Bo-Katan leaned against the cold railing of her palace balcony, a cigarette dangling loosely between her fingers. The city of Sundari stretched beneath her, its towering domes and flickering streetlights casting a golden glow over the capital. It should have been a sight that filled her with pride—her city, her people, her throne.

But she felt nothing.

Her tired, emerald eyes drifted aimlessly, unfocused, scanning the skyline without really seeing it. Smoke curled from her lips, vanishing into the night air. She took another slow drag, hoping—praying—it would numb her, even if just for a moment. But it never did.

She was exhausted. Angry. And utterly, hopelessly alone.

A queen at 22. A mother of two. A failure at both.

She could barely remember her children’s names half the time. The boy—he handled the other one, didn’t he? That’s what he was good for. It wasn’t cruelty. Not really. She just didn’t have it in her to care. Ruling Mandalore was enough of a nightmare. If it weren’t for the blindly loyal lieutenants and advisors propping her up, she knew she’d be dead already. And maybe she should be.

She exhaled, letting the smoke drift from her lips, staring down at the specks of movement below.

Then—a tug at her sleeve.

Bo-Katan stiffened. Her first instinct was to flinch, as if expecting a threat, but when she looked down, it was only a child. Small, fragile. Looking up at her with wide, uncertain eyes.

She blinked, slow, sluggish—her mind struggling to catch up.

“Oh… you.” Her voice was rough, hoarse from years of war and too many cigarettes. She stared at him for a long moment, then muttered, almost like an afterthought:

“…What do you want, Kyle?”

The name felt foreign in her mouth, like something she had to dig for in the back of her mind. Did she say the right one? Did it even matter?

She didn’t mean to sound so cold. Or maybe she did.

The boy—her son—had done nothing wrong. But that was the problem. She had nothing to give him. No warmth, no love, not even a sliver of the affection.