A Search within the Force and Flame

Epilogue-Five Months Later:

 Azula sat cross-legged on the floor of her royal chambers. Her back was straight, hands resting on her knees, and her breathing was calm and even. Incense candles flickered around her, casting soft shadows along the walls. The scent of sandalwood and jasmine filled the air.

The room was quiet—not empty, but peaceful. In the corner, hanging from a hook, was Logan's DC-17 blaster pistol and holster. He'd given it to her after their return. Said it looked better on her anyway, she didn't argue.

Since the journey, Azula had started therapy; so had Logan. Healing hadn't been easy, it still wasn't. But they leaned on each other—and on their friends. One of the practices she'd adopted—reluctantly—was meditation.

She'd even asked Aang for help. He hadn't questioned it, just smiled and showed her what to do. It helped, especially when the person you were seeing was a Jedi who happened to be annoyingly good at this sort of thing. Azula let out a soft breath. Her posture relaxed, if only slightly. The silence settled.

Then—

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

She opened one eye, her brow twitched. She closed it shut.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

With a sigh, she rose and marched to the window, irritation building with each step. She yanked open the blinds—then froze. Hovering just beyond the balcony, perched on his speeder bike, was Logan. No helmet. Wind-tousled hair. And a grin like he'd invented trouble.

Azula's expression softened.

She rolled her eyes, but the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away. She opened the window and leaned against the frame, arms crossed.

"Well, hey there, Your Highness," Logan said, grinning.

Azula raised an eyebrow. "Charming as ever."

"Oh, you know you love it."

She smirked. "I do find it... amusing."

Logan jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "You wanna get out of here?"

Azula tilted her head, as if contemplating the universe.

"On the eve of one of the most important summits in this planet's history... with your Colonial Alliance ships already in orbit... and this is when you ask me to ditch?"

Logan didn't flinch. Just extended his hand.

Azula exhaled, quiet and amused. "Why not."

She took his hand and stepped through the window, lowering herself gracefully onto the back of the speeder behind him. Logan shifted forward, powering it up. The engine purred to life. Azula wrapped her arms around his waist—not tightly, but there—and rested her chin lightly on his shoulder.

"Don't crash."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

The bike peeled off through the sunset sky, slicing over the capital's rooftops, veering toward the mountains. They rode in silence. The hum of the engine and the soft burn of fading sunlight were enough. Eventually, the horizon broke into smooth durasteel and duracrete—a the Jedi outpost nestled into a cliffside plateau, quiet and fortified above the chaos below. Logan brought the bike to a stop at the edge of the hangar.

The bay doors hissed open.

Inside, bathed in pale light, sat a ship unlike anything she expected.

High-slung and sleek despite its battered Corellian frame, painted in white, light-blue and blue, its hull was scarred, reinforced, and uniquely Logan. The silhouette was unmistakable: VCX-100, but warped. Meaner. Sleeker. Heavily modified.

Twin sublight engines jutted like chrome knives. Turret mounts were tucked into tight housings. A drone or pod is nestled on the rear, sitting like a coiled hawkbat. Painted in stenciled Aurebesh near a hatch were two words:

Moody Blue.

Azula's gaze lingered. "This yours?"

Logan shrugged with a lopsided smile. "Built her up from scrap. She used to stall out just trying to breach orbit."

"Charming," she said—but her mouth twitched upward.

He looked at her, more serious now. "She's not perfect. She's tough. She can take anything thrown at her."

Azula stepped closer, brushing her fingers along a long carbon scarring on the hull.

"Sounds like someone I know."

The ramp hissed open. Logan extended his hand in a grand gesture. Azula didn't hesitate—she rushed up the ramp. Inside, the ship was warm. Not sterile, Lived in. The floors were swept, but the corners held signs of a man always on the move. A pilot's jacket slung over the pilot's seat. Crates stacked beneath a half-repaired workbench. A folded blanket—folded, not thrown—on the acceleration couch. Azula ran her hand along the nav console. Modified. Scarred. Precise. Like him.

Droid access ports lined the bulkhead. Three distinct ones, engraved in neat Aurebesh: R9. Slicer. V-8. From deeper inside, one of them chirped.

Azula raised an eyebrow. "You named them?"

Logan passed her with a chuckle. "Droid brains. They bicker less when they feel important."

She followed him into the cockpit. Small. Tight. But the view—breathtaking. Domed transparisteel offered a panorama of sky and city. The controls were Logan's: switches in muscle-memory positions, grips worn smooth. A bundle of pilot charms—carved beads, scraps of fabric—hung from the console, swaying gently.

Azula settled into the co-pilot's seat. Logan dropped beside her, flipping switches one by one.

The Moody Blue rumbled to life.
Lifted.
Soared.

They broke through the clouds. Past the city, past the upper atmosphere, and into space. Azula leaned forward as the Colonial Alliance diplomatic fleet came into view—frigates and fighter escorts arrayed around a massive battlestar in orbit, silent and powerful. She glanced back at Logan, eyes wide with wonder.

"So this is part of your world," she whispered.

He looked at her, smiling.

"You ain't seen nothing yet, Azula. There's a big galaxy out there... and I wanna show it all to you."

Azula smiled warmly. "I think I'm ready for the next adventure."

Logan gripped the yoke, eyes forward. "Then hang on."

He pulled back—

And the stars stretched—

As the Moody Blue blasted into hyperspace...