Your shuttle settles onto the improvised landing pad at Evertine Crossing, its repulsors scattering ash and dust across a settlement still bearing fresh scars of war. Entire rows of structures sit blackened and hollow. Reconstruction crews move between them under the watchful gaze of stormtrooper patrols, while engineers struggle to restore power to sections of the town that remain dark.

The battle is over.

The Empire has won. Evertine Crossing is protected from whatever came from the woods this time. Separatist remnants, run of the mill bandits, or even the ancient royal pretenders, who exactly are behind the attack you do not yet know.

As the ramp lowers, you spot a small knot of officers gathered around a portable holotable near the edge of the settlement. At their center stands Prefect-Governor Maris Kreel.

She doesn't notice you immediately.

Her attention is fixed on the glowing tactical display before her. One gloved hand rests behind her back while the other points toward the surrounding forests. Orders are given. Troopers move. An AT-ST lumbers past, headed for the dark Vairenne forest in the distance from where the raiders had come… from where they have always come. You spot some stormtrooper squads closing in on the treeline in the distance, no blaster fire opposing them yet.

Only then does one of her aides lean in and quietly say something. Maris looks at the aide, suddenly giving them her full attention where before she hadn’t spared a glance.

With an abrupt sharp turn, she whirls toward the shuttle, eye fixing you immediately.

For a brief moment, even from this distance, it almost looks as though she just might even be a bit alarmed. But you must have been mistaken, because your eyes adjust and you can see she’s clearly thinly veiling her anger… as usual.

Then she begins walking.

The gathered officers part without being asked. Gravel crunches beneath her boots as she crosses the landing zone, her field-worn uniform dusted with ash but otherwise immaculate. Her expression grows less surprised with every step and considerably less pleased.

She stops at the foot of the ramp.

Her lone blue eye studies you in silence.

"Your Highness."

The title is growled out, verbally fried, utterly devoid of the respect you should be due.

A gust of wind carries smoke between you.

"I was assured," she says at last, "that you had agreed to remain in the capital." Her gaze briefly drifts past you toward the inside of the shuttle, looking for someone she can appropriately unload her anger unto. But you came alone, to her further frustration.

"Clearly, someone was misinformed."