"Oh? The weather here, wherever we are, is not quite so treacherous as even Ilum," Trilla observes. "I doubt a little snow will kill you." What was it that he had said before, something about the ability to adapt? In any case, she feels less than worried about Cal's ability to endure whatever traps lay waiting out there in the snow.

He's survived this long, after all, and how many of his kind can say the same? Not like the many younglings who were forced to endure Ilum's frozen treachery, those like the ones Trilla had known once, who she herself tried to save—she flexes a fist, her grip on her helmet tightening for a moment. No, like many other prisons, this one has other dangers aside from those clearly seen.

"Begone then, explore how you wish," she says, turning half away. A rare exception to their other meetings; no lightsabers drawn, no blood being shed. For the time being, they seem to have many other things to worry about first. "I doubt this will be the last time we'll see each other."