B’Hala
The ruins of B’Hala stretched across the rocky landscape like the skeletal remains of a forgotten age. In the faint light of Bajor’s five moons, the broken towers and half-buried spires cast jagged shadows across the ground, their outlines distorted by the rising mist. What had once been a vibrant center of learning, faith, and culture was now a ghostly reminder of an era's rise and fall—haunting, timeless, and silent. At least, it should have been silent.
Deep within the ruins, a group of figures moved like spectres against the crumbling stone walls. Their red robes, muted in the dim light, shifted softly as they worked, their forms silhouetted by the pale glow of lanterns placed haphazardly along the edges of a massive excavation site. Tools clinked and scraped against stone as they dug, their movements urgent but methodical. The sound echoed faintly in the cavernous hollow of the dig, accompanied by whispered voices laced with both reverence and frustration.
“Careful,” one of them muttered, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the oppressive quiet. His hands, covered in dirt, trembled slightly as he brushed away the loose soil from an intricate carving etched into an ancient stone tablet. The symbols glowed faintly, their meaning obscured by time but still potent enough to send a shiver through the group.
Another figure stepped forward, her robe cinched tightly at the waist, the heavy fabric stained with dirt and wear from months of digging. She tilted her lantern, casting its light over the stone. The flickering glow illuminated her face, but it was partially obscured by the deep hood of her robes, leaving her half-consumed by the dim, flickering glow..
“It’s here,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. There was a hunger in her tone, the kind that could only come from desperation or faith—or both. “The visions are clear. The Prophets showed her this place. This is where it was hidden.”
One of the others, an older man with a weathered face and piercing eyes that glinted in the firelight, leaned heavily on a spade. His voice carried a note of skepticism, though it was clear he didn’t dare voice outright doubt. “The visions showed her much. But the Prophets have never been generous with time.”
The woman straightened, turning to face him. The shadows of her hood obscured her expression, but her voice was sharp, biting. “The Prophets speak in riddles. Winn understood that better than any of us. She saw what others couldn’t, heard what others refused to. She was cast aside for it. But her time is not over.” She paused, lowering her voice as though afraid the stones themselves might hear her. “She will return. Through us.”
The older man didn’t respond, his hands tightening around the spade’s handle. He glanced at the other figures, some of whom exchanged wary looks but remained silent. The woman’s words carried weight—not just the weight of faith, but the burden of months of failure. The dig had been arduous, grueling, and so far unrewarding. Every night, they descended into this pit of broken stone and shadows, sifting through centuries of debris, praying for a sign that their faith was not misplaced. Every night, the black void of the ruins seemed to push back, whispering doubt into the edges of their minds.
But tonight felt different. There was a charge in the air, a heaviness that settled on their shoulders and made the lanterns flicker as though some unseen force stirred the wind. The woman turned back to the stone tablet, her hands trembling now as she traced the edges of the glowing symbols.
“We are close,” she said, more to herself than to the others. “We are so close.”
“What if we’re wrong?” a voice from the shadows asked, hesitant, almost pleading. “What if there is no Orb? What if this is just a tomb? A memory sent from the prophets of what was?”
The woman’s hand froze, her fingers curling into a fist as she turned to face the speaker. Her voice was low, seething with quiet rage. “Do not speak of doubt here. Not now. The Prophets have guided us this far. They have shown us the way. We do not question their will.”
“And what of the timeline?” the older man asked cautiously. “If we find it... if we find her... do you truly believe we can bring her back? That the Prophets will allow us to alter the timeline so freely?”
The woman stepped closer to him, her presence imposing despite her slender frame. “The Prophets are outside time. They do not see the timeline as we do. It is not for us to question their purpose. It is for us to serve.” She gestured toward the dig, her hand sweeping over the rows of exposed stone and unearthed artifacts. “This is where we make our stand. If we falter now, Bajor will fall to the heretics—the outsiders who would turn us from the path.”
The others fell silent, their gazes drifting to the dig site. The woman’s words hung in the air like a prophecy, weighty and inescapable. She turned back to the tablet, her hands steady once more as she resumed brushing away the dirt.
“We will find the Orb,” she said firmly. “And when we do, Kai Winn will return. She will guide us back to the true path, open the doors to allow Bajor to return to what it once was, before the occupation, before this Kai.”
She paused
“Before the Federation,”
STARBASE DEEP SPACE 9
The turbolift doors parted with a quiet hiss, and the greying, short haired officer, stepped onto the station's Ops level.
She paused. Just for a moment.
The place hadn’t changed—Deep Space Nine still carried the same Cardassian bones, the same skeletal elegance of Terok Nor. But the energy of the station had shifted. The weight it had once carried, the unshakable presence of an occupying force, was long gone. What remained was a structure in transition, much like the people who walked its corridors.
Her gaze drifted upward, following the familiar path that led to the old Prefect’s Office. The design was deliberate. Everything on Terok Nor had been deliberate. The Prefect’s office had been built to loom over Ops, forcing everyone below to look up—a silent, architectural assertion of power. And yet, by its very nature, it also isolated the Prefect, a single figure encased in metal and glass, ruling from above but always apart.
Typical Cardassian thinking, she mused. Brutalism, in form and function. A civilization that had once governed through architecture as much as through force, where control was reinforced by the very walls that surrounded them. But that was the past. Now, at least, Cardassia had chosen a different path.
She let the thought pass and resumed her course, heading toward the doors of the office. They slid open with a quiet efficiency, then quickly sealed behind her as she stepped inside.
The room was empty.
Her eyes settled on the single item resting on the desk—a baseball.
For a moment, everything else faded. The sterile lighting of the station blurred at the edges of her vision, replaced by something warmer, something familiar. Her fingers twitched at her side. If she closed her eyes, she could almost smell aubergine stew, hear the low tone of her friend's voice explaining the difference between a curveball and a slider.
Another time. Another lifetime. Another friendship she missed dearly.
The doors behind her hissed open once more.
She turned, and the illusion of the past was replaced with the undeniable present.
A woman entered the room with the kind of effortless confidence that came only from experience and success. Her beauty had deepened with age, her Bajoran nose ridges soft yet defined, her eyes still carrying the playful spark of someone who had once commanded a Dabo table like an art form.
Leeta.
She smiled, her warmth nearly outshining the station’s glowing pylons beyond the viewport.
"Welcome back, Ezri."
The name landed gently, but it still carried weight.
Ezri Dax returned the smile, her hands slipping into the pockets of her Starfleet uniform as she exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
"Leeta," she said. "It’s been a long time."
Leeta’s grin widened, her eyes flicking to the baseball on the desk for the briefest of moments. "Has it?" she asked.
Ezri let out a breath that turned into a quiet laugh. Before she could say anything else, Leeta closed the distance between them, wrapping her in a firm, genuine embrace.
For a moment, Ezri let herself sink into it. The station, the mission, even the lingering weight of the past—none of it mattered. This was warmth, real and uncomplicated, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
“You still give the best hugs,” Ezri murmured against Leeta’s shoulder.
“You still need them,” Leeta countered, squeezing once before pulling away. She held Ezri at arm’s length, looking her over like a mother sizing up a child who’d been away too long.
“Starfleet treating you well?” Leeta teased, flicking a hand toward the pips on her uniform. “Or are you just wearing extra hardware to impress me?”
Ezri smirked. “If I were trying to impress you, I’d be wearing Ferengi sheer silks and holding a glass of slug juice.”
Leeta made a face. “Okay, I take it back. You haven’t changed at all.”
They laughed, the sound filling the office in a way that felt both natural and foreign.
Leeta nudged her toward the doors. “Come on, I want to see if Quark’s still overcharging for synthehol.”
Ezri let herself be led, her pace falling in sync with Leeta’s as they they headed out of ops into the turbolift and onto the Promenade.
It was almost too easy—the rhythm of the station, the distant murmur of traders haggling, the flickering signs above the storefronts. It was as though she had never left.
And then, there it was.
Quark’s.
The bar had changed, but only in the details. The lighting was warmer now, the seating refurbished, and a few additional holoscreens hung above the bar cycling through advertisements for new Ferengi investments and Quark-owned franchises. But the heart of the place was the same—the constant hum of business, the glint of latinum, the ever-present sound of Dabo wheels spinning.
They had barely stepped inside before the first Ferengi staff member spotted Leeta.
“Lady .... Lady Leeta!” a young Ferengi said breathlessly, scrambling forward. His lobes flushed orange, his hands rubbing together with excessive enthusiasm. “It is an honor to have you grace our humble establishment! Truly! Your presence alone—”
Leeta sighed and waved him off before he could finish. “Relax. I’m here as a customer, not a brand endorsement.”
Ezri smirked as the waiter scurried away, but the amusement lasted only a moment. Across the bar, another Ferengi had noticed them—and immediately paled.
A much older Ferengi, gray-haired, his lobes slightly wrinkled with age, stared wide-eyed before promptly turning and bolting toward the backroom crashing into an exiting waiter who could only stare at the profit now puddling on the floor.
Ezri’s brows lifted in surprise, watching as he vanished behind the swinging doors. “Well, that was dramatic.”
Leeta frowned, then looked at Ezri with dawning realization. “Oh. That’s probably because of you.”
Ezri blinked. “Me?”
Leeta grinned. “Well, technically, Jadzia.”
Ezri tilted her head, and before she could ask, another Ferengi, bolder but still cautious, stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“Uh… Captain Dax,” he said carefully, his eyes darting toward the door where the older Ferengi had fled. “It has come to our attention that one of our more… senior staff members may have had, er, some unfortunate business dealings with one of your previous hosts.”
Ezri’s smirk widened. “You mean Jadzia beat him at Tongo.”
The Ferengi visibly winced, rubbing his hands together anxiously. “Repeatedly. And rather… thoroughly.”
Leeta laughed. “Oh, I remember this story! That was… what, forty five years ago? Didn’t she clean him out during the war?”
Ezri tapped a finger against the tabletop, pretending to think. “Sounds about right. And I assume he’s been avoiding Starfleet uniforms ever since?”
The Ferengi looked deeply uncomfortable but managed a forced smile. “Well… avoidance is a strong word. He just—ah—prefers not to dwell on the fiscal mistakes of the past.”
Leeta nudged Ezri, grinning. “I think you should demand repayment. With interest.”
Ezri snorted. “Knowing Jadzia, he never had the money in the first place.”
The Ferengi coughed. “That is a distinct possibility.”
Ezri rolled her eyes, waving a hand dismissively. “Fine. He can stay hidden. For now.”
The Ferengi exhaled in visible relief, gave a quick bow, and scurried away before Ezri could change her mind.
Leeta chuckled. “You know, for a species that prides itself on profit, Ferengi have a surprisingly bad history with managing their losses.”
Ezri grinned. “That’s why Jadzia liked playing them.”
Leeta shook her head and tugged Ezri toward the back of the bar.
“Come on,” she said. “We need privacy, and I don’t trust Ferengi ears.”
They navigated past bustling patrons, a pair of Klingons loudly debating a bloodwine vintage, and a Bajoran trader haggling while sharing profanities with a Tellarite over gemstones before reaching a small, isolated booth nestled in the back. The lighting was dimmer here, the noise dampened just enough to speak without shouting.
Ezri settled into her seat, glancing around. “Privacy?”
Leeta sighed, leaning forward. “As much as we’re gonna get. Ferengi will listen in, but Rom’s enforced some… rules about protected conversations.”
Ezri raised an eyebrow. “Ferengi have privacy rules now?”
Leeta smirked. “Only when it’s bad for business to eavesdrop.”
Ezri chuckled, then leaned forward, her voice lowering slightly. “Alright. Tell me what’s really going on, Leeta.”
Leeta’s smile faded, her fingers tapping absently against the tabletop.
“I’ve been spending time on Bajor,” she admitted, “but most of what I know? It’s from Rom’s business dealings and internal reports he'd shared with me. He's worried.”
Ezri frowned slightly. “News from Ferengi businessmen?”
Leeta nodded. “They watch everything—not for political reasons, but because Bajor is an investment. And when investments become unstable, Ferengi pay attention.”
Ezri folded her arms, her expression sharpening. “And what exactly have they noticed?”
Leeta exhaled. “The Vedek Assembly is fractured. Worse than people realize, it's bringing up some of the dynamics from the early provisional government. The new Kai, E’dan Prel—he’s young. Progressive. He’s talking about Bajor embracing the galaxy, not just surviving in it. He’s got a vision—one that includes Bajor being open to export it's influence.”
Ezri nodded slowly. “And that’s making people nervous.”
Leeta’s eyes darkened slightly. “It’s making them dangerous.”
Ezri studied her carefully. “How bad?”
Leeta glanced toward the exit, lowering her voice. “There is a rumor of a document making the rounds, The Gospel of Winn.”
Ezri inhaled sharply. That name. Winn. It still carried a weight, even after all these years.
“I thought Bajor had buried Winn’s influence for good,” Ezri said.
Leeta nodded. “Officially? Yes. But unofficially? Copies are circulating. Whispers of ‘Bajor’s true path.’ Old Vedeks who once condemned Winn are now defending her. They see E’dan’s ideas as a threat.”
Ezri sat back, absorbing that. “So you think he’s in danger.”
Leeta held her gaze. “I know he is.”
Ezri’s lips pressed together. “And you didn’t just bring me here for a drink, did you?”
Leeta leaned forward. “Come with me to Bajor.”
Ezri hesitated.
Leeta pressed on. “E’dan is speaking to the Vedek Assembly in two days. It’s his most important address yet. Every major figure in Bajor’s spiritual and political world will be there.”
Ezri exhaled slowly, considering. “And you think something might happen.”
Leeta’s fingers curled slightly against the table. “I think if you want to understand how bad things are getting, you need to hear him yourself, you need to let Starfleet know.”
Ezri was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached for her drink and lifted it slightly, smiling to her friend.
“Alright,” she said. “I'll go hear what he has to say.”
The words left her mouth with an ease that surprised even her. The commitment was made, sealed with the faint clink of glass against the worn tabletop, but the moment didn’t settle as it should have.
Because somewhere beneath her agreement, something in her resisted.
Leeta exhaled, her shoulders loosening slightly, relief evident in the curve of her smile. “Thank you, Ezri,” she said, leaning back into her seat, like she had finally offloaded something heavy onto someone she trusted.
Ezri nodded, but her fingers tightened slightly around the glass, her thoughts already circling the decision she had just made.
She didn’t want to be involved in Bajor’s politics.
Not because she didn’t care, but because she had spent too many years watching history repeat itself. Bajor had survived occupation, war, betrayal, faith shaken and restored, and now here it was again—another political fracture, another ideological war waiting to spill over.
And what was she supposed to do about it? She wasn’t Bajoran. She wasn’t even a diplomat.
Her instinct—her first instinct—had been to refuse.
To tell Leeta that this wasn’t her place. That Bajor had endured worse than ideological schisms, that it would find its own way forward.
That it didn’t need her.
But something in her had stopped her from saying it.
A voice. A quiet, knowing voice. Not hers.
You should go, Jadzia’s voice whispered from the recesses of her mind, light, amused, nudging. Not just for Leeta.
For Bajor.
Ezri’s grip on the glass tightened just slightly.
It had been decades since she’d last set foot on Bajor. Decades since she’d walked its sun-drenched temples, stood beneath its ancient spires, felt the quiet weight of history pressing down on her like the whisper of the Prophets in the wind.
She had never quite known what to make of Bajor. It was faith and fire. Suffering and resilience. Tradition and rebellion all at once. It had survived occupation, war, betrayal, prophecy, and somehow, it still endured.
She admired that.
But she had never felt it was her place to intervene.
Not like Jadzia had.
Jadzia had loved Bajor—not just its beauty, not just its potential, but its people. She had debated theology with Vedeks, walked its ruins not as an outsider, but as someone who belonged, if only because she had made the choice to care.
And Sisko…
Ezri closed her eyes for half a second, just long enough to feel the echo of the absence he had left behind.
Sisko had been part of Bajor in a way no outsider ever had. It had been given to him—the weight of prophecy, the title of Emissary, the faith of an entire world.
And then, he had gone.
Left them. Left Bajor.
Left her as she felt the symbiont squirm inside her.
She knew it hadn’t been his choice. She knew. But the wound it left? It had never fully healed. Not for Bajor. Not for his crew. Not for Leeta, who had watched her people search the stars for a savior that never returned.
And yet, Bajor had moved forward. It always did.
Now, a new Kai stood at the center of it all.
And here was Leeta—not just an old friend, not just the wife of the Grand Nagus, but someone who had never stopped believing in Bajor’s future—who had never stopped trying to shape it.
Ezri looked at her now, watching how her confidence flickered at the edges, hidden just enough that most people wouldn’t see it.
But Ezri did.
Leeta had seen too much, lived through too much, to be naive. If she was worried, then something was truly wrong.
Ezri inhaled, then exhaled. Slower this time.
Jadzia had cared.
Sisko had cared.
And maybe, just maybe, she owed it to both of them to care, too.
Ezri set her glass down, fingers loose against the table now.
Leeta was watching her carefully, as if she could sense the quiet war being fought in Ezri’s mind.
Ezri lifted her eyes and met her gaze fully. “You really believe in him?”
Leeta didn’t hesitate. “I do.”
Ezri exhaled, then offered a small, wry smile, one that felt more like Jadzia’s than her own.
“Then let’s see what all the fuss is about.”
Leeta grinned, knocking back the rest of her drink before sliding out of the booth. “That’s the Dax I remember.”
Ezri smirked, tossing a few slips of latinum onto the table before following her out into the hum of the Promenade, the decision settling in just a little more easily with each step.
She still wasn’t sure if this was her fight.
But for now?
She’d listen.
