This week saw the release of the first three episodes of Andor’s second season and the 20th anniversary rerelease of Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. On the surface, these two stories are starkly dissimilar. Andor is a realistic tale about the cost of war and the impact of fascism on everyday people, while Revenge of the Sith is the tragic fall of a hero who succumbs to the worst version of himself.

But at their core, these stories are deeply connected—not just because they’re part of Star Wars, or even because Revenge of the Sith sets the stage for Andor. They’re united by a shared exploration of sacrifice in its many forms.

In Revenge of the Sith, Anakin Skywalker is willing to give up everything—including the galaxy itself—to save Padmé Amidala from what he believes is certain death. He sacrifices his identity, the Jedi Order, and the balance of the Force in a desperate attempt to prevent loss. But because his motivations are selfish rather than selfless, he fails—and becomes Darth Vader.

In Andor, nearly every character makes some form of sacrifice for the Rebellion. Cassian gives up the life he knew, the search for his sister, and the people he loves (RIP Brasso). Mon Mothma sacrifices her safety, her family, her peace of mind. Vel gives up love. Bix loses her comfort and her sense of security. And Luthen—he sacrifices everything.

In Rogue One, which immediately follows Andor’s second season, Cassian tells Jyn Erso that he’s done terrible things for the Rebellion, and he wants to ensure it was worth the cost. That sentiment defines him as a hero—especially when compared to Anakin. Anakin’s atrocities come from a place of personal pain and fear; others suffer for his choices. Cassian, on the other hand, endures suffering so that others don’t have to.

George Lucas has always emphasized that the light side represents selflessness, and the dark side, selfishness. The prequels reflect this dichotomy: as Anakin grows more egocentric, he moves closer to darkness. The Clone Wars expands on this idea, but the message remains clear. That clarity doesn’t lessen the story’s importance—it reinforces it.

Andor, in contrast, is far more subtle. While the villains are unmistakable—especially following the harrowing assault scene in Season 2, Episode 3—the heroes are harder to define. Is Cassian a hero because his name is in the title, or because we know who he becomes? Is Mon Mothma heroic because she’ll one day lead the Rebellion, or is it Luthen, who does what others cannot to ensure fascists like Lieutenant Krole don’t prevail?

The brilliance of Andor lies in its refusal to offer simple answers. Unlike Revenge of the Sith, which makes it clear that Anakin’s choices are wrong, Andor invites the audience to wrestle with difficult moral questions. Mon Mothma sacrificing her daughter to Chandrilan tradition is both righteous and horrifying. Luthen’s decision to kill Tay Kolma is at once understandable and inexcusable.

Still, Andor offers two moments of moral clarity. The first comes when Bix kills Krole after he attempts to rape her. There is no justification for what Krole tried to do—no context in which such an act deserves anything but condemnation.

The second moment is more abstract but just as important: Andor makes it unmistakably clear that the fascists are not the heroes. The right path, though often shrouded in ambiguity and moral compromise, is the one that resists them.

In Revenge of the Sith, liberty dies with thunderous applause. Andor teaches us that fascism dies when ordinary people are willing to make extraordinary sacrifices. The choices are never easy, and the costs are steep—but silence, inaction, or selfishness only pave the way for tyranny. Anakin shows us what happens when we cling to power out of fear. Cassian shows us what it means to let go—for the sake of something greater.