The Ghost’s ramp hissed open, and the smell of rain and pine filled the air. Ezra stood at the edge, silent, the familiar skyline of Wildryn stretching before him—stone towers piercing silver clouds and banners fluttering over the capital in the distance.
Ezra(quietly): “Home…”
He looked older now, calmer, a prince’s posture he never knew he had. The others waited behind him—Hera with concern, Kanan with suspicion, Sabine with… something she couldn’t even name.
Kanan: “Ezra, you mind explaining why there’s a royal crest with your face on every wall?”
Ezra winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… surprise?”
He took a deep breath. “I’m not from Lothal. I was born here—Wildryn. My parents… they’re the king and queen. Or, well… the tyrants running this place.”
The silence that followed could have cut through beskar.
Hera: “You’re saying—” Zeb: “We’ve been bunkin’ with a kriffin’ prince?!” Chopper: (angry mechanical muttering) Sabine(staring): “Wait—my best friend is a what now?!”
Ezra turned toward them, guilt and determination burning behind his eyes. “I ran away years ago because I couldn’t watch them hurt people anymore. But I promised I’d come back when I was strong enough to stop them. And now… I think I am.”
He stepped off the ramp, boots sinking into the wet earth. “Welcome to Wildryn, everyone. Hope you brought your armor.” He spoke in that "no biggie" tone and started walking.
The crew all looked at each other before running to catch up