** Interlude: Whispers on Coruscant**
**Coruscant – Office of the Moff of the First Sector**
Dikemius Trachta pressed the switchboard button. A soft chime echoed, followed by his secretary's crisp voice.
"Sir, Moff Ravik has arrived."
"Let him through."
A minute later, the young commander joined the small gathering in Trachta's office. The General Staff had summoned all Sector Army commanders under the guise of "lively discussions" to strengthen cooperation and military might. In truth, these meetings often devolved into circles of superiors extolling their own brilliance while subtly undermining rivals.
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," Anatole Ravik said, bowing dramatically. "I was detained at the General Staff."
Wasp Praji, Moff of the Fourth Sector, grinned. "So, have you already met the SSP?"
"What does that abbreviation mean?" Ravik asked.
"A bunch of old farts, naturally," Joseph Gann, Moff of the Fifth Sector, chuckled. "I thought you already knew the designation circulating in certain circles."
"I only recently reached such a high level," the young commander of the Fourteenth Sector spread his hands. "I haven't had time to learn all the… nuances of the current state of affairs."
"You're not the only one," Gunn explained. "Anyone rising quickly eventually runs into the 'old guard.' They love reminiscing about their exploits and resent those who push them into the shadows — especially young, successful officers."
Trachta nodded. He had recently turned thirty-two. Praji was the oldest at thirty-six. Gann was two years younger. Ravik, at twenty-seven, was the youngest. Attaining the rank of Moff — of which there were only twenty — at such an age was considered unrealistic by veterans of the Judicial Corps or planetary defense forces. Yet the longer the war dragged on, the more those who had languished in peacetime rose through demonstrated skill, adaptability, and sheer fortune.
"I agree," Anatole said, opening a fresh bottle of wine and pouring glasses for everyone. "But not everyone fits that mold. I heard Admiral Octavian Grant is being tipped for Moff of the Twentieth Sector — and he's only twenty-six!"
"Grant's a talented bastard," Trachta noted dryly, "but also a careerist and sycophant. That's why they're fast-tracking him. We hear plenty about his 'promotions' here on Coruscant."
"There are a lot of rumors circulating," Joseph remarked, exchanging a meaningful glance with Trachta.
"For example?" Ravik asked.
"Oh, mere trifles," Trachta said. "Allegedly, some Muuns from the Banking Clan approached certain senators with proposals. The Muuns want to leave the CIS, negotiate separate agreements, and possibly organize peace talks between the Republic and the Separatists."
"Are you serious?" Ravik looked genuinely surprised. "That can't be true… can it?"
"Relying on rumors is rarely wise," Praji frowned. "But rumors rarely appear from nothing."
"And if it *is* true," Ravik pressed, "you're not suggesting our politicians would agree to it? I always thought Chancellor Palpatine was only interested in winning."
"That's true," Trachta said. "However, he could be forced into it. He has solid support in the Senate, but not unconditional. If other factions unite, their opinion could prevail."
"And then there's the Order," Gann spat. "The so-called Guardians of Peace… or soldiers of the Dragon."
Ravik looked closely at Dikemius. "I suppose you don't agree with this 'policy'?"
"No," Trachta admitted, raising his glass in a half-salute. "But what can we do? We hold great power in our hands, yet it is nothing compared to the Jedi. You know perfectly well how they handle such matters. We don't stand a chance against them."
A heavy silence fell over the room. The clink of glasses sounded unnaturally loud.
Praji leaned back, swirling his wine. "The Dragon reshapes everything he touches. Jedi reforms, clone rights, new superweapons, secret alliances… Some say he's becoming more Sith than Jedi. Others say he's the only thing keeping the Republic alive. Either way, the balance of power is shifting. And not in our favor."
"Exactly," Gann muttered. "While we fight and bleed on the frontlines, the Temple grows stronger. Dagon Marek commands more loyalty from the clones and officers than the Chancellor himself. If the war drags on much longer…"
He left the thought unfinished.
Ravik stared into his glass. "So we grit our teeth and watch?"
"For now," Trachta replied quietly. "The old guard may resent us, but at least they understand the game. The Dragon plays an entirely different one. And the Jedi… they have always been above the Senate. Now they have a warlord at their head who actually wins."
The Moffs drank in silence. Outside the reinforced windows, the endless lights of Coruscant glittered like a sea of stars. Somewhere far away, on Umbara and dozens of other fronts, clones and soldiers died while these men debated power in comfortable offices.
The war had changed the Republic. But the men who truly understood its new shape were still few — and many of them wore masks, metaphorical or literal.
Trachta raised his glass again. "To the Republic. May it survive its saviors."
The others echoed the toast, but the words tasted bitter.
In the distance, the Jedi Temple glowed serenely atop its mountain. Inside its walls, the Dragon of the Republic continued his relentless preparations. And on Coruscant, a new generation of ambitious officers watched — wary, calculating, and increasingly aware that the old order was crumbling faster than anyone had predicted.