The cantina was a cacophony of alien chatter, clinking glasses, and the wail of a jizz-wailer from a shadowed corner. Smoke hung in the dim light, catching on the rough tunics and cloaks of a dozen different species.

For a time, they drank in silence, Luke fidgeting, Obi-Wan’s gaze methodically sweeping the room. Then the old Jedi’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. His hand stilled on his glass.

Against his own warning, Obi-Wan’s eyes were drawn to the far corner of the cantina. There, shrouded in the deepest shadows away from the bar’s main glow, sat a solitary figure. A dark, heavy cloak obscured their form. A half-finished drink sat untouched on the table before them. Their head was bowed, face completely hidden.

But the Force around them was still. Deliberately, unnaturally still. Like the calm eye of a storm.