar's Crownbreaker was targeted first—an Imperial dreadnought peeling off just for them.
Toren refused to flee.
He redirected power to shields, lined up ion disruptors, and sent a reply coded with their founding message:
"We are not dust. We are fire beneath your feet."
The dreadnought blinked out three minutes later.
But the Crownbreaker was cracking.
Toren gave the final order:
"Detach command. Evacuate to fallback pods. Let it burn."
The last piece of Aurex died in glory.
The moment passed like a breath held too long.
Aboard the Death Star, Luke rose.
Vader fell.
Palpatine—ended.
The galaxy shifted.
Mira and Toren stood on the bridge of a borrowed Rebel cruiser, hands clasped, watching the explosion from afar.
Not cheering.
Just breathing.
Together.