She’d stood as close to the pyre as she’d dared the day they’d burned Anakin. The flames had licked viciously at her face, showering constellations of sparks across her skin, but Jaina had refused to move away. In their searing heat she’d found a strange comfort: a burning to match the rage coiling within her soul.
Nothing burned today: no pyre, no rage. Instead Jaina stood between her parents and uncle before the Falcon’s main airlock as the shrouded corpse of her only remaining brother drifted away into the black – and felt nothing at all. It was as though her blade had cut her own heart from her chest just as surely as it had Jacen’s, and in its place all that remained was an engulfing void as cold and dead and empty as the space between the stars that would hold her brother’s body forever.