Four thousand, nine hundred and eighty-two.
Cur’etaolan, sche’cuolan, bal shehn’eta t’ad.
The number of souls I carry along with me. The number of faces I see when I close my eyes.
All the same to most, but each one as different as any.
The number of bodies I had to bury.
30. Thirty. …
To the hundred and four boys I met all those years ago, and the hundred and two who made it to Geonosis. To the sixty-three who survived that day, and the thirty-eight who made it to the end of the war. This bottle of tihaar’s for you. See you in the manda.