Seriously. Have You TRIED the Cookies?

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 1: Twin Suns of Mandalore

I maintain that if Korkie hadn't looked at me like that, I wouldn't have done it.

It was the smugness. The little arch of the brow as he scooted his seat closer to the table. The sanctimonious way he reached—reached—for the fruit bowl like he hadn't just called me a "gremlin with jam on his face" five minutes ago. Which I was. That's beside the point.

He wanted the meiloorun. The big one. And I wasn't about to let him have it.

So I did what any emotionally well-adjusted four-year-old with mysterious telekinetic powers would do: I lifted the entire fruit bowl off the table with my mind and hovered it just out of his reach.

Korkie froze mid-grab. His fingers curled around empty air. His mouth stayed open like he forgot how to finish the sentence "Auntie will hear of this." To be fair to him, he's four. His language skills aren't that developed.

Not calling him dumb. Just saying, it's not like he reincarnated into a baby, full memory in tact. Did he?

Stare.

"Ben!" he squawked, swiveling toward me like I'd kicked a puppy.

I put on my best innocent face—wide eyes, sticky cheeks, hands folded like I hadn't just summoned the power of the Force to win brunch.

"I didn't do anything," I said sweetly. "Maybe you just didn't want it badly enough."

The bowl hovered gently behind me, untouched and spinning ever so slightly like a trophy on display.

Bo-Katan was across the table nursing her morning caf like it was the only thing holding her together. She stared at the levitating fruit, blinked once, then took another long, slow sip without breaking eye contact.

"Mmm," she said blandly. "Just like his father."

I'm pretty sure she meant Obi-Wan, even if she still refused to say it. But she always said it in that tone—the one that meant "This is why I drink."

And for the record, I don't think she's the mother. Despite whatever claims "Auntie Satine" wants to make. Bo-Katan would have been like fifteen by the time we were born. Which… okay, biologically speaking could be possible. But thankfully, me being Force-Sensitive puts the horrifying implications of that theory to rest.

No way Bo-Katan would ever sleep with a Jedi.

Korkie slammed his tiny fists on the table like a baby senator delivering his first filibuster. "That's not fair! He's using—he's doing weird stuff again!"

"It's called strategy," I said, trying to scoot the bowl closer without wobbling it. "Also, he called me a gremlin. Which is rude and speciesist."

"You are a gremlin!"

"You're a nerd."

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Ben, put the bowl down before I throw you out an airlock," Bo-Katan muttered, still not looking up from her caf. "And Korkie, stop tattling. If he wanted to hover produce in defiance of natural law, that's between him and his future therapist."

"She means Jedi," Korkie whispered at me accusingly.

I stuck my tongue out. "Does not."

"Does too."

"I will set this fruit on fire with my brain."

"You can't do that!"

"…Yet."

The bowl trembled slightly, enough that a bright yellow jogan apple rolled to the edge. I reached to catch it—physically this time—but it slipped through my fingers and thumped onto the floor.

Look—space magic isn't as easy as they made it look. I'm doing my best, here.

Bo-Katan sighed, set her mug down with a clink, and finally looked at me.

"You know this is how it starts, right?" she said. "One minute it's breakfast levitation. Next thing you know, you're declaring yourself ruler of the Outer Rim in a cape made of wookiee pelts."

"That sounds amazing," I said with awe.

She rubbed her temples. "I should've let Death Watch take you."

I grinned. She didn't mean it. Mostly.

Korkie looked between us, equal parts scandalized and smug, like he was calculating whether telling on me would score him enough points with Aunt Satine to get extra dessert.

I popped a meiloorun slice in my mouth. "If you're gonna tell, at least wait until I finish chewing."

"I'm telling."

I held up a sticky hand and waved the fruit bowl just out of his reach again, smirking.

"Then I'm hovering."

...​

Obi-Wan Kenobi was not nervous.

He had passed his Trials. He had been knighted. He had a padawan of his own. He had stopped an arms smuggler ring two days ago without so much as a burn mark on his robes. He had also, recently, grown a beard. All the hallmarks of maturity.

He was not nervous.

Except he was also standing on Mandalore. In front of her. And they had kids. Two of them. Twins. Small, terrifying ones. And he was reasonably sure one of them had caused the Force anomaly they were sent here to investigate—by levitating a fruit bowl, if the report was accurate.

Truly, he could only blame the Will of the Force for it. How did he always find himself in the most awkward position in the most inopportune time? Simple. The cosmic energy that binds and penetrates the entire galaxy has it out for him.

Shockingly unsurprising.

He cleared his throat and straightened his tunic. "Duchess."

"Knight Kenobi." Satine's voice was calm and cool and perfect, as always. Her back was perfectly straight. Her hands were perfectly folded. Her eyes were a little too dry.

He hated how well he knew her tells.

"It's not often the Jedi Order comes knocking unannounced," she said, voice sharp as a vibroblade wrapped in silk. "I suppose we should be honored."

"This isn't a diplomatic visit," Obi-Wan said, doing his best to keep his voice level. "We detected a significant Force signature in this region. Untrained and… erratic. We traced it to your estate."

"And what a surprise, it turned out to be a member of my household," she said, arching a brow. "A child, no less."

"Yes, quite the coincidence," Obi-Wan replied stiffly. "As the… not-father of these children—"

"Yes," Satine said crisply. "Because that would be absurd."

They stared at each other.

Bo-Katan, leaning against a pillar behind them, let out an exaggerated sigh and muttered into her cup, "I'm going to become a terrorist out of spite."

"I heard that," Satine snapped.

"You were meant to."

Ben and Korkie were a few meters away, sparring with sticks. Well, Korkie was sparring. Ben was making lightsaber noises and spinning wildly, eyes alight with glee.

Obi-Wan watched them for a moment. The smaller twin—Ben—was practically vibrating with energy. He was grinning like he'd invented happiness. Korkie, by contrast, looked like he had memorized the Art of War and resented being pulled into such chaos without proper planning.

"I'd like to evaluate the boy," Obi-Wan said, clearing his throat again. "We'll need to confirm the strength and source of the signal we detected."

Satine nodded, tightly. "Of course."

"You can use the courtyard," Bo-Katan said lazily. "It's already scorched from last week's training accident. Ben tried to make a rocket out of caf beans."

"He succeeded," Satine muttered.

...​

They gathered in the courtyard. Ben plopped cross-legged on the ground and immediately began humming to himself. Korkie stood nearby, arms crossed, watching like a disapproving uncle.

Obi-Wan knelt before the boy and produced a small device from his belt. "This is a kyber resonance reader," he explained gently. "I want to see how your energy interacts with it."

Ben tilted his head. "Are you gonna do the glowy hand thing?"

"Not unless I have to," Obi-Wan said with a small smile.

"You're old," Ben observed. "But not like old-old. Just regular boring-old."

"I see your manners are well-developed."

Ben beamed. "Bo taught me sarcasm."

Bo-Katan raised her cup. "You're welcome."

Obi-Wan turned the reader on. It hummed—then whined. Then sparked. The display blinked red and shut down with a sad little chirp.

"Oh," Obi-Wan said.

"Told you I'm awesome," Ben said smugly.

"That thing broke last time too," Korkie said, shrugging. "He touched it and it caught on fire. I think he's cursed."

Ben rolled his eyes dramatically and reached behind his back to yank a meiloorun slice from his pocket like it was a reward snack. "I'm not cursed. I'm gifted."

"Gifted in chaos," Korkie muttered.

"Well, you are Mandalorian," Obi-Wan said under his breath, then immediately felt Satine's gaze burn two holes in his skull.

"I heard that," she said.

"You were meant to," he muttered back.

...​

The formal "tests" lasted all of ten minutes before Obi-Wan gave up.

Ben knew where objects were without seeing them. He nudged a pebble across the ground just by scowling at it. At one point, when asked to focus on a sphere hovering above his palm, he accidentally burst it. Into confetti.

Not literal, mind you. He quite simply rendered a solid metal sphere into shreds.

"This is going splendidly," Obi-Wan muttered.

"I like the Jedi stuff," Ben said. "Will I get a lightsaber?"

"Eventually," Obi-Wan replied. "After training."

Ben nodded, chewing on his fruit. "Cool. Can I have a black one?"

"That's… rare."

"Cooler, then."

Korkie crossed his arms. "They're monks. You're gonna have to shave your head."

Ben froze.

"What," he said flatly.

"Jedi all have bald heads. That's what monks do. Bo said so."

Ben narrowed his eyes. "You're lying."

"Nope. No hair. Not even eyebrows."

Bo-Katan, smirking, let her own thoughts on that matter be known. "This is so much better than breakfast."

Ben looked at Obi-Wan. "Is this true?!"

Obi-Wan opened his mouth—and then Ben lifted Korkie three feet into the air.

The Force surged around him like a gleeful ripple. Korkie yelped, flailing his arms as he floated above the courtyard like an offended balloon.

"Ben!" Satine called, half-panicked.

"I will not be bald!" Ben shouted. "I look weird without eyebrows!"

Bo-Katan snorted caf through her nose.

Obi-Wan reached out with the Force and gently brought Korkie back to the ground. "Ben," he said, as calmly as he could. "That's not how Jedi resolve conflict."

Ben frowned. "Then how do they?"

"Through diplomacy. Wisdom. Patience."

"I like the floating better."

"I can see that."

...​

Obi-Wan stood beside Satine on the veranda, watching Ben dart around the courtyard in circles while humming something rather sinister, though he certainly couldn't place it.

"He's strong," Obi-Wan said quietly.

"I know."

"He should be trained."

"I know."

They stood in silence for a while.

Then Satine said, too softly, "You'll look after him?"

Obi-Wan hesitated. "As much as I'm permitted."

"You're not his father," she said, with a small, sad smile.

He turned to her. "Of course not. That would be… absurd."

Below, Bo-Katan kicked a helmet off the steps and muttered, "I swear, if I have to co-parent another Jedi, I will blow something up."

...​

The walls were quiet again.

Not just the stone—cool and polished in the Mandalorian tradition—but the silence beneath the silence. No boots scuffing down the hall. No bickering twins. No Bo-Katan cursing under her breath. No Jedi Knight hovering in her orbit like a ghost from an unfinished past.

Satine closed the door behind her and rested one hand against it.

She stayed there a long moment, simply breathing.

She hated quiet. Hated what it gave her the space to remember.

Her quarters were modest by noble standards. A darkwood desk against the far wall, one stack of reports still open. A tall narrow window allowed the suns to cast angled light across the floor. Shelves lined with datapads and legal texts and framed holos—none of which featured her children. That had always seemed… safer.

And there, on the low reading chair by the hearth, sat the plush tooka toy Ben had dragged around since he was three. Its left ear had long since been gnawed flat. Bo-Katan had threatened to vaporize it once, during a diplomatic summit.

Satine crossed the room, sat down, and picked it up.

It smelled faintly of dust and fruit jam.

She held it to her chest like it was something fragile and precious, and let her mask fall.

...​

They had been young. So young.

The galaxy had been on fire, and she and Obi-Wan had somehow thought they could outrun it.

They'd spent weeks moving between safehouses, sleeping with a blaster between them and the door. She had braided his hair once, just to see if she could. He'd complained bitterly, then refused to take it out. When she asked him why, he said, "Because you put it there."

And yet, they had never spoken the words aloud. Not then. Not even later, when she'd stood in front of the High Council and smiled like her heart hadn't been shattered three times over.

Obi-Wan had bowed, then turned his back.

She didn't blame him. Not really. He had chosen his path.

And so had she.

But then there had been the sickness.

The birth.

The miracle.

Twins. Unexpected. Unplanned. And for the first time in her adult life, Satine Kryze had been utterly unprepared.

Ben hadn't cried right away. He had come into the world silent and still, like he was already listening. The medics thought he wouldn't survive. They were wrong. By the next morning, he had knocked over an entire tray of instruments without touching them.

It had been Bo-Katan who said it first, cradling the squirming boy in one arm while Korkie chewed on her sleeve.

"He's his father's child," she said, softly.

Satine hadn't answered.

...​

She traced the worn fabric of the tooka's nose with one thumb. It was frayed from years of affection.

"He always has to win, you know," she said to the empty room. "Even when it doesn't matter. Especially then."

Ben would be leaving. Soon. Perhaps by nightfall. She had given her blessing—what else could she do? They would take him to Coruscant, to the Temple, to the Jedi. He would learn discipline. He would learn restraint.

But he would also learn distance. Detachment. The same cold, noble masks that had turned Obi-Wan's love into silence.

She feared what the Jedi would make of him. Not because she didn't trust them—but because she did. Because they were so good at molding children into ideals.

And Ben was not made for ideals.

He was bright and burning and wild. He belonged to Mandalore in ways Obi-Wan never had. He screamed when he was angry. He laughed with his whole chest. He ran too fast and tripped too often and loved things before understanding them.

He would either break the Jedi or be broken by them.

Satine closed her eyes.

"I thought we'd have more time," she whispered.

...​

The door buzzed. Once. Twice. She didn't answer.

Bo-Katan let herself in anyway.

Her boots were loud—deliberately so—and she paused only long enough to glance at the tooka in Satine's lap before she spoke.

"They're loading the ship."

Satine nodded.

"Obi-Wan's hovering."

Satine did not look up.

Bo-Katan sighed and walked over to the window. "You going to say goodbye?"

"I said what needed saying earlier."

"He's four."

"I know."

There was a pause.

"Do you want me to—?"

"No," Satine said quietly. "You'll only make it worse."

Bo-Katan leaned against the windowsill, arms folded. "He won't forget you."

"He'll be trained to."

"No," Bo said, more firmly now. "He won't."

Satine finally looked up. "He's not like Obi-Wan."

Bo-Katan huffed. "No, he's not. He's not like you, either."

"Then what is he?"

Bo-Katan smirked. "Yours."

Satine smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I just hope he keeps his hair."

"You know he's going to come back with a dramatic cape and an attitude problem."

"That's our boy."

Bo-Katan snorted. "I give it ten years before he tries to conquer a star system out of spite."

Satine set the toy down, smoothed its ears. "Then I hope it's a good star system."

Bo-Katan's voice softened. "He'll be fine, you know."

Satine said nothing.

Bo-Katan crossed the room, placed a hand on her shoulder.

"He's going to terrify the Jedi."

Satine finally smiled for real.

"Good."

...​

Okay, so here's the thing about Jedi transports: they're cool, but not that cool.

They don't shoot lasers. They don't have rotating plasma turrets or atmospheric thrusters that flip upside down mid-battle. They definitely don't have flamethrowers. Or a rear-facing cannon mount. Or a kitchen. I asked.

This one just looks like a big sad metal egg with a light-up ramp.

I'm supposed to be excited about it—this whole "You've been chosen by destiny to be a peace monk in space" thing—but mostly I'm just wondering if Jedi get to wear capes. I'm four, not stupid. Priorities.

Bo-Katan walked beside me, and by "walked," I mean stomped like the ground had personally offended her. I think she was hoping if she glared hard enough, the shuttle would combust from fear and she wouldn't have to say goodbye.

"I told Korkie you'd cry," I said.

"I don't cry," she snapped, not looking at me.

"You sniffled that one time during the holodrama with the sad Loth-cat."

"I had allergies."

"To emotions?"

She glared down at me. "Say one more word, and I will become a terrorist."

I grinned. "You always say that."

"Because no one believes me."

"Korkie says if you haven't done terrorism by thirty, it's just a phase."

Bo-Katan narrowed her eyes and muttered, "Not a phase. Just waiting for the right target." She didn't even deny it this time. Progress!

The shuttle was still powering up, humming softly as Jedi people with important robes pretended not to watch me. I waved at one. He flinched. Excellent.

Bo-Katan stopped at the edge of the landing platform and crossed her arms. That was her version of "I'm feeling things and refuse to let them out except in the form of property damage."

I kicked a rock toward the ramp. "So, this is it."

"Apparently."

"You gonna miss me?"

"No."

"Liar."

"Tiny gremlin."

"Angsty space bat."

"You're lucky I don't believe in corporal punishment."

"I'm lucky you love me and are terrible at hiding it."

She looked at me for a long second—then snorted, rubbed a hand over her face like I gave her a migraine, and crouched down to my level.

She didn't say anything at first. Just looked. Like she was trying to memorize me in case the Jedi tried to give me a personality transplant.

"You don't have to be like them, you know," she said eventually.

"The Jedi?"

"The quiet ones," she said, gesturing vaguely at the nearest robe cluster. "The ones who never laugh. Who wear beige on purpose."

I squinted. "What color is beige again?"

"The color of sadness."

"Ah."

She reached into a side pouch and pulled out something small, metal, and very illegal.

My eyes lit up. "Is that a—"

"A vibroblade," she said, pressing it into my hands. "Deactivated. No power cell. Don't tell the Jedi."

"Sweet!"

"Think of it as a Mandalorian keepsake. Or a last-minute act of extremely poor judgment."

I turned it over in my hands reverently. It was slightly too big for me, but it felt right. Like it belonged.

"Are you sure I can take this?" I asked.

"No," she said flatly. "But I'm not your real mom, so it doesn't count."

I grinned. "You said it! You admitted you're not my mom. Oh, I'm so telling Satine."

"I was fifteen when you were born!" she snapped. "It was a dumb lie, anyways!"

It really was. If Satine really didn't want to admit she slept with a Jedi—which if we're being honest is pretty fair—she should have just said we were adopted. We're actually super supportive of that here on Mandalore.

This is the way.

Of course, so is messing with your family.

"Then who's our real mom, huh? Duchess Satine and Obi-Wan the Jedi definitely never—oh wait, yes they did."

She groaned. "If I hear one more person whisper that I'm the mother, I will punch a senator."

"You already punched two."

"Harder."

I laughed and tucked the blade away into my satchel. Bo-Katan stood up again, hands on her hips like she wanted to fight destiny itself.

"You'll come back, right?" she asked, but very casually, like it didn't matter.

"Obviously," I said. "I have to show you my cool lightsaber."

"Don't make it beige."

"I'll make it black."

"Good."

We stood there a minute.

Then, softer, she said, "Aliit ori'shya tal'din."

I blinked. "Family is more than blood."

She nodded once. "Make some friends while you're gone. Tell me about them when you come home."

"…You'll want names and tactical weaknesses?"

"Exactly."

I looked up at her. The wind tugged at her hair. The sky was too blue.

"If the Jedi mess you up," she added quietly, "I'll take it personally."

"Even if they mess me up in a character-building way?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I'll build your character with explosives."

I threw my arms around her legs.

It was quick, and I played it off like it didn't mean anything, but I felt her hand settle gently on my head before she ruffled it hard enough to make me yelp.

"Get out of here, brat," she said.

I walked toward the ramp, the vibroblade in my bag and my chest feeling too full. Just before stepping inside, I turned back and yelled:

"Bye, Mom!"

Bo-Katan's whole soul left her body.

"Say that again and I'll blow up a planet!"

"You better pick one with a good name!"

...​

The inside of the shuttle smelled like metal and floor polish.

Not exciting, legendary floor polish. Not "wiped-down-after-a-duel" kind of polish. No lightsaber scorch marks. No blaster pockmarks. No bones. Just smooth floors and boring chairs and weird humming from somewhere in the wall that was probably normal but sounded like a depressed gundark.

I sat near the viewport with my forehead against the transparisteel, watching Mandalore shrink below us.

It didn't look like home from up here. It looked like a coin. One you'd forget in a pocket and only find later, after it'd already been through the wash.

Korkie was down there somewhere, probably throwing a fit. I hadn't even said goodbye.

Mostly because he said if I did, it meant I wasn't coming back.

So obviously I had to skip it. For narrative tension.

Also, I wanted him to be dramatic about it. Maybe write a manifesto. Or a tragic poem. Or a play. The Tragedy of Korkie Kryze, Whose Twin Ditched Him for the Space Monks. I'll read it at his wedding someday.

Bo-Katan had stayed until the very last moment, arms crossed and eyes like she was memorizing me just in case. Then she walked off without a word. Classic.

Satine hadn't come.

…Which was fine.

Totally fine.

She was busy. Duchess stuff. Definitely not crying in her room with a cup of tea and one of my stupid stuffed toys. Nope. That would be weird.

The ramp had hissed shut behind me and I hadn't looked back.

Because I'm brave. And independent. And I don't cry in front of Jedi.

Mostly because this one might actually be my dad.

...​

He was sitting two rows over. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Knight of the Jedi Order. High-functioning disaster.

He was doing the "brooding in a tunic" thing that I think came standard with the beard. Like he was trying to be mysterious, but just looked constipated with feelings. His arms were folded. His eyes were closed. But every thirty seconds, he peeked.

I know because I counted.

"Hey," I said.

He didn't open his eyes.

"Yes?"

"You don't blink a lot."

He cracked one eye open, slowly. "Jedi discipline."

"I think it's a medical condition."

He huffed. "You're very observant."

"I know. I'm going to be the most powerful Jedi ever. Or something. I'll figure it out. I'm still workshopping."

That got the tiniest twitch of his mouth. Not a smile. More like a tiny hostage note from the muscles on his face.

I shifted in my seat and pulled my knees up. "Do you think I'll get a cool title?"

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "A title?"

"Yeah, like—'Ben the Blade,' or 'Wrath of Mandalore.' Something with dramatic flair."

"You'll be given a name when you become a Knight."

"I'm four."

"Yes, well. Let's take it one step at a time."

I looked out the viewport again. Mandalore was just a speck now. Like a freckle in space. A memory.

"Hey," I said quietly. "Do you miss her?"

There was a pause. Then:

"Who?"

I turned to look at him with the most unimpressed expression a child could possibly muster. "Don't make me say it. We both know the game."

Obi-Wan looked away.

After a moment, he said, "More than I can explain."

And that was the most honest thing anyone had said all day.

...​

The rest of the ride was quiet.

The other Jedi chatted softly in the background. Someone passed around ration bars. I took two and stuck one in my bag next to the (definitely legal) vibroblade Bo-Katan gave me. I wasn't planning to stab anyone. Unless the cafeteria food was bad. Then we'd talk.

I didn't fall asleep, even when they dimmed the lights. Just watched the stars smear past like slow-burning fireworks.

The galaxy was big. Way bigger than I thought.

And somehow, it felt like I was already chasing something. I didn't know what.

Power? Family? Purpose? Probably all of it.

I just knew I wasn't done yet.

I pressed my forehead to the window one last time.

Mandalore was gone. Out of sight.

"I'll be back," I murmured. "With drama… And possibly a cloak." I grinned to myself, heart weirdly heavy and full at the same time. "I really hope a cloak…"

...​

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[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 2: Wookie Mama

So here's what nobody told me about the Jedi Temple:

It smells like… soap.

Not good soap. Not "I just punched someone and now I'm fresh and dangerous" soap. No, it smells like… rules. Clean floors. Fresh linen. Order. The kind of soap that implies no one has had a good lightsaber fight in years.

Which is ridiculous, because this is the home of the Jedi.

You'd think there'd be at least one broken statue or a scorch mark somewhere. Something to give the place character.

Instead, I'm standing in the world's largest, most peaceful marble hallway, holding my bag of definitely legal belongings and staring up at a ceiling so high it might count as its own zip code.

I'd ask Obi-Dad what to do next, but he left already. Classic Jedi move: deliver the child, vanish emotionally.

The onboarding team was nice enough. The medical droid scanned me (twice), the healer gave me a fruit chew (I asked for five and got two), and someone gave me a tiny beige uniform that looks like someone took all the color out of "fun" and sewed it into a shirt.

And then I was guided—no, herded—down a hall, through an arch, and into the crèche.

...​

The crèche is big.

Like really big. Big enough that if I ran in a straight line yelling, I could cause at least three minor incidents and maybe one full evacuation.

Which means I'm already in love.

There are kids everywhere. All kinds—Togruta, Twi'lek, Rodian, some sparkly one I'm afraid to look directly at. Everyone's laughing, running, talking, or—surprisingly often—floating. There are balls made of light zipping overhead, training drones hovering around like confused seagulls, and little meditation pads scattered like someone tried to summon a minimalist demon and gave up halfway through.

And in the middle of it all is a girl.

She's standing on top of a cushion stack with her hands on her hips, yelling at a Nautolan twice her size.

"No, you listen!" she's saying. "It's not a fair game if you keep using your head tentacles to trip people!"

"It's not tripping if they fall on their own!" the Nautolan argues.

She jabs a tiny finger in his face. "That is exactly what tripping is!"

I like her already.

I take two steps in and a soft voice says, "This is your stop."

I turn around just in time to see the Knight who guided me here disappear down the hall like he's allergic to follow-up questions. Rude. But I guess helping others is the path to the Dark Side.

Fine. First impression time.

I sling my bag over one shoulder, puff out my chest, and march straight into the chaos like I was born here. (Technically I was born in a Mandalorian war bunker during a thunderstorm, but that's a story for another day.)

"Hi!" I say, approaching a small circle of kids who are trying to stack blocks using only the Force. "I'm Ben. I'm new. And yes, I do come with accessories."

They stare at me.

One of the blocks topples and hits a kid in the forehead. Another sneezes and levitates a cushion by accident. Someone behind me drops a tray of ration cookies.

"I'm also charming and mysterious," I add.

Still silence.

Well, fine. Time to impress them with skill.

I spot a training ball sitting nearby. One of those little floaty spheres used for light reflex drills—perfectly round, perfectly smooth, and—if the Force is with you—perfectly tossable.

I stretch out a hand, squint just a little for dramatic effect, and reach out with the Force.

The ball trembles.

Someone gasps.

It floats. It spins.

It rockets upward at warp speed and slams directly into a hanging chandelier.

There's a crash. A shatter. An extremely awkward silence.

A few crystals clatter to the ground.

A Togruta boy screams.

"…Oops."

The next thing I hear is a sound like a krayt dragon gargling gravel.

A very large Wookiee emerges from behind a meditation curtain, and I mean emerges like someone summoned her with the ancient rite of "noise." She's huge, covered in cinnamon-colored fur, and wearing simple Jedi robes stretched over broad shoulders. I didn't even know Wookiees wore clothes, so this was surprising. Her eyes lock onto me like I just gratified the Temple steps.

"RRWAAHHHRRHHH!"

Everyone goes dead silent.

Even the training drones stop.

I blink up at her, trying to look innocent. "Uh…"

"WRAHHHHRHHHHAAAHHH!"

"Oh," I say quickly, nodding. "Yes. Very wise. Of course."

The other kids exchange glances.

"That means don't run indoors," says a Twi'lek girl nearby.

"Right," I nod solemnly. "That's what I said."

The Wookiee Jedi narrows her eyes.

She crosses the room in four massive strides, scoops up the training ball and one of the fallen chandelier crystals, then turns to me and points.

I raise a hand. "In my defense, I was trying to demonstrate natural Force talent. Which I did. The target just happened to be… gravity. And also lighting fixtures."

"RAWWWRRHHH."

"Did… did she just challenge me to a duel?"

"Ben," the Twi'lek girl whispers. "That's Master Tyyyvak."

"Oh."

"She runs the crèche."

"Oh no."

"She's the kindest Jedi ever, but she has zero patience for nonsense."

I glance at the shattered chandelier, then back up at the looming Wookiee matriarch who is still pointing at me like I owe her money.

"…Well, this has been educational."

Tyyyvak growls again, then gestures sharply toward the pile of meditation cushions. I scurry that way without complaint. Behind me, the circle of kids starts whispering—some amused, some impressed.

I plop down on a cushion and try not to explode from embarrassment.

The girl from earlier—still perched on her stack of cushion thrones—glances over at me.

She smirks.

Not mean. Not mocking. Just… entertained.

I give her a little two-finger wave.

She raises an eyebrow.

Challenge accepted.

...​

Ahsoka wasn't sure what she expected when they said a new youngling was coming today, but it wasn't… that.

She'd seen him from across the room—short, scruffy, too confident. He strolled into the crèche like he already owned it, said something dumb to a group of kids, and then promptly launched a training orb into the chandelier.

There was a crash, a scream, a dramatic Wookiee roar.

And then he tried to pretend he understood Master Tyyyvak like that made it better.

"Did… did she just challenge me to a duel?" he asked.

Ahsoka nearly snorted fruit chew out her nose.

She hopped off her cushion tower, padded across the room, and took a better look at him. He wasn't tall—none of them were yet—but he carried himself like he was twice his size. His hair stuck out in a hundred directions, and his tunic was already wrinkled like he'd been wrestling it before arriving.

Mandalorian. Definitely Mandalorian.

And he had attitude.

She was going to like him.

Or possibly kick him.

She hadn't decided yet.

...​

Outside, the training yard was sunlit and wide, its edges lined with soft sparring mats and padded corners for safety. Dozens of younglings were scattered in clusters: some working through the basic katas, others chasing practice orbs. A group of tiny Rodians were stacked in a pyramid for some reason. One had a traffic cone.

Normal day.

Ahsoka stretched, tail twitching, and watched the new boy as he wandered out, trying to look casual while very obviously casing the area like he planned to conquer it by lunch.

She followed.

"Hey, chandelier boy," she called out.

He turned. "Oh hey, tentacle girl."

"I'm a Togruta."

"I'm Ben."

"Not what I asked, but thanks for the update."

He tilted his head, curious now. "You're the one who yelled at the Nautolan."

"He tripped three kids with his head tails."

"I respect that."

Ahsoka crossed her arms. "You want to fight?"

Ben blinked. "Like, real fight, or pretend 'I'm testing your reflexes' fight?"

"Yes."

He grinned. "Awesome."

...​

They started slow.

Force tag was a crèche tradition, somewhere between a game and low-stakes sparring. Rules were simple: if you got touched by the Force, you were tagged. Shields up, senses sharp.

Ahsoka ducked left. Ben tried a push. She felt it coming and rolled under it.

"Close," she said, springing up behind him.

"Wasn't trying."

"Sure."

She flicked her fingers, and the Force nudged him off balance. He yelped, windmilled, and landed square on his butt.

"Tagged," she smirked.

Ben groaned. "Alright. No more Mr. Nice Jedi."

"You were being nice?"

"No. But now I'm gonna be dramatic."

It escalated fast.

Ben started leaping off training blocks like a tiny acrobat, flinging himself through the air and trying to catch her mid-sprint. Ahsoka flipped over a floating droid, doubled back, and force-tripped him into a foam wall.

"TAG," she shouted as he hit the mat.

"You used stealth," he accused.

"It's not stealth. You're just loud."

A Force tug whizzed past her ear. She dodged, slid across the polished floor, and countered with a pulse strong enough to make him skip like a stone.

"You've trained before," he puffed, scrambling upright.

"I listen."

"I wing it."

They were both panting now, hair flying, limbs sore. Other younglings had gathered in a loose circle, watching the chaos unfold like it was better than Temple holovids.

Ben vaulted off a bench and reached for her shoulder.

Ahsoka ducked, spun, and—

"WRRAAAHHHHHRRRHHH!"

The sound hit first. Then the Force.

Tyyyvak descended like an angry thundercloud in a robe. One swipe of her massive arm and both initiates were swept off their feet, pinned gently but firmly by the invisible weight of an experienced Jedi Master's Enough Is Enough technique.

Ben landed face-first in a foam ring.

Ahsoka bounced twice before settling in a heap, montrals flopped over her eyes.

"RRRHHHWWWAAARRRRRRR!"

Enough. Training is not an excuse to break half the courtyard. Also, that droid is not a launchpad.

Ahsoka peeled a leg off her shoulder. "Sorry, Master Tyyyvak."

Ben rolled over with a groan. "I declare it… a tie."

"You fell in a bucket."

"It was strategic."

Ahsoka smirked. "You're ridiculous."

"You tripped me into a wall."

"You liked it."

"I really did."

Tyyyvak sighed, deep and long. Then she walked away, still muttering something that sounded like "Loud ones. Why is it always the loud ones?"

Ben sat up, hair sticking out wildly in every direction, and looked at her like he'd just been hit by lightning and decided it was a personal challenge.

"So," he said. "Are we best friends now, or mortal enemies with unresolved tension?"

Ahsoka tilted her head.

"…TBD."

He grinned. "Cool."

...​

Here's the thing about Jedi education:

It's terrifyingly organized.

The classroom wasn't even a room. It was more like a giant, circular meditation pit, lined with cushions and gentle humming panels that probably pumped in calming Force vibes. There were no datapads on the floor. No snacks. No knives.

Zero stars. Would not recommend.

I flopped into my assigned spot beside Ahsoka and immediately started taking mental notes:

No windows. Prison vibes. Cushions = deceptively soft. Floor hums. Either meditation field or very large cat. Investigate later.

Ahsoka is sitting suspiciously upright. Possibly possessed.

"Why are you so serious?" I whispered to her.

She didn't look at me. "Because Master Tyyyvak is about to speak."

"What, like in words or in—"

A deafening roar echoed through the chamber like a rancor with a megaphone.

"RAAAAAWWWWRHHHHHRRAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

Tyyyvak stepped into the circle like a majestic, extremely hairy judgment cloud. Her robes rustled. Her claws gleamed. The room fell utterly silent.

I straightened up immediately and tried to look innocent. This took effort.

Tyyyvak cleared her throat with a rumble that sounded like a landspeeder failing to start.

Then she began her lecture.

I had no idea what she was saying.

But I pretended I did.

It started strong. She made a sweeping gesture toward the stars and growled something long and emotional.

I nodded solemnly. And copied Ashoka's notes.

"The Force surrounds us, connects us. Be mindful." Right. Yes. Classic.

Then she slammed one paw against her chest and snarled.

"The Jedi are protectors of peace. Even when it's hard." Deep stuff. Possibly traumatic. Moving on.

She raised a finger like she was about to deliver the thesis statement of the universe.

"RWAAAHHHHHHHHRRRRRAAHHH!"

And I wrote in my notebook, "Don't eat your enemies. Even if they deserve it."

Ahsoka leaned over to read my notes.

"That's not what she said."

"You sure?"

"She said the path of the Jedi requires patience and compassion."

"That's what I said."

"No it isn't."

"She used very aggressive body language."

Ahsoka rolled her eyes and went back to listening like the teacher's pet she absolutely was.

I continued to write, scribbling down what I felt the lesson was probably about:

Ben's Jedi Notes, First Edition

• The Force is like air but moodier.

• Compassion is a weapon? Maybe that was metaphorical.

• Meditation involves breathing, but like, seriously.

• Life Day is a Force ritual (probably).

• Attachment is bad, unless it's to snacks.

• Master Tyyyvak has very sharp teeth.

Halfway through the lecture, Tyyyvak turned and pointed directly at me.

"RRAAWWWRRHHHHH!"

Everyone stared.

I glanced at Ahsoka. "Translation?"

"She said you should let go of your attachments."

I nodded wisely. "Cool. I'm letting go of my math homework. Emotionally."

Another roar.

"She's proud of me."

"She's confiscating your notebook."

"What!?"

A massive paw landed gently but firmly on top of my datapad. Tyyyvak took it and held it up to the light like she was considering whether to vaporize it or archive it as a warning to others.

I looked mournfully at Ahsoka.

"You betrayed me."

"You betrayed yourself."

"You encouraged me!"

"I watched you write 'Force Lightning is probably just spicy empathy.' I chose peace."

Tyyyvak tucked the datapad into a pouch that was, frankly, way too small for such violence. Then she grunted again, one short bark followed by a huff.

Ahsoka translated with zero sympathy: "She says you'll get it back when you show 'respect for the living Force.'"

"…That could mean anything."

"Probably means stop drawing lightsabers with fangs in the margins."

The lesson continued.

To my credit, I listened harder after that. I mean, I still didn't understand any of the words—but the energy was there. You could feel it when she talked. Like her voice pulled the Force itself into the room and made it pay attention.

That's the weird thing about Jedi stuff. It's not all about rules or codes. Sometimes, it's just sitting still, breathing slow, and pretending that you don't want to throw a cushion at the nearest Nautolan.

It's boring.

But it's… also kind of peaceful.

And Tyyyvak—she's scary, but she cares.

You can tell.

She doesn't roar at just anyone.

Class ended with a brief, rumbling hum and a soft tap of her claw against the floor.

The kids filed out in silence. Even me.

I bumped Ahsoka with my shoulder on the way to the door.

"So, how'd I do?"

"You survived."

"I call that a win."

"You made up at least five Jedi rules and invented a holiday."

"Thank you."

She sighed. "You're lucky she likes you."

I nodded. "That's the plan."

Behind us, Tyyyvak roared one final word.

"RAAAAAWWWRHHHHHHHH!"

Ahsoka smiled faintly. "And she kindly requests you stop guessing what she's saying."

"Yeah," I said under my breath, "that's fair."

...​

I'd been at the Temple for three days.

In that time, I'd (1) set off a floating orb alarm, (2) invented a new Force maneuver called "accidental backflip into a plant," and (3) gotten my notebook back from Tyyyvak, complete with fur-covered sticky note that read:

"Try again. With fewer disruptions."

Progress.

I had also, apparently, made a reputation for myself—which, look, wasn't intentional. But when you're from Mandalore and your general vibe is "small chaos goblin with Force powers," people start expecting things. Like unpredictability. Or commentary.

Which was why, on day four, we were told to gather for our first meditation-focused lesson—and I was specifically placed next to Ahsoka, who had been specifically instructed to keep me "quiet."

She was not thrilled.

...​

The meditation room was dim, quiet, and smelled like incense and responsibility. Light streamed through tall windows, catching the edges of soft floor mats and polished stone. There were no distractions. No training balls. No obvious things to throw.

Suspicious.

Master Tyyyvak sat in the center of the room like a fluffy statue of judgment and wisdom. She raised one massive paw.

The room went silent.

"RRRAAHHHHHHHHHHRRRHHHHH."

Yeah, I still couldn't understand her, and the Force isn't Duolingo. What I did have was a data pad, with the Sci-Fi, Temple approved equivalent of Google Translate.

Today, we begin our study of the Jedi Code.

She let it hang in the air like an ancient riddle. I could feel the other kids tense up with excitement or fear or both. I, personally, was 70% excited and 30% bracing for disappointment.

Sure enough, she growled the first line with reverence:

There is no emotion, there is peace.

I waited a beat.

Then whispered: "Unless it's funny."

Ahsoka elbowed me so hard I nearly shifted dimensions.

"RRRRAWWWWRHHHHH!"

Tyyyvak didn't look at me. She didn't have to.

I coughed. Sat up straighter. Tried again.

"There is no ignorance, only… underpaid archivists."

Another elbow.

Another growl.

A kid across the room started to sniffle.

"Okay, okay," I said quickly. "I'm done. I'm focused. I'm ready to learn the Sacred and Very Serious Code of Not Laughing Ever."

Ahsoka muttered, "You're going to get Force-choked in your sleep."

"Not by her. She likes me."

"Not the point."

Tyyyvak continued the recitation. Her roars came slow and thoughtful, translated with gentle pauses by the Temple's universal translator—or Ahsoka, when the thing glitched (which it did a lot, there's a reason they're rarely used).

"There is no passion, there is serenity."

"There is no chaos, there is harmony."

"There is no death, there is the Force."

Simple. Repetitive. Easy to memorize.

Harder to believe.

I mean, have you seen the galaxy? There's plenty of emotion. And chaos. And death. And passion. It's kind of the entire theme.

But something about the way Tyyyvak said it—like it wasn't just a rule, but a reminder—stuck with me.

Not that I'd admit that.

Instead, I mumbled under my breath: "No death? Bold take for an order with laser swords."

Ahsoka coughed, which sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh.

One point for me.

...​

We were told to repeat the Code as a group. Loud and clear. Centered. Still.

I tried. Really.

"There is no emotion…" I began.

And suddenly, I felt something.

Calm. Weightless.

For a half-second, it was like my brain stopped spinning. Like the Force itself pressed gently against my chest and said, "Hey. You're not wrong to be loud. But you don't have to be all the time."

Which, frankly, was rude.

But true.

I finished the line without a joke.

"There is peace."

Tyyyvak glanced over.

Just a glance.

But I swear she nodded.

...​

Afterward, we were told to reflect. Quietly. In our journals.

I stared at the blank page.

Thought about chaos. Thought about Mandalore. Thought about Satine's face when she said goodbye, and how Bo-Katan had pressed that (deactivated) vibroblade into my hand like it was a promise.

And I thought:

There is emotion. But it doesn't have to own me.

There is chaos. But I can be louder.

I doodled a lightsaber with wings and labeled it "inner balance."

Ahsoka leaned over to peek at the drawing.

"…You're so weird."

I smiled. "Thanks."

...​

Tyyyvak gave her final Wookiee blessing of the day—a low, rumbling hum like the purr of a starship engine—then dismissed us with a raised paw.

We filtered out in silence, or something close to it.

I waited until we were just outside before I said, "So… real talk: what do you think they'd do if I carved the Code into a training mat using only the Force and a spoon?"

Ahsoka didn't even blink. "Ask you to do it again but quietly."

I grinned.

Then walked straight into a doorframe.

Balance.

...​

The dormitory was supposed to be quiet by now.

Most of the younglings were already curled up under their thin Temple blankets, soft breathing syncing with the low hum of ambient meditation frequencies piped in through the walls. Outside the tall windows, Coruscant's endless cityscape glowed like a sleeping giant made of light.

Ahsoka was trying to sleep.

She wasn't succeeding.

Too many thoughts. Too much energy. Too much Ben.

He was lying in the bunk across from hers, very pointedly not asleep, one arm flung over his face in a melodramatic sprawl that suggested either deep suffering or severe boredom. Possibly both.

"Psst," he whispered suddenly. "You awake?"

Ahsoka rolled over, blinking. "No."

"Oh. Good."

Yes, Ben. How wonderful for her that she, an aspiring Jedi, can find no rest. Why does she hang out with him, again?

"…Wanna snack?"

She sat up.

He grinned and pulled a crinkling packet from under his pillow like a smuggler revealing contraband.

"Stole it from the cafeteria droid when it wasn't looking. I'm basically a stealth master now."

"You are the loudest child in this Temple."

"And yet somehow, always successful."

She took the snack—dehydrated fruit sticks—and leaned back against the wall beside her bunk. "This doesn't mean we're best friends, you know."

"Obviously not," Ben said, already halfway through his own pack. "We're sworn enemies with snack benefits."

She snorted. "You're weird."

"And you've said that every day since I got here. At this point, it's a compliment." He tossed her a stick, which she was quick to sink her teeth into.

They chewed in silence for a bit, both watching the soft pulse of Temple lights dim toward rest mode.

Ben broke it first.

"So," he said casually. "If you had a lightsaber… what color would it be?"

Ahsoka tilted her head. "Green."

"Ugh, predictable."

"It's a classic!"

"Exactly. I want black."

"There's only one black lightsaber," she said. "And it's missing."

"I know. That's why I want it."

"Are you planning to find it?"

"Or make a new one. Somehow. I don't know. I'm still workshopping."

She shook her head, smiling faintly. "You're going to be a problem."

"Correct."

A few bunks over, someone snored.

Ahsoka tucked the blanket tighter around her legs and looked toward the ceiling. "You ever feel… weird here?" she asked quietly.

Ben blinked over at her.

"I mean, like you're not exactly… Jedi-shaped."

He was quiet for a long moment. "I'm from a place where people wear armor instead of robes and raise kids with knives. Yeah. I feel weird."

She smiled. "Me too. Not the armor part. But I get it."

"I think that's why they stuck us together," Ben said. "Too much sarcasm for one hallway."

"Too much brainpower," she corrected.

"Too much awesome."

"Too much… 'accidentally launched a training ball into the ceiling.'"

"That was day one," Ben said proudly. "A record."

She hesitated, then glanced toward the door. No footsteps. No Tyyyvak. "You think Master Tyyyvak sleeps?"

"No."

"You think she's a ghost?"

"I think she's part of the exhibit wing. Like the old Jedi archives with bones and stuff."

"She definitely has bones."

"Yeah," Ben said. "All of them."

They both giggled.

It wasn't loud.

It didn't need to be.

...​

Ahsoka looked over again. Ben had gone quiet, staring at the glow of the lights outside like he was trying to see something further than the skyline.

"Hey," she said softly. "If we get split up someday—like, if they assign us to different Masters or whatever…"

"…Yeah?"

"Can we promise to look out for each other anyway? Even if we're not together?"

Ben didn't answer right away.

Then he swung his legs out of bed, padded over, and held out his hand.

"Sworn oath," he said. "One Force Pact of Eternal Watchfulness."

"That's not a thing."

"It is now."

She took his hand. Shook it once, firmly.

"We look out for each other," she said.

"No matter what path we take."

"No matter how annoying you get."

"No matter how green your lightsaber is."

"No matter how many chandeliers you destroy."

They smiled.

It was silly.

It was childish.

It stuck.

Ben yawned. Loudly. "Okay, sleep now. Tyyyvak said if I fall asleep during meditation again she'll roll me into the fountain."

"She didn't say that."

"She implied it. With her vibe."

He climbed back into his bunk and flopped over with all the grace of a tranquilized loth-cat.

Ahsoka lay down again, eyes drifting shut, heart a little quieter than before.

Outside, the lights of Coruscant blinked softly.

Inside, two small Jedi dreamed.

Together.

...​

Aw! It's all so sweet. Like those puppy shorts I can't stop watching. Too. Addicting! Not the typical kind of writing I'm used to, but I thought I'd try out something new for a bit. Though, with that said, this wholesome childhood imagery will more than likely end before too long, so don't get too attached. Shouldn't be a problem.

The Jedi hate attachments.

Was that foreshadowing? Who know?

If you'd like to find out the answer early, you're more than welcome to check my patreon, link below, where I have a whole bunch more chapters available. If that's not your thing, no worries, everything will still get here eventually. But if you want to show your love and support, please do! Just know that I appreciate every single one of you!

Huh?

What's that?

Sorry, I was just informed by the Jedi Council that I'm not allowed to express my feelings of gratitude. I take all of your appreciation and admiration with due diligence and indifference. You all mean nothing to me.

(Okay, they're not looking: love you guys!)

My Patreon

P.S.

Sorry for the late update. My wi-fi was not my friend today.

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 3: Lessons in Misconduct

The Jedi classroom was the most peaceful place in the galaxy.

Which meant it was designed to crush the soul of every child inside.

The walls were smooth and gently curved, with dimmable light panels and a full 360-degree sound field calibrated to promote "receptive learning." The seats were arranged in concentric circles like we were about to perform a ritual or be judged by a tribunal. Probably both.

The instructor was a human Knight named Master Solin, and she had the calm, focused voice of someone who had not been raised around Mandalorians, explosions, or me.

"This morning," she said, "we'll continue with galactic civics, followed by Jedi ethics, and then Temple history before midday meal."

The chorus of "yes, Master" was murmured with robotic devotion. I said nothing. I was busy balancing a stylus on my nose.

Ahsoka elbowed me.

Rude.

I dropped the stylus onto my datapad and gave her my most innocent expression.

"Pay attention," she whispered.

"I am. I'm absorbing the lesson through osmosis."

She didn't dignify that with a reply.

...​

Master Solin gestured and the holoprojector lit up, showing a calm blue map of the Republic's Core Worlds.

"Who can tell me why Coruscant holds both symbolic and practical power within the Senate?"

Hands went up. Everyone wanted to impress her.

I did not raise my hand. I answered anyway.

"Because it's the only planet where politics, money, and crime live together in a beautiful, dysfunctional space triangle."

Pause.

Solin stared at me for a second.

"Ben," she said carefully, "please only speak when called upon."

"Right. Sorry. That was just a vibe-based answer. I'll wait next time."

...​

We moved on to Jedi ethics, which, in fairness, sounded exciting—but was mostly just memorizing the same three principles in increasingly vague wording. "Service to others. Harmony with the Force. Selflessness of spirit." Which are all great concepts if you're a monk with no hobbies.

"Why don't Jedi vote?" I asked, halfway through the second slide.

Solin blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Well, like—if the Jedi are peacekeepers, and peacekeepers operate under the authority of the Republic Senate, shouldn't we vote on laws? Or at least influence policy? Seems like it'd make more sense than sitting in a tower going 'hmm yes the war is troubling.'"

Several kids gasped.

Ahsoka slapped a hand over her face.

Solin's smile stayed frozen in place like a carefully chilled dessert. "That's… a complicated question."

"It feels like a simple one."

"Well," she said slowly, "Jedi serve as neutral agents of the Force. We do not hold political positions, lest we become entangled in agendas."

"So the answer is 'yes,' we're powerful enough to make a difference, but we choose not to because it's awkward."

She blinked. "We believe in leading by example."

"Hm. Cool. Totally clear."

"Ben."

"Yes, Master?"

"…Please take notes."

...​

I doodled a senator with four arms holding four briefcases. Then gave him little speech bubbles that said "We value the Jedi's input" and "Please stop breaking our windows."

I moved on to Temple history, which was mostly a bunch of ancient names and battles with very few lightsabers involved. I tried to engage. Really. But when the question came—"What does the Rule of Two mean in Sith philosophy?"—I didn't even hesitate.

"It was invented at a party," I said.

A beat of silence.

Solin squinted. "Pardon?"

"Yeah, some old Sith Lord—Darth… Spiral or Spinach or something—got drunk on power, looked at his apprentices, and thought: 'Two's a good number. Like a buddy system, but mean.'"

Ahsoka looked ready to combust.

"That's not even close to correct," she hissed.

"It's closer than you'd think."

...​

Eventually, Master Solin stopped calling on me, which I took as a reward.

But honestly? Underneath all my nonsense, some of it was interesting. The Jedi didn't just fight—they protected trade routes, mediated civil wars, settled disputes that spanned whole systems. They were like diplomats, warriors, and therapists rolled into one… which, honestly, sounded exhausting.

And the Code—stupid as it sometimes sounded—wasn't about never feeling things. It was about what to do with those feelings. Like anger. Sadness. Or the very specific emotional experience of being four feet tall and told you couldn't have a lightsaber yet because "your inner peace is undercooked."

We finished with a short reading on Jedi lineage and the passage of teaching through generations. There was a whole bit about legacy and reverence that I totally skimmed.

"Ben," Solin called, as the class filed out for midday meal.

I paused. "Yes, Master?"

"…I appreciate your curiosity."

That was a dangerous sentence to give me.

She continued, slowly, carefully: "But I encourage you to consider the wisdom in learning before questioning."

"Oh," I said. "I question while I learn. Saves time."

She closed her eyes. Breathed very slowly.

I bowed, as respectfully as I could manage without falling over.

"Thank you for the education," I said, sweetly. "The part where I asked about voting was my favorite."

Then I sprinted for the hallway before she could assign me reflection meditation.

...​

Ahsoka caught up with me at the lunch queue, arms crossed.

"You know that someday you're going to be too tall to escape consequences."

"That sounds like a tomorrow problem."

"You're lucky Master Solin didn't feed you to the archives."

I grinned, grabbing a tray. "I don't know, I think she likes me."

"She patted her lightsaber when you said Darth Spinach."

"A show of trust."

"She muttered 'the Council's going to hear about this.'"

"A sign of admiration."

She shook her head.

But she was smiling.

...​

Ahsoka Tano took her training blade the way a warrior might accept a gift from a king: reverently, seriously, and with the mild expression of someone trying very hard not to bounce in place from sheer excitement.

She gripped the smooth hilt with both hands, let it hum softly to life—just a focused blue training beam, not a real saber yet, but still—and settled into her opening stance.

It was finally time.

Lightsaber Day.

Most of the initiates around her were still fumbling with foot placement, or shifting nervously like the saber might ignite backward and take out a kneecap. Ahsoka just adjusted her weight forward, knees bent, elbows high, jaw tight with focus.

She had been waiting for this.

Ever since arriving at the Temple—ever since hearing stories about Master Luminara's precision, or Master Windu's unbeatable form—she'd imagined the moment she'd finally hold one.

And she wasn't going to waste it.

Which was why the sound of Ben Kryze humming the Galactic Heroes theme while spinning his blade like a carnival baton was, frankly, unbearable.

"Ben," she hissed.

"What?" he asked, mid-spin. "I'm practicing flair."

"It's not supposed to twirl."

"It could. What if I get surrounded by enemies and need to distract them with interpretive movement?"

She stared.

He smiled. His lightsaber slipped out of his grip and smacked him in the knee.

Ahsoka sighed and turned back to the instructor.

Master Tyee was tall, Togrutan like Ahsoka, but older and more elegant—her montrals curled down like polished stone, and her voice cut like sunlight through still water.

"The blade is not a toy," she said, without looking at Ben. "It is not a dance partner. It is not an accessory. It is a truth."

"Yes, Master," the class chorused.

Ben raised a hand. "What if the truth has a nice rhythm?"

Tyee closed her eyes like she was asking the Force for patience.

Ahsoka didn't even bother looking at him. She just muttered, "You're going to get flung into the ceiling again."

The students fanned out into lines across the dojo floor, matched by height and experience. Ahsoka squared off with a Rodian girl who looked as serious as she felt. They went through the forms slowly—one step at a time. Guard. Cut. Parry. Guard again.

She adjusted her grip instinctively, holding her blade with the emitter slightly angled back—less defensive, more redirective. She didn't know the names of the forms yet, not really, but her hands were already learning.

Shien, a little voice whispered in the back of her head. The path of deflection. The path of return.

Across the mat, Ben was… improvising.

Ahsoka caught sight of him mid-lunge, spinning sideways with far too much enthusiasm, nearly crashing into his sparring partner—a Duros boy who promptly dropped his blade and fled sideways like a startled Tooka.

Ben froze mid-pose, one foot in the air.

"I meant to do that," he called. "That was a test of spatial awareness. He passed."

"Ben Kryze," Master Tyee called. "Form. Now."

"Yes, Master!" he chirped, dropping into a wildly exaggerated ready pose that looked like a cross between fencing and jazz hands.

Tyee rubbed her temples

...​

Later, as the class paired off again for flow drills, Ahsoka ended up across from him.

She tried to hide her smirk.

He noticed anyway.

"I have improved," he declared. "Witness my form."

He lunged again—faster than before, surprisingly fluid—then stumbled as his foot caught on his own robe.

Ahsoka grabbed his arm and yanked him upright before he could fully faceplant.

He blinked at her.

"You are the wind beneath my footing," he said solemnly.

"You're holding the hilt too low."

"What?"

She stepped behind him, adjusted his grip with both hands, and nudged his elbow up.

"There," she said. "Better balance. Less risk of smacking yourself in the face."

Ben raised the blade. Tried the move again. Slower. Cleaner.

"…Oh," he said. "That does feel better."

"Told you."

"Do I owe you my life now?"

"You owe me lunch."

"Done."

They stayed like that a beat longer than necessary. Twin sabers buzzing quietly, not yet dangerous—but full of future potential.

Ben turned to face her again, eyebrow raised.

"You're kind of good at this," he said.

She didn't smile. Not really. But her grip tightened.

"So are you," she said. "When you're not pretending you're in a holo-drama."

He grinned.

Then immediately dropped his blade again.

The Jedi Archive lecture hall was as quiet as a tomb and twice as intimidating.

Polished stone walls. A holoprojector the size of a starship engine. Rows of tiered seating built for initiates who didn't swing their legs, fidget constantly, or kick the chairs in front of them.

So naturally, Ben was all three.

Ahsoka adjusted her seat and straightened her spine. She liked lectures. They were structured. Logical. There was usually a test afterward, and she loved tests.

Ben, beside her, was already tilting sideways.

"I think I can see my soul leaving my body," he whispered, voice low and dramatic. "Tell my snacks I love them."

Ahsoka elbowed him without looking.

The doors slid open, and the room sat up straighter as a tall, robed figure entered—long beard, longer face, and the kind of forehead you could land a speeder on.

A few students gasped in awe.

Ben leaned over and whispered, "Behold, Master Forehead. He sees all. Especially droid attacks on wookiees."

Ahsoka covered her mouth with her hand and pretended not to snort.

"Good morning, young ones," said Master Ki-Adi-Mundi, bowing his head solemnly. "It is an honor to speak with you today about Jedi diplomacy, responsibility, and the moral burden of authority."

Ahsoka sat forward, ears perked. Her montrals twitched with interest. This was important. This was real Jedi stuff. She could already feel her mind focusing, drawing in the knowledge like sunlight through a lens.

Ben poked her side with the stylus he wasn't using.

"Moral burden," he whispered. "Translation: 'Oops, we accidentally caused another galactic incident.'"

"Shhh," she whispered back.

"I'm helping you internalize the lesson."

"You're going to internalize my fist."

"Compassion, Ahsoka. Jedi virtue."

Ki-Adi-Mundi spoke in long, careful sentences.

He described the role of the Jedi in planetary disputes—how they must remain impartial, even when injustice seems obvious. How the Council must weigh each intervention with solemn clarity. How peace, not politics, is the goal.

It was… inspiring, in a way Ahsoka hadn't expected.

She already knew she wanted to be a Knight, but this was more than lightsabers and stances. This was about wisdom. Knowing when not to act. The restraint to let the Force guide you.

She raised her hand.

The Master nodded.

"Yes, young one?"

Ahsoka stood, speaking clearly. "If the Jedi serve peace, but the Republic chooses war, how do we serve both without compromising either?"

A quiet passed through the room.

Ki-Adi-Mundi smiled—not the patronizing smile adults gave when kids asked a "good try" question, but something… thoughtful.

"A valuable inquiry," he said. "One that even Masters must meditate upon. The answer lies in our intent. We do not serve power. We serve balance."

Ahsoka felt the words settle in her chest.

They mattered.

Then Ben's hand shot up.

Ahsoka's eyes widened. No.

"Yes, young one?" the Master asked.

Ben stood, completely composed.

"If the Jedi Code is about principles," he began sweetly, "why are most of our rules about procedures? Like, are we wise monks… or space librarians with lightsabers?"

A beat.

A long, long beat.

Ki-Adi-Mundi's face was a lesson in composed confusion.

"…That is a… very interesting way to phrase it."

"I'm workshopping," Ben said, nodding. "But seriously—how much of the Code is the Force, and how much is committee meetings?"

Ahsoka groaned softly into her sleeve.

Ki-Adi-Mundi gave a deeply Jedi answer: "There is wisdom in tradition. But not all tradition is wisdom. What matters is the will of the Force."

Ben sat down slowly, nodding like he'd just solved mortality.

"Translation," he whispered: "'Yes.'"

The lecture wrapped after several more high-concept metaphors and historical footnotes. Ahsoka kept her eyes front and center, even while Ben continued passing her little datapad sketches—one of Ki-Adi-Mundi's head orbiting a council room like a moon, another of a Jedi duel with the caption "Emotion is forbidden, but swordfighting is encouraged."

She was going to confiscate his stylus one day.

But later. For now… she was sort of glad he was here. Even if he never shut up.

...​

After the class ended, Ahsoka was collecting her notes when Ki-Adi-Mundi approached her.

"You asked a very mature question," he said kindly. "The Temple needs minds like yours."

She beamed. "Thank you, Master."

He glanced behind her, where Ben was pretending to be tangled in his own robes. "This is most severe."

"…Is your friend always like that?"

Ahsoka didn't even pause. "Only when he's awake."

...​

There are few moments in life when one can truly say: I have peaked as a person.

One of them is sneaking into a restricted meditation chamber, rewiring the ancient swivel base of a High Council meditation chair to rotate exactly 30 degrees every fifteen seconds… and living to tell the tale.

I am a legend.

I am also trying very hard not to laugh while Master Mace Windu discusses the sanctity of inner stillness.

"This chamber," he said in his Very Serious Voice, "is a place of discipline, control, and attunement. The Force cannot speak through chaos. Only calm."

Thirty seconds passed.

His chair turned slightly.

Nobody noticed. Yet.

I breathed through my nose, zen as heck.

We were seated in a wide circle of plush floor cushions, bathed in soft natural light filtering through transparisteel skylights. Everything smelled faintly of temple incense and expectations.

Mace Windu sat in the central instructor's chair—one of those big meditative ones with the carved base and unreasonably perfect posture enforcement. Probably designed by a team of Jedi chiropractors.

The thing was ancient. And now, slightly motorized.

"You must learn to release distraction," Windu continued. "To breathe with purpose. To hear the Force not as a whisper, but a current. Always flowing."

Whirrrr.

The chair moved again.

A full thirty degrees now. He was no longer facing the class. Just… slightly to the left.

Ahsoka kicked me under the cushion.

Don't you dare, her eyes said.

I am innocent, mine replied.

Windu paused, slightly adjusting his shoulders. He didn't turn the chair back. Just kept going. Like a professional.

I was sweating from the effort of not bursting out laughing.

"Emotion is not the enemy," Windu said next. "Attachment is. The inability to let go."

I nodded sagely, like I hadn't spent the morning requiring a High Council Jedi Masters seat as a joke. If anything, my ability to let go may be a little more compromised than most.

The chair turned again. A little more noticeable this time.

Now he was at a three-quarters angle. Speaking to a wall.

No one dared comment.

A few students were visibly holding their breath.

Mace didn't even twitch. He just kept going.

"In your future training," he said slowly, "you will be tempted to act from impulse. To embrace your instincts without discipline. This is the path to failure."

I don't know, Master. Acting on my impulses seems to be working pretty well, for me.

His chair turned again.

Now he was facing the back of the room.

He didn't move. He didn't speak.

Silence fell.

I did not blink.

Slowly, very slowly, Master Windu rotated the chair back to center. By hand.

Or rather, with the Force.

He looked at each of us in turn.

Measured.

Serene.

Terrifying.

Then his gaze landed on me.

He stared.

I stared back.

This was the final duel. The arena of wills. The Force may bind the galaxy, but this—this was personal.

The seconds dragged on. Students began to squirm.

Windu didn't blink.

Neither did I.

We were locked in combat.

Somewhere, a bird called. It was probably judged.

But, it was at this point, staring directly against the Master of the Order, that I remembered this was the Jedi with the secret bullshit ability of shatterpoint. I may have chosen a poor target.

At last, Windu stood.

"I trust," he said softly, "that you will reflect on this lesson."

He left the chair slightly turned to the side.

Message received.

...​

That evening, I found a note on my bunk.

No signature. No handwriting.

Just a single line, printed with eerie precision:

You are being watched.

I taped it to my wall like a trophy.

"Worth it," I whispered.

...​

Obi-Wan stood silently at the back of the room, arms folded behind his back, posture carefully neutral.

Just observing.

Not interfering.

Absolutely not checking in on the child he had definitely not fathered during a deeply inadvisable offworld affair with a Mandalorian duchess during their late teenage rebellion years.

He was simply… present. A supportive presence. For morale.

Master Solin, seated cross-legged at the front of the class, continued her lecture on the intersection of Jedi philosophy and planetary law. The initiates around her listened attentively, datapads balanced on their laps.

Well.

Most of them.

Ben Kryze was seated off-center, one knee tucked under the other, his pad held diagonally like it had personally offended him. He appeared to be doodling a lightsaber duel between two Senators.

Ahsoka Tano—smaller, straighter, sharper in posture—kept glancing between her notes and Ben's sketchpad like she was silently weighing the merits of homicide.

Obi-Wan allowed himself the faintest twitch of a smile.

They balanced each other. Force help them all.

"…And in systems where local marriage law conflicts with the Republic standard," Solin was saying, "Jedi neutrality must be maintained. You are not arbiters of morality—only of peace."

Ben raised a hand.

Solin hesitated.

"Yes, Initiate Kryze?"

Ben looked entirely innocent. That alone should have been cause for alarm.

"So. Not to, like, derail the entire class. But—hypothetically—what happens if a Jedi does get married?"

Obi-Wan stopped breathing for exactly one second.

Solin blinked. "They… don't. Jedi are forbidden from forming attachments."

"Right, right. That's the rule." Ben nodded, faux thoughtful. "But what if the marriage happens before they join the Order? Like, baby wedding. Weird, but legal in some systems."

Ahsoka sighed so hard montrals twitched.

"Also," Ben added, "what if it happens offworld, under a different name, and no one tells the Council? Would that still be attachment? Or is it just… aggressive privacy?"

Solin was staring like her soul had briefly exited the building.

"I—Initiate—"

"Or," Ben continued, "let's say two Jedi fall in love, but they never marry. A proxy does it. Technically it's a union. Does that count? Do they have to divorce? Do we even have divorce paperwork?"

Ahsoka's head hit the desk with a gentle thunk.

"I swear," she muttered, "this is your third loophole question this week."

"I'm a scholar," Ben said.

"You're a menace."

Obi-Wan rubbed the bridge of his nose, face angled just enough to remain hidden behind a decorative pillar. He was pretty sure his ears were red. Which was impressive. For someone with a beard.

Solin attempted a response: "The Jedi Code—"

Ben cut in cheerfully, "—is mostly interpreted by the Council, right? So, technically, if the Council allowed it—"

"Stop," Ahsoka begged.

"—then it's not a violation. It's an exception. In fact, what about the legend I heard of Master Ki-Adi-Mundi's wives—"

"Rumor!" Ahsoka snapped.

Ben blinked. "What?"

She turned to him, exasperated. "It's a rumor about Master Mundi having a harem, not a legend! How could you have a legend about someone who's still alive?!"

Ben leaned in, solemn. "Ask Mickey Mouse."

Ahsoka blinked. "Who?"

Ben stared at the ceiling. "The most powerful being in the universe. But we're getting off topic."

Solin had begun blinking very fast. Obi-Wan suspected she was dissociating.

Ben sat up straighter, undeterred. "All I'm saying is—if love is forbidden, but marriage is legally binding, where's the line? Couldn't two Jedi marry under local law, live in separate systems, and just… emotionally detach about it? What are the rules, here?"

Obi-Wan looked up at the ceiling and said a prayer to the Force.

It didn't answer.

Of course it didn't.

The lesson ended shortly afterward.

Solin dismissed the class with what was clearly a fabricated excuse—"self-study hour," she called it, but it had the tone of "I need a nap and a drink and maybe to scream into a pillow."

The initiates filed out quietly.

Ahsoka gave Ben a sideways shove as they passed him.

"You're going to get us banned from lectures."

"I'm helping us all learn," Ben said, grinning.

"You are not."

Obi-Wan watched them go. He couldn't help it.

Ben glanced up as he passed.

Their eyes met.

Ben gave a subtle, raised-eyebrow look that said I know.

Obi-Wan gave a subtle, exasperated nod that said No you don't.

Then Ben winked.

And Obi-Wan Kenobi—Jedi Knight, galactic peacekeeper, veteran of the Melida/Daan and Naboo crisis—swore under his breath.

"Force help me," he muttered. "He's mine."

...​

I think questioning the Jedi Order's stance on marriage and sex is completely valid, as they definitely seem to gloss over it every time someone asks. Their general policy is love is good, attachment is bad, and certain species have more privileges than others, if Master Forehead's harem of wives is anything go by. Heck, baby Yoda's dad is the Grandmaster of the Order.

Lot of double standards, here.

Makes you wonder, if Anakin was more open about his marriage, would there have even been any consequences?

The Chosen One already got the nepo-baby privilege of being a late-in-life Jedi, after missing the drop-off age. Chances are pretty good that he would have just gotten a pass on this, too. Must be nice having the Force as your dad.

But, I digress. Thank you all for reading! Stay tuned for tomorrow's chapter.

Or, if you despise waiting, you can always check out my Patreon, link below:

My Patreon

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 4: Letters from Home

Meditation was a sacred Jedi discipline, meant to center the soul, still the mind, and banish distraction.

I was currently hiding behind a statue of an ancient Jedi Master with half her nose chipped off, typing as fast as possible on a datapad I had most definitely not borrowed permanently from the Temple Archives.

So yes. I was technically meditating. On the consequences of being raised in a political lie.

And maybe also on regional unrest.

With a side of passive aggression.

Encrypted Message: Outbound / Level-2 Disguise Layer: Academic Inquiry

TO: Duchess Satine Kryze, Mandalore (allegedly my aunt)

CC: Korkie "Technically My Twin, Even Though We're Not Identical" Kryze, Age 7, Aspiring Political Martyr

FROM: Temple Student "Ben" (Codename: Definitely Not the Child of a Jedi and a Duchess, That Would Be Ridiculous)

SUBJECT: Regional Ethics and Mandalorian Domestic Law, or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Start Hacking the Archives

Dear Aunt Satine,

Meditation is going great. I'm very centered. Enlightened, even.

Today's lesson was about surrendering emotional attachments to achieve true peace, and nothing says inner serenity like pretending your own family doesn't exist.

We also studied the concept of legal non-involvement in planetary conflict. I raised my hand and asked if that extended to family civil wars. Master Windu blinked slowly and told me to reflect on my silence. I found that very meaningful.

Also, unrelated question: If someone hypothetically trained me in diplomacy and gave me an heirloom vibroblade, what kind of message would that send?

Asking for a me.

The screen blinked at me, waiting for more.

I shifted, knees folded beneath me on the cold marble floor, one hand tucked in my sleeve so I could hide the datapad if someone walked by. My cloak was bunched up behind me like a nest. I called it strategic camouflage. The archivists called it "a tripping hazard."

From beyond the statue alcove, I heard footsteps and a distant lecture voice droning about "unified balance in posture." The other initiates were doing their actual afternoon meditation. I was doing emotional recon and encrypted intergalactic communications.

Everyone has their role.

"You know you're the worst at hiding," Ahsoka's voice whispered.

I didn't jump. I almost jumped, but I didn't.

She crouched down beside me, montrals twitching slightly under her hood.

"You weren't followed, right?" I whispered dramatically.

"Obviously," she said. "I used the baby Rodian decoy plan. She lives to cause distractions."

"Nice."

"Also, Master Tyyyvak thinks you're in solo meditation. I may have implied you were working through inner shame."

"Even better."

"Did you at least write something poetic and angsty?"

I showed her the datapad.

She squinted. "'How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Start Hacking the Archives.' Seriously?"

"What? It's catchy."

"You are so lucky Jedi can't get grounded."

...​

She leaned her head against the statue, watching me edit.

"You miss her?" she asked.

I didn't answer right away.

Instead, I kept typing:

Korkie,

If Bo-Katan actually blew up a mining cruiser this time, you are legally required to describe it in detail and include the splash radius.

Also, if she says she's not your mom again, she's right. Stop arguing with her. She legally couldn't have twins at fifteen, and this whole plan to blame everything on her is falling apart.

I know "aunt" Satine says we're her nephews, that's because she probably doesn't want to admit she's our mom, but still wanted us to live with her. It's not that complicated. I really don't know what you want me to say. Maybe you should be more likable if you want that parental recognition?

It's fine. I'm fine. Enlightenment, et cetera.

"I miss all of them." I admitted. "But my place is with the Jedi."

For now.

Ahsoka sighed. "You really think they'll read between the lines?"

"Oh, definitely." I smirked. "Satine loves subtext. It's how she communicates. That and pretending everything is diplomatic procedure."

"Sound familiar."

I ignored her.

From the hall, a soft set of boots approached.

Ahsoka's posture straightened instantly. "Someone's coming."

I flipped the datapad under my cloak and crossed my legs like I had always been meditating and wasn't hiding behind a statue illegally texting a Duchess.

The approaching figure turned the corner.

A Knight. Human. Tall, tired, not too observant.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Everything alright here?"

"Yes, Master," Ahsoka said smoothly. "Ben's in personal reflection."

The Knight looked at me. I made my most serene face.

"I'm meditating on the consequences of regional unrest," I said.

Ahsoka kicked me.

The Knight gave us a look that screamed I don't get paid enough for this, nodded, and left.

We exhaled.

"I can't believe that worked," I whispered.

"I can't believe you said that," Ahsoka muttered.

We huddled back down. I resumed typing.

P.S. Please tell Bo-Katan that if she wants to join a violent insurgency, fine. But I want royalties on the family scandal if it ever gets turned into a holodrama.

P.P.S. Master Tyyyvak says to be mindful of one's breathing. I would like to add: easier said than done when your lungs are full of unresolved childhood questions.

Ahsoka peeked over my shoulder again. "You're going to get caught eventually."

"Probably."

"And then what?"

I shrugged. "I'm seven. What are they going to do? Arrest me?"

"You'd probably talk your way into juvenile Sith detention and like it."

"I'd unionize it."

"Ugh. Just finish your secret manifesto, idiot."

I grinned.

Final lines:

Mandalore may be neutral, but my feelings aren't.

I hope the revolution is interesting.

Please don't let Korkie touch any explosives. He means well, but he's also Korkie.

With restrained affection,

—Ben

P.S. (Last one) Tell the guard who reads this that she has nice hair. But also, this message self-erases in 30 seconds. Just so everyone knows I'm serious.

I hit send.

The datapad blinked twice, encrypted transmission dispersing across six offworld relays.

Gone.

Ahsoka leaned back, arms behind her head. "You're lucky I like you," she said.

"Don't lie," I said. "You like the drama."

She smirked. "I am the drama."

We stayed there behind the statue for a few extra minutes.

Meditating, maybe.

Just a little.

...​

The datapad screen flickered to life under Korkie's pillow. He squinted at it, then pulled it out with the air of a spy receiving urgent orders. The encryption cracked itself open with a satisfying chirp, and there it was.

Ben's message.

Korkie sat up straight in bed, ignoring the muffled sounds of arguing adults from the palace hall and the faint crump of something exploding somewhere on the lower levels. (Hopefully not the laundry room again.)

He tapped open the message, read it twice—snorted—and immediately opened a reply window. The dim light cast dramatic shadows across his face, which he did not notice but would have appreciated.

His fingers flew across the screen:

TO: Jedi Temple Student "Ben" (Codename: Still Probably My Brother)

FROM: Korkie Kryze, Official Heir to Satine's Passive-Aggressive Legacy

SUBJECT: RE: Your Pathologically Calm Correspondence

Dear Ben,

Bo-Katan did not blow up a mining cruiser. She blew up a mining shuttle. It was only mildly explosive. She says it was "a precision strike" and not "a mood." I said maybe her mood should involve fewer concussions. She threatened to enroll me in a live-fire exercise.

Anyway, she's been wearing this black and red armor lately, which she says is "the aesthetic of serious intent." I think it looks like she lost a bet. But don't tell her I said that or I'll have to write my next message from the ceiling ductwork.

Korkie paused and added a crayon-sketched map—messily scanned and digitally attached. It had HERE THERE BE TRAITORS written across one corner and a stick figure labeled "Bo?" holding a lightsaber and a mug.

Included Map: "Where I Think the Revolution Is Probably Happening"

(Note: May not be to scale. Or geographically accurate.)

So. Updates. Satine's been doing the whole "I'm too dignified for emotions" thing lately, which means she's either going to cry or declare a planetary summit. Possibly both.

Also, I saw what you said last time, and no, Satine is definitely our aunt. She told me, and she never lies, except about snacks. And bedtime. And her actual feelings. But not about this.

So if we're twins, which we are, and Satine is our aunt, which she is, that means Bo-Katan is our mom. It's basic math, Ben. I don't know why you keep making it weird.

Outside his bedroom, something thunked against the wall. Korkie didn't flinch.

He added a new paragraph:

Bo says I should focus less on "conspiracy theories" and more on "survival training." I said knowledge is survival. She muttered something about training you both to be Mandalorians anyway, if the Jedi don't "muck it up." Then she threw a vibroknife into a table leg. It was very cool. I clapped.

I tried asking her if she's ever stolen a baby. She said I was being "unhelpful" and then grounded me. Not that grounding works when you have a datapad, and a network, and a deeply encrypted comms relay installed in your wall sconce. Which she still doesn't know about.

From the doorway, a faint voice called, "Korkie! Lights out!"

"Already did!" he shouted, and then dramatically hit dim mode. The screen lowered its brightness like a conspirator.

He finished with flourish:

Anyway, tell your Jedi friends that if they give you a buzzcut I will personally write a speech about hair freedom and read it on the Senate floor. I think we're still technically royalty, so I'm allowed to do that. I have a sash.

Stay safe, don't join the Sith, unless it's for infiltration purposes, and remember: if you go dark side, I call dibs on being your dramatic foil.

With definitely platonic brotherly affection,

—Korkie

...​

In a quieter corner of the palace, lit only by moonlight through a tall pane of crystalglass, Satine Kryze sat reading the letter on her own tablet.

How her son—nephews thought he could get away with encrypting anything under her roof, was a mystery beyond her, and most parents.

She didn't laugh. But the corner of her mouth twitched.

When she reached the line about being a war criminal, she closed her eyes for a long, deep breath—and then gently tucked the tablet away inside the folds of her robe.

She didn't answer aloud.

But later that night, her personal aide noticed that the Duchess requested a diplomatic communique "with embedded cultural queries" to be drafted for Coruscant.

One that included a footnote on the Jedi Order's stance on attachment. And a second on whether Jedi children were allowed to correspond with "extended family."

...​

Obi-Wan Kenobi was not one to check flagged Temple communications. That was the work of droids, archivists, and the occasional overzealous Knight with too much time on their hands.

But the alert had come through a discretionary filter—anonymous tip, high-priority keyword match, "external correspondence." It wouldn't have drawn his attention, if not for the name embedded in the encryption header:

Kryze, Satine.

His hand hovered above the terminal. The message hadn't been fully decrypted yet. He didn't know who had sent it. Not officially.

But he knew.

He exhaled quietly and slid his access card through the reader.

The Temple hallway behind him was quiet, dim in the late evening. Most initiates were in their dormitories. Most Masters in meditation or review.

He tapped the screen.

A message began to unfold.

Encrypted Outgoing Transmission

Origin: Temple Crèche Subnet / User Alias: "Ben"

Disguise Layer: Academic Inquiry – Mandalorian Domestic Law

Attached Metadata: Timestamp, relay trace, emotion tag (masked poorly)

Primary Recipient: Duchess Satine Kryze

Secondary Recipient: Civilian – Kryze, Korkie

Content Preview:

"…if Bo-Katan wants to join a violent insurgency, fine, but I want royalties if this ever gets adapted into a holodrama…"

"…tell the guard who reads this she has nice hair. But this message self-erases in 30 seconds…"

Obi-Wan closed his eyes.

Of course it was Ben.

He hadn't seen the boy for several days—not closely, not outside his regular updates from Master Tyyyvak and the crèche instructors. Ben had been… stable. Energetic. Argumentative. Brilliant. Troublesome in that very specific way that left instructors shaking their heads and muttering, "He's got so much potential."

And now he was writing letters to Mandalore's ex-leader. To Satine.

No. Not "to." He was writing to her. Not as a political figure.

As something closer.

Obi-Wan closed the access log. He didn't read the entire message.

He didn't have to.

The metadata said enough.

Ben had been communicating with her for a while. Carefully. Encrypted. Slipping through Temple systems just cleverly enough to avoid daily detection—until now.

The system only caught it by coincidence: an anonymous report from a cranky protocol droid who flagged the term "violent insurgency" during a random scan. Lucky. Or not.

Obi-Wan rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

The hallway was too bright.

His chamber was simple. Clean. Empty in the way that Jedi quarters always were: uncluttered, unassuming. A meditation mat. A shelf of texts. One plant he forgot to water. A lightsaber hilt on the table.

He keyed the door shut behind him and sat.

He let the silence settle.

Then pulled up the message again.

Not the text this time. Just the header. The encryption trail. The metadata.

A youngling had no business knowing how to route through offworld relays.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

"You're too clever for your own good," he muttered.

It wasn't just the message.

It was the intent.

Ben knew the Code. He'd been raised in it, lectured in it, recited it—badly, rebelliously, but often. And yet he was still doing this. Still reaching back toward home. Still writing.

Still attached.

The Jedi taught that attachment led to suffering. That clinging invited fear. That even love—particularly love—was a path to chaos.

But what about the ones born from it?

What about the ones left behind?

Obi-Wan remembered Satine's voice as they watched the children, playing in the courtyard.

"You said the Jedi take them young," she whispered, after her sister left earshot. "You didn't say how young."

"I never wanted to worry you." He whispered back. "We don't have to take him. He can still be raised here. With you."

"It's not about me." Satine's hands had shaken. "It's about what's best for Ben. He needs help. The kind that I can't give him. But you can. He needs you. Be there for him. Please."

She hadn't cried.

Not then.

But Obi-Wan remembered thinking she might.

He looked back at the terminal.

The message sat waiting. Flagged. Archived. Labeled for report.

He hovered his fingers above the alert window.

Then closed it.

He deleted the security flag. The message itself? He left untouched. Just… archived.

For now.

He would not report it. Not yet. But he would keep an eye on Ben. More than before. More than the usual careful Jedi watchfulness.

This was not detachment. It wasn't indulgence, either. It was something else.

Responsibility. Maybe even… guilt.

A chime echoed faintly in the corridor outside—lights dimming for night cycle.

Obi-Wan sat motionless.

Then, slowly, he turned off the terminal.

The chamber smelled like dust and clean steel. The ventilation hummed softly overhead. Somewhere in the distance, someone was arguing over shipping permits. Satine barely registered it.

She sat at her desk, posture regal, datapad in hand—held at just the right angle that a passing guard might think she was reviewing a diplomatic report. That was what she'd told them, after all.

"Routine foreign update. Communications from Coruscant. Standard trade brief."

Not technically a lie. There was a trade brief embedded in the footer.

But her eyes were on the message above it.

For the fifth time.

TO: Duchess Satine (Aunt Extraordinaire, Ruler of Reasonable People)

FROM: Definitely-Not-Your-Son (Codename: Jedi Hopeful, Chaos Edition)

SUBJECT: Political Memo (Definitely Not Personal)

Dear Duchess Satine,

Please note that your recent remarks on Republic infrastructure were not well-received by the eight-year-old Senator I'm being forced to study. He called you "intense." I called him "unqualified to comment on Mandalorian policy." Master Tyyyvak made me mop the hallway.

The Jedi say attachment leads to suffering, but I think they've never read one of your speeches. I reread your comments on regional unrest while pretending to meditate. If Master Forehead asks, I was contemplating the Force. Or maybe agriculture. Something boring.

Temple life remains strange. The robes itch. Ahsoka beat me at Force tag. Again. The archivist droid hates me. (Not because of what I did. Because of who I am.)

If Bo-Katan tries to blow up another ship, please remind her I want royalties.

Yours in absolute legal compliance,

—Ben

The words were pure Ben.

Sharp-edged, clever, full of half-jokes and exaggerated deflections. Reading it hurt. It reminded so much of his father… and herself.

Satine blinked once, slowly, then reached for a stylus and began composing a reply—aloud.

For the benefit of the guard still standing near the entrance.

She didn't look at him, of course.

Merely kept her voice even.

TO: Initiate Ben (Jedi Temple)

FROM: Duchess Satine Kryze (Officially Your Aunt)

SUBJECT: Re: Political Memo / Diplomatic Clarifications

Ben,

Your insights into senatorial literacy are—as always—provocative. I recommend caution when critiquing Republic representatives, especially those who cry easily. Diplomacy demands both restraint and tact. Though, I concede, mopping does build character.

Your meditations on the Force (and/or agriculture) are noted with interest. In future communications, feel free to expand upon your theories on regional stability, or at least include footnotes. I'm told the archivist droid appreciates proper citation.

Bo-Katan has been informed of your concerns. She laughed. Then muttered something about napalm. I'll… keep you posted.

Strength is not silence. You are not alone.

Yours, in accordance with all Republic protocol,

—Satine

She tapped the send key, and the encryption folded the message into its layered mask of political formality.

When the datapad blinked its green confirmation light, she finally exhaled.

Her fingers remained pressed to the screen.

"You're still pretending," she murmured, almost too quiet to hear. "Still pretending to be someone else, my child."

The words slipped from her like breath—half-smile tugging at her mouth.

Four years wasn't long. Not in galactic terms. Not in war. Not in policy. But for a mother…

…For a mother, it was a lifetime.

Even if no one called her that.

If only she told Obi-Wan how much she wanted him to stay. Both of them. Would they be able to raise their boys together? Would Satine have had the family she so desperately craved, and needed. Especially after the tragedies hers has endured already.

But one could spend a lifetime looking back. It was a curse to imagine "if only". Obi-Wan has his duties. She has hers. And Ben will have his, too. Though, perhaps, if she truly believed that, she would not be responding to his messages.

… everyone can be a little hypocritical sometimes.

...​

The blanket over my head made it hard to breathe, but at least it muffled the glow of the datapad. The Force teaches patience, serenity, inner peace.

I had none of those right now.

I tapped the screen again. Just once more.

TO: Initiate Ben (Jedi Temple)

FROM: Duchess Satine Kryze (Officially Your Aunt)

SUBJECT: Re: Political Memo / Diplomatic Clarifications

Ben,

Your insights into senatorial literacy are—as always—provocative. I recommend caution when critiquing Republic representatives, especially those who cry easily. Diplomacy demands both restraint and tact. Though, I concede, mopping does build character.

Your meditations on the Force (and/or agriculture) are noted with interest. In future communications, feel free to expand upon your theories on regional stability, or at least include footnotes. I'm told the archivist droid appreciates proper citation.

Bo-Katan has been informed of your concerns. She laughed. Then muttered something about napalm. I'll… keep you posted.

Strength is not silence. You are not alone.

Yours, in accordance with all Republic protocol,

—Satine

I stared at that last line.

Strength is not silence. You are not alone.

That wasn't a diplomatic line.

That was her.

That was mine.

"Still up?" A voice mumbled near my elbow.

Ahsoka shifted next to me, half-asleep and warm. She always curled like a loth-cat in winter, fists tucked near her face, head buried under her pillow. And with the terrifying habit of sneaking into my bed. Seriously, I have the Force. How can I not sense her? Was I really that distracted?

On the bright side, now I knew she was there. But on the downside, I had to deal with her eyes blinking open under the blanket, catching the blue screen's reflection, as she stared at me, unrelentingly.

"Just… checking for regional instability," I whispered.

She squinted at me. "Is that what you call homesickness?"

I rolled onto my back and sighed. "Don't Jedi not get homesick?"

"We're not Jedi yet," she muttered. "So I think we're okay… probably. Maybe don't tell anyone."

I didn't answer. Just passed her the datapad.

She read it quietly, her mouth twitching a little at the bit about Bo-Katan. By the end, she didn't smile. She just nodded and whispered, "If she's not your mom, she's the best fake one I've ever seen."

I didn't say anything for a moment.

"Yeah. She's… trying."

...​

You know, I'm not saying if the Order just let Anakin occasionally exchange messages with his mother, that she wouldn't have been tortured and killed by Sand People. But I'm not not saying that, either. If you catch my meaning.

Not that it excuses the excessive amount of child murder Anakin went on to do.

#JusticeForSandPeople

Anyways, that's it for today's chapter. Sorry it's a little short, the next one will have a bit more content, I swear. Stay tuned to check it out, tomorrow.

Or, if you don't want to wait, feel free to support me on my Patreon and read ahead, link below:

My Patreon

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 5: Obi-Wan Kenobi and the Disappointment Spreadsheet

Obi-Wan Kenobi had faced many trials in his life: Sith Lords, galactic disputes, ankle-biting Senators. But none compared to the silent, soul-draining torment of updating the Jedi Progress Tracker.

The datapad flickered in front of him, its pristine white interface glowing like the judgmental smile of the Force itself.

He tapped the stylus against the edge of the pad. "Let's begin the pain."

The first row: Initiate: Ben Kryze

Lightsaber Forms: Intermediate progression, favored Soresu.

Meditation Log: Cryptic. (Entry 7: "The river flows upstream when you punch the stream hard enough.")

Disciplinary Actions: None—though several eyebrow raises were noted.

Recurring Question: "Can Jedi marry if it's for political reasons?"

Obi-Wan sighed, dragging his stylus over the last entry and tapping "delete." The screen gave a sympathetic chime. He didn't appreciate the tone."I am raising Satine with a lightsaber," he muttered.

The Force did not disagree.

Next row: Padawan: Anakin Skywalker

Lightsaber Forms: All of them. Simultaneously. On fire.

Meditation Log: Absent. (Excuse: "Meditation is for people who don't have rocket boots.")

Disciplinary Actions: Forty-two incidents and counting.

Notable Entry: "Confiscated pod-like speeder from lower levels. Claimed it was 'educational.' Crash resulted in minor Senate panic."

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd only looked away for an hour. An hour.

A polite cough echoed behind him.

"Master Kenobi," came the voice of Jocasta Nu, ancient and judging. "Still logging emotional disruptions in place of actual progress?"

He gave her a bland smile, the kind that only barely concealed the internal screaming.

"Master Nu," he said, "your wisdom is, as ever, sharp enough to trim my patience."

She leaned in, peering over his shoulder with narrowed eyes. "I see Skywalker's log is… colorful."

Obi-Wan flipped the screen discreetly, revealing Ben's entries again. "Just taking a break from the fireworks."

"Mm. The younger one," she said, adjusting her spectacles. "The Mandalorian. Precocious. Tends to sit upside-down in the Archives and quote the Jedi Code backward."

Obi-Wan gave a defeated nod. "Yes, he refers to it as 'Sith-proofing.' I believe he's joking. Most days."

Jocasta sniffed. "A Jedi does not joke."

"He does," Obi-Wan muttered, scrolling down to a note labeled: Ben built a paper mâché Holocron titled "Definitely Not a Trap."

The silence stretched long and uncomfortable.

"I had to confiscate it," Obi-Wan added, in case she assumed he encouraged the behavior.

Jocasta's expression suggested she assumed it anyway. "You'll need to monitor him more closely. We've received reports of encrypted outbound messages from within the younglings' dormitory. I'm sure you're aware."

His stomach sank. "I am."

He didn't mention that he'd already seen one—had, in fact, quietly removed the flag on it. The sender was technically anonymous, but the encryption was stylized in such a way that only one small Mandalorian menace could be responsible.

The fact that Ben's encryption header included the phrase "Aunt Satine's Completely Legal Homework Assignment" was… not subtle.

Still, Obi-Wan had chosen not to intervene. Not yet. Not unless it crossed a line.

"Have any of the messages been read?" he asked, carefully neutral.

"Only the headers," Jocasta said, sharp eyes still boring into him. "But should we discover emotional compromise, the Council may be forced to reconsider certain placements."

He smiled again, brittle as a Hoth sunrise. "Understood."

Jocasta wandered off, robes sweeping the floor with the arrogance of a librarian who believed herself omniscient. Obi-Wan waited until she was out of earshot before sighing and slumping against the archive terminal like a man defeated.

He tapped his stylus again. The datapad blinked at him, waiting.

He scrolled back to Ben's file and added a new line:

General Status: Meditating. Probably scheming.

Then he walked out of the Archives, datapad tucked under one arm like a physical weight. The hallway outside was sunlit and quiet, the stone warm beneath his boots.

He didn't trust Jocasta Nu. Well—he did. In the same way one might trust a vibroblade to be sharp and placed exactly where you would sit down without looking.

The truth was, he didn't know what he was doing.

Ben was different. Smart—dangerously so. Not just bright, but aware. Like he already knew the rules of the game and was waiting for someone to catch up.

He had his mother's eyes. That terrifying blend of wit and weariness. And Obi-Wan had no idea how to reach him without either hurting him—or being hurt himself.

He stopped walking.

Then, on impulse, he opened the Progress Tracker one more time and typed a private note under a locked field.

Personal Observation (Hidden):

"Ben Kryze is highly intelligent, emotionally guarded, and prone to questions that Jedi doctrine is not built to answer. He is neither lost nor disobedient—but he is watching me, and I think he knows more than I do about how this ends. Force help me, I hope I don't fail him too."

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then, after a hesitation, he added:

"Also, confiscated a crayon drawing from Anakin titled: 'Me vs. Every Sith Ever.' His lightsaber appears to be on fire. Again. I don't think he understands how Kyber crystals work."

With a grim smile, he clicked the datapad shut.

It was going to be a long week.

...​

It started, as these things usually did, with someone bigger than me trying to hit me in the face with a training saber.

Not that I blamed him. Kylan was twice my size, all gangly limbs and righteous Padawan posture. The sort of kid who took every kata like it was life or death, and every correction from a Knight like it was a personal insult. His lightsaber style was clean, controlled, and—unfortunately for him—entirely predictable.

Which is why I ducked under his third overhead strike, pivoted past his left side, and tagged him in the ribs with a flourish that might've been unnecessary. Might've.

He stumbled back, panting. "You were taunting me."

"Incorrect," I said. "I was demonstrating superiority."

The training sabers powered down with a hiss. Master Tyyyvak let out a low Wookiee huff from across the mat, somewhere between "sigh" and "grumble." She didn't even have to say anything. Her disappointment could probably be weaponized.

"Okay," Kylan snapped. "Let's hear it. What was wrong with how I fought this time?"

"Well," I said, twirling my saber in a way I knew would annoy him, "it was competent. But also—how do I put this—embarrassingly derivative?"

"Derivative?" Kylan echoed, voice rising like I'd insulted his entire bloodline.

"Look, you're clearly doing Soresu," I said, "but watered down with Ataru footwork and Niman blade arcs. You've taken three elegant forms and combined them into a stylistic crime."

From the other mat, Ahsoka called out, "He's not wrong. You fight like a droid with commitment issues."

Kylan looked like he was about to combust. "This coming from you two?"

"I'm not saying we're better," I lied. "I'm saying we're interesting."

Ahsoka grinned at me across the sparring circle. "Speak for yourself. I am better."

Tyyyvak banged the end of her staff on the floor, a sound that echoed through the gym like a thunderclap. Even the older Padawans paused their drills. Somewhere in the rafters, a training droid beeped in alarm and powered down out of sheer instinct.

The silence was almost peaceful.

And then, the door hissed open.

Yoda entered.

That, by itself, would've been enough to make most younglings swallow their tongues. But what made it worse was that he didn't say anything. He just walked in, leaned on his gimer stick, and stared at us like we were a bad poem written on temple walls in permanent ink.

He looked from me, to Ahsoka, to Kylan. He sighed. Long. Deep. Spiritual.

Then he turned around and left.

"I feel like we just failed a test we didn't know we were taking," I muttered.

"Speak for yourself," Ahsoka said. "I've made him sigh worse. I'm a personal project."

Master Tyyyvak raised both furry arms and barked a full sentence in Shyriiwook, teeth visible, expression wild with Wookiee exasperation. Every syllable came out like thunder, low and textured and slightly singed at the edges.

Ahsoka lifted a hand to translate, then paused.

"Actually," she said, turning to me, "why don't you try translating? Let's see how much you've picked up."

Oh, great.

Okay, brain. Time to impress the only Wookiee Master who hasn't tried to throw me off a balcony yet.

I closed my eyes for a second and replayed the tones in my head. Shyriiwook wasn't a language so much as an avalanche of meaning. Pitch, volume, breath. Everything mattered. Which was cool… until you messed up one vowel and accidentally told a Wookiee their mother smelled like warm Bantha milk.

"She says," I began, cautiously, "that we fight well… but talk too much."

Tyyyvak nodded. That was a good sign.

I hesitated. "Especially me."

Tyyyvak crossed her arms. Still nodding.

"And… I can't argue."

A beat. Then she grunted a soft sound—amusement, maybe—and clapped a paw on my shoulder so hard I nearly folded in half.

Ahsoka gave me a thumbs-up from across the room. "Nice! She likes you."

"I think that was an affectionate death-threat," I whispered.

"You're learning."

Kylan groaned and sat down hard on the edge of the mat. "I still don't get how you two keep winning duels."

"It's because we're small," I said, flopping down next to him, "and low to the ground. Like chaos in compact packaging."

"It's because you get in our heads," Kylan muttered.

I looked at Ahsoka. "Should we tell him?"

She nodded solemnly. "Yeah."

We both leaned forward and said in perfect unison: "We live there now."

Kylan made a sound like a dying droid and fell back dramatically. "I give up."

Tyyyvak gave another long growl from the edge of the mat and began pointing to the next group of sparring pairs. Everyone scattered like they were fleeing a thermal detonator. Training resumed.

I stayed seated a moment longer, watching them move.

It wasn't that I didn't like sparring. I did. A lot. But sometimes, when I was still, I could hear the rest of the Temple humming—like I was plugged into something deeper than just footwork and saber arcs.

And today, something was off.

Maybe it was Yoda's sigh.

Maybe it was the way Master Tyyyvak's shoulders were just a bit too tight.

Maybe it was the knot in my stomach I couldn't quite explain.

I looked down at my training saber. The glow strip flickered gently, still warm from the spar. I ran a thumb over the emitter, thinking about how it wasn't real. Not yet. Not like the ones we'd build someday on Ilum.

Someday soon.

My gut twisted again.

"Hey," Ahsoka said, dropping down beside me, "you look like you're about to write a poem."

"Don't tempt me. I've got a whole notebook labeled 'If the Jedi Let Me Feel Things.'"

She laughed. "You okay?"

I shrugged. "Yeah. No. Maybe. Just thinking."

"Dangerous habit."

I bumped my shoulder against hers. "You're telling me."

She leaned back on her hands, squinting up at the skylight. "You know we're gonna be Padawans soon, right? Like, real ones. Chosen by a Master. Sent on missions. Given responsibilities."

I grimaced. "Don't remind me. I still can't even reach the top shelf in the cafeteria."

She snorted. "Obi-Wan's going to pick you. Everyone knows it."

I didn't answer right away.

Because the thing was—yeah. Probably.

But knowing it didn't make it safe.

And some part of me still wondered if it was a good idea. If he thought it was a good idea. Or if he was just… stuck. With me.

"Hey," Ahsoka said, nudging me. "You're doing that face thing again."

"Which one?"

"The one where you act like your brain is eating itself."

"Accurate."

I looked over at her. She was watching the other younglings train with this expression I couldn't quite read. Half proud, half sad. Like she was already somewhere else.

"You think we'll still be friends?" I asked, softly. "After we get assigned?"

She glanced at me. "Ben. We're already bonded for life by trauma and sarcasm."

That made me smile. "Good."

"Yeah," she said, her voice lighter now. "We're gonna be fine."

We both looked up at the rafters. A training droid sparked and spun in circles above us, completely unsupervised.

I thought about Ilum. About the kyber crystal calling my name.

About whatever was waiting on the other side of all this.

And I nodded. "Yeah. We are."

...​

There's a spot in the Jedi gardens where the stone paths loop around in a lazy circle, like whoever designed it got bored halfway through and just decided to copy-paste the same curve over and over. I liked it because it was quiet, shaded, and had benches you could sit on without someone judging your posture.

That's where I was heading when I spotted her.

At first, all I saw was a pair of boots hanging in the air. Just… dangling there.

It took me a second to realize there was a whole person attached, suspended upside down from a branch like a Zabrak-shaped fruit. She had her arms folded, eyes shut, horns catching dappled sunlight, and a look on her face like gravity was something that happened to other people.

Weird.

But not that weird.

Yoda once made Luke Skywalker meditate while doing a handstand. Or… he will. It's weird to reference future events in the past-tense, but who even knows if that future will come to pass. But, I'm getting off track. There's lots of ways to meditate, as long as it clears your mind. I'm not the best at sitting still, but moving katas always helps me to center myself. Ahsoka prefers the more traditional criss-cross applesauce approach, but to each their own.

So maybe this was just… her thing. Maybe some people connected with the Force better while all their blood rushed to their heads.

I leaned against the trunk. "So, uh… you okay up there?"

She didn't answer right away.

Finally, without opening her eyes, she said, "I am listening to the currents of the Force."

"Cool," I said. "I'm listening to the currents of blood pooling in your face. Who are you?"

"You don't know?" One golden eye cracked open. "You're in my crèche."

"I am?"

She blinked at me slowly, like she was deciding whether to acknowledge my existence or throw me into a bush. "You've been here for years."

"Sure, but that doesn't mean I remember anyone. Besides Ahsoka."

Her other eye opened, and now she was staring at me with both of them, which was worse. Zabraks always looked intense, but this one was weaponized intensity.

Something about her tugged at my brain. Not in the normal "I saw you in the cafeteria line once" way. No—this was the other kind of familiarity. The one that made you feel like you'd accidentally stepped sideways into a different franchise.

A presence I have not felt since… 2008.

Earth years, of course.

I have no idea what the year is in this galaxy. It's so hard to explain to everyone the concept of BBY when the Battle of Yavin hasn't happened yet. Maybe I should start using "ABN" — After the Battle of Naboo. That sounds reasonable. Ish.

What was I talking about?

Meh. I'm sure it was nothing important.

"Ben," she said suddenly. "That's your name, right?"

"Yep."

"I'm Maris Brood."

I nodded slowly. "Nice to meet you." Okay, it's seriously bothering me. Where do I know her from? Ugh. You'd think being a zabarak Jedi would have narrowed it down. Pretty sure she's the only one in the entire Order.

Don't quote me on that. I'm an initiate! I don't know everyone.

She didn't offer to shake my hand—hard to do upside down—but she gave a short, stiff nod like we'd just signed some kind of mutual non-aggression pact.

"So, Maris," I said, "is this a… regular meditation thing for you, or…?"

"I find the inversion sharpens the senses," she said, closing her eyes again. "It forces the mind to adjust to a different perspective."

"Yeah, I get that," I said. "I once did a meditation session while hanging halfway out of an air duct. Master Tyyyvak was not impressed."

Her brow furrowed slightly. "You sound… unserious."

"That's because I am," I said. "If I took the Force as seriously as it takes itself, I'd never sleep again."

That earned me a tiny smirk—just for a second, but I caught it.

I pulled myself onto the branch below hers. "So, what's your story? You've got the whole 'intense, aloof, possibly in training to overthrow the galaxy' vibe going."

She raised one eyebrow without opening her eyes. "And what vibe do you think you have?"

"Me?" I said. "I'm the guy who points out when someone's fighting style is embarrassingly derivative. Or," I added, "the guy who distracts people while Ahsoka wins the sparring match."

"Hmm." She tilted her head slightly, as if considering. "That explains the… energy."

We sat in silence for a bit. I listened to the leaves rustle, the faint hum of temple life drifting in from far away.

Finally, she asked, "Why are you here?"

"In the garden?"

"In the Temple."

"That's a big question," I said. "You first."

She didn't answer right away. Then: "To prove myself."

I snorted. "You and every other kid in the crèche."

Her eyes opened again, sharp. "Not like them."

There it was again—that flicker of something I couldn't place.

I shrugged. "Fair enough. I'm here because… well, because I'm supposed to be. And because they keep feeding me. That's really all it takes."

Her lips twitched like she was fighting another smile. "You're strange."

"Pot, meet kettle."

She shifted on the branch, flipping gracefully to land beside me, perfectly upright, not even wobbling. Her gaze lingered on me for a beat too long, like she was trying to read a page she half-remembered.

"See you around, Ben," she said, before walking off toward the inner courtyard.

I watched her go.

Yep. Definitely something off there.

The fun kind of off.

...​

Obi-Wan stood in the middle of the chamber, hands folded neatly into his sleeves, surrounded by twelve of the most powerful Jedi in the galaxy—most of whom were currently wearing the same expression: the polite but unmistakable face of someone bracing for bad news.

This was… not the most encouraging start to the conversation.

Still, he had a mission.

He'd come here intending to speak of Anakin's progress—his genuine progress. The boy had come far since Naboo, grown into his training, learned control. Well, learned some control. Enough, Obi-Wan thought, that he could begin to consider… alternatives.

The sooner Anakin was knighted, the sooner Obi-Wan could fulfill his promise to Qui-Gon and do right by his padawan. And the sooner he could turn his attention to a certain Mandalorian youngling, whose chances of aging out into the Service Corps grew with every passing year.

Ben deserved more than that. He deserved the chance to reach his potential—to be trained properly, by someone who would understand him. Someone who would not mistake sharp wit for arrogance or independence for defiance.

Even ignoring Ben's brightness, his determination, Obi-Wan made a promise to Satine that he would be there for his s—Satine's… nephew. Yes. Her nephew. And if Obi-Wan had to keep reminding himself of that, well, that was between him and the Force.

He owed it to the boy. The least he could do was train him.

Obi-Wan drew a calming breath and began.

"Masters, I wished to speak briefly regarding Anakin's development as a Padawan learner. He has shown marked improvement in the past year—"

"He stole a Republic StarCraft," Mace Windu interrupted, "and used it to 'podrace' in the lower districts, Kenobi."

Obi-Wan hesitated. "…In fairness, he did win."

Mace's eyebrow twitched.

A poor defense. Even to his own ears. But he was already in too deep. Best to double down… and this is why Jedi shouldn't gamble. As much as he adored his Master, he really did seem to pick up Qui-Gon's worst habits, hadn't he?

"And," Obi-Wan added, "he donated the winnings to an orphanage."

"That may be," Ki-Adi-Mundi said, leaning forward, "but in the process, he caused a six-speeder pileup. The pilots are still recovering."

"And," Mace said, "he renamed the craft 'Skyhopper Supreme.'"

Across the room, Plo Koon's mask shifted in a way Obi-Wan had learned to interpret as barely contained amusement.

Yoda's ears drooped slightly. "Fine line, there is, between valor and idiocy."

Obi-Wan inclined his head. "A line I am attempting to teach him to recognize. And I believe he is… gradually… learning."

Several of the Masters exchanged looks that suggested "gradually" was a charitable reading.

Depa Billaba spoke up. "We appreciate your dedication, Obi-Wan. But knighting a Jedi prematurely is dangerous. Even more so when that Jedi is…" She trailed off delicately.

"The Chosen One?" Obi-Wan supplied.

A faint smile tugged at her mouth. "Your words."

Obi-Wan kept his expression politely neutral. "If you wish my honest opinion, Masters, I believe Anakin is—"

"He also," Mace said, "attempted to negotiate peace between two swoop gangs last month by challenging both leaders to a race. Simultaneously."

"In his defense," Obi-Wan said smoothly, "that did work."

"Until," Mace said, "the gangs joined forces to try to recruit him."

Plo Koon made a low, thoughtful sound. "A certain… creative diplomacy."

Ki-Adi-Mundi pinched the bridge of his nose.

Yoda rapped his gimer stick lightly on the floor. "A Knight, young Skywalker is not. A handful, he is. Much work, still there is."

Obi-Wan inclined his head again, forcing himself not to sigh. The Council was immovable on this. They always were, until the moment they weren't—and Obi-Wan had no way of knowing when that moment would come.

Still, he couldn't help glancing at the chamber doors as if he might find Ben standing there, waiting to be told he had a future beyond the Service Corps.

One day, Obi-Wan promised silently. One day, he will make this happen.

...​

The best part about living in the crèche was that bedtime didn't mean actually sleeping. It meant piling into the communal space, sprawling across cushions and beanbags, and talking until one of the night caretakers gave up trying to enforce quiet hours.

Ahsoka sat cross-legged on the floor, enjoying her role as center of attention. She had an audience. And an audience deserved a story.

"So," she began, drawing out the word for maximum suspense, "Ben went into the gardens today and met—wait for it—" She leaned forward conspiratorially. "The weird tree girl."

Half the group gasped.

Ben, slouched in a corner with his arms folded, groaned. "This is exactly why I can't tell you anything."

"She was meditating upside-down on a branch," Ahsoka continued, ignoring him. "Like, full-on hanging by her knees. And apparently, she talked to him."

One of the younger initiates whispered, "Did she curse him?"

"No," Ahsoka said, eyes sparkling. "But she could have. Ben, tell them—didn't she give you, like, the 'I know your deepest secrets' look?"

Ben glared. "She was just looking at me."

"That's what someone under a spell would say," muttered Kavi, a human boy about their age.

Now the room buzzed with speculation.

"Maybe she's a mind-reader."

"She could be a Sith runaway."

"Swamp witch."

Ben threw his hands up. "She's in our crèche. You all see her at meals. She's just… quiet."

Ahsoka tilted her head. "You're defending her?"

"She just seemed lonely," he muttered. "Not my fault everyone here acts like they've never seen a quiet person."

That only lit the gossip fire higher.

"Oh no," Kavi gasped theatrically. "He's in love with the swamp witch."

A chorus of "Oooooh"s went up.

Ben buried his face in his hands. "I hate all of you."

"No, you don't," Ahsoka said sweetly. "You'd be bored without us."

Before he could argue, one of the night caretakers popped their head in. "Lights out, younglings."

They all groaned in unison. The gossip fizzled into muffled giggles as the room began to scatter, but not before Ahsoka caught Ben's eye and mouthed, swamp witch.

He mouthed back, never telling you anything again.

And, of course, they both knew he would.

...​

At some point, it felt like I needed a dynamic trio.

Good things come in three, after all! A few candidates were considered for this role, Cal Kestis, Barriss Offee, but I ultimately went with Maris Brood. Why? Because I was playing The Force Unleashed at the time, and she just kind of stuck. What can I say? I like goth girls.

Besides, I couldn't use Cal, we already had an orange kid. I also couldn't use Barriss, because I've heard mixed things about her age, and I don't know if she'd canonically be in their class. So, I went with a Legends au. Not the last time I'm going to do that.

But if you want to understand what that cryptic line means, you'll have to stay tuned for tomorrow's chapter! Unless you're reading this far into the future, and the next chapter's already posted, I guess. But if you're not, or you're re-reading, or whatever, you should know, that there is a way to save the ones you love—

I mean, read the next chapter.

Ahem.

Go check out my Patreon, and read ahead, link below:

My Patreon

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 6: A Song of Ice, Snow, and Crystals

The viewport was just a sheet of white. White sky. White clouds. White snow whipping past so hard it looked like someone had dumped a bucket of flour over Ilum and then hit "whisk" on a galactic scale.

I tugged my hood up higher, though the ship wasn't even on the ground yet. It was the principle of the thing. If a planet was this cold from orbit, the surface could only be worse.

Master Tyyyvak lumbered down the transport aisle, all fur and authority. She clapped one paw the size of my head against a youngling's scarf, tightening the knot.

"Scarves tight. Hoods up. No licking the icicles, Tallo. I see you thinking it." I like to think that over the years, I've finally managed to grasp her language without the use of a translator, or Ahsoka's helpful cues. I'm still not sure, though. At least one in ten words get lost in translation.

It's still manageable, for the most part.

"Ben, remember, please don't grrrrhhh. If you do grrrrhhh, I'll know." Except for now. Seriously?! Why is it always the most important word that slips through the cracks?

As I contemplated that conundrum, Tallo, a Mon Calamari boy with the guilty look of someone who had definitely licked an icicle before, wilted under her yellow-eyed stare. Don't worry, she's not a Sith. Just a Wookiee. Which is equally intimidating to some people.

Tyyyvak harrumphed and moved on, checking cloaks like a Wookiee mother hen. Her fur was so thick she looked more comfortable than any of us—probably thinking of this as a brisk autumn afternoon. Makes you wonder as her people evolved to have hair like that on a planet like Kashyyk.

Yoda waddled along behind her, his cane thumping against the deck plates, ears perked in amusement. He gave no actual directions, just cryptic commentary, like always.

"The journey, cold it is, yes. But warm, your hearts are, mmm. Cold cannot touch the flame of the Force."

Translation: He is thoroughly enjoying watching Master Tyyyvak herd us around like unruly loth-kittens.

Ahsoka snickered from where she sat buckled in across from me. "You look like you're going to war with that hood."

"I am going to war," I muttered. "Against frostbite. It's a noble battle." Don't get me wrong, I still prefer it to heat. But let's be honest, when they're both in the extremes, they're both equally terrible.

She rolled her eyes. "It's just snow."

"'Just snow,' she says. Easy for you—your montrals probably work like built-in earmuffs."

"They do not!"

"Do too."

She kicked my boot under the bench, grinning, which only proved I was right.

The ship rocked as it pushed lower through the storm. The engines groaned, fighting turbulence. My breath fogged the air, and I huddled deeper into my cloak. A thought crossed my mind, half complaint and half epiphany: why did the Jedi never issue heroic blankets?

You could still look dramatic striding into danger if you wrapped it properly. Hooded blanket, trailing behind like a cape. Jedi Symbol embroidered. Cozy on the inside, intimidating on the outside. Perfect.

Instead, we got lightsabers. Which, admittedly…

I tapped my chin, considering. A lightsaber probably gave off a decent amount of heat if you held it close. Probably not recommended, though. "Master, can I use my lightsaber as a portable hand-warmer once I build it?" sounded like a fast-track ticket to detention.

The ship bucked again, dropping us half a meter before catching itself. A few younger initiates squeaked. Tyyyvak rumbled something reassuring in Shyriiwook, her tone equal parts "don't worry" and "if you fall out of your seat I'll personally glue you back in."

I gave Ahsoka a sidelong glance. She was leaning forward, bright-eyed, watching the viewport like the snowstorm was an adventure waiting to happen instead of a recipe for hypothermia. Typical.

I tried to picture what Ilum's crystal caves would actually look like—whether the Force really spoke to you like the Masters said, or if it was more of a vague "trust your gut and don't freeze to death" situation.

Either way, I was starting to wish the Force handed out free coats.

...​

The shuttle touched down with a crunch that rattled through my teeth. The moment the ramp hissed open, the wind howled in like it had been waiting just to punch us in the face.

Snow whipped sideways, stinging my cheeks and working its way instantly into my hood. My heroic blanket fantasy from earlier felt about ten times more justified now.

"Scarves tight!" Tyyyvak bellowed over the storm, spreading his furry arms like a snow-drenched wampa. "Hoods up! Tallo. What did I tell you about those icicles?"

Tallo, predictably, looked guilty.

Yoda hopped down the ramp last, staff in hand, and stood planted against the storm like it wasn't even there. His ears flapped in the wind, but his expression was all serenity. Probably on purpose. Jedi loved pretending weather didn't exist.

"Here, the heart of Ilum beats," he called, voice carrying clear despite the blizzard. "Sacred, this place is. To young Jedi it whispers… calling, guiding, testing. Fear not the storm—for within, shines light."

He gave us his best wise-cryptic smile, like he'd just solved the galaxy's hardest riddle, and then gestured toward the looming shape ahead.

Through the storm, the Temple finally came into focus—half-buried in the cliffside, massive ice pillars marking its entrance. The doors were shut tight, glowing faintly with veins of frost. The whole thing radiated ominous homework assignment.

Ahsoka leaned close enough to shout in my ear. "So, do you think we get graded on this?"

"Probably pass/fail," I muttered, pulling my hood tighter. "Hope the Force is a generous grader."

Tyyyvak herded us down the ramp like a pack of freezing banthas, checking hoods, tugging mittens, glaring at any exposed wrists. The snow crunched deep under my boots as we trudged into the whiteout, toward the waiting Temple.

It loomed ahead, carved straight into the mountainside like some giant had taken a chisel to the ice. Smooth pillars of frozen stone framed the entrance, their surfaces shimmering faintly in the pale light. It was beautiful, sure, but mostly it just looked cold. Colder than outside. Which seemed unfair.

The giant doors groaned open as if they hadn't been touched in centuries, even though I was pretty sure Yoda and Tyyyvak dragged kids here every year. Probably just for dramatic effect. The Jedi did love their drama.

Inside, the air shifted—still, heavy, colder than before. The shadows swallowed the last of the light from outside.

Tyyyvak stopped us at the threshold, snow melting in his thick fur, and spread his arms wide like he was about to hug the entire group. His voice rumbled low.

"No one can walk this path for you."

That alone might've been enough, but then Yoda just had to pipe up from somewhere around knee height. "Yet beside you, the Force walks always." His eyes twinkled like he'd just delivered the greatest punchline in the galaxy. "Though separate your paths lead you, alone you are not."

I folded my arms. "So… Force babysitter. Got it."

Tyyyvak huffed, maybe amused, maybe just exasperated. Hard to tell with all the fur.

One by one, the others stepped inside. The shadows seemed to swallow them whole. Ahsoka shot me a quick grin before disappearing through the archway. Maris went without a word, her hood pulled low over her eyes. The rest followed, and suddenly it was just me, Yoda, and a wall of darkness.

I swallowed. My boots crunched on the frost. Then I stepped forward, into the caves.

...​

The storm's howl dulled the moment the ice doors shuddered open. A sharp, crystalline crack echoed through the cavernous chamber, like the Temple itself was sighing awake.

Inside was shadow and silence. The only sound was the crunch of our boots as we stepped onto the frost-glazed stone. Our breaths misted in the cold, curling pale against the dark.

We bunched together instinctively, thirteen small shapes wrapped in oversized robes. The storm still battered the mountain outside, but in here, the silence pressed heavier than the snow ever could.

Ahsoka flexed her fingers, fighting the urge to grab Ben's sleeve. The caves loomed ahead like a yawning throat, dark tunnels branching off in every direction.

"Creepy," Ben muttered, voice just loud enough to carry. "This is literally every horror story setup ever. Group of kids in the haunted cave system. Step one: don't split up."

A nervous ripple went through the group. No one moved forward. The tunnels waited, black mouths gaping, and for a moment the only sound was the wind moaning faintly through the cracks in the door behind them.

Maris broke the silence. "That's not what Master Tyyyvak said." Her voice carried sharp in the stillness, colder than the ice under their boots. She pushed back her hood, pale features stark against the gloom. "Remember? 'No one else can walk this path for you.'" She glanced from one face to the next, amber eyes steady. "We can't huddle together like scaredlings. If this is a test, then it's ours alone."

Ahsoka bristled at the certainty in her tone. Maris always spoke like that—like she already knew the right answer, like she was two steps ahead of the rest of them. It grated on her, especially when the others seemed to take her words as gospel. But at the same time… Ahsoka couldn't deny there was conviction there, a kind of quiet steel she hadn't found in herself yet.

Suspicion and irritation curled in her chest, but so did something else. Curiosity. Respect, maybe. Not that she'd admit it out loud.

Ben opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but his eyes flicked to Ahsoka and then back to Maris. He shut it again with a huff, shoulders slumping.

One by one, the others began peeling away into the tunnels, drawn by something only they could sense. Ahsoka lingered, torn between sticking close and stepping out on her own. Maris was right—no one else could walk this path for her.

She just hated that it was Maris who had to say it.

The stupid, fiend-stealing little—Jedi thoughts, Ahsoka. Jedi thoughts.

She took a deep breath, to center herself. And lingered a moment longer, to steal a glance at Ben.

He shot her a look that was half a smirk, half a grimace. They were both thinking the same thing. Dumb idea. But they're doing it anyway.

And that was the thing about Ben. He always said the thoughts she tried to bury—the sarcastic, the skeptical, the worried—and somehow it made the weight easier to carry. He didn't make the fear go away, but he made it less lonely.

Still, there was no use clinging to him now. No one else can walk this path for her.

So she squared her shoulders, tightened her hood, and stepped into the dark.

...​

The cold deepened as she walked, sharp enough to sting in her chest. The tunnel shifted around her, the walls of ice catching flickers of reflected light that weren't there a moment ago. Her own footfalls seemed to echo too loud, as though the cave itself was listening.

Then the pressure came. Not physical, not entirely—it was the Force pressing against her skin, against her thoughts, as though it wanted to peel her open and look inside.

She inhaled slowly. Just the cave. Just the Force.

But then the tunnel changed.

The shadows sharpened, reshaping themselves into jagged outlines. Ice under her boots cracked and turned to dust. Frosted walls melted into metal bulkheads scorched black with fire. The air filled with smoke.

Ahsoka froze.

Blasterfire rattled down the corridor. Shouts cut through the haze. Shapes surged around her—armored figures in white, with helmets that gleamed like bone. They moved in unison, their steps loud, their rifles snapping to aim.

"Commander!" one of them shouted over the chaos. "Your orders?"

She blinked, startled. Commander?

And then she saw him.

Ben, just a few steps ahead, igniting a lightsaber that wasn't there a moment before. His expression was tight with focus, the usual easy humor gone. He looked at her like he expected her to know what to do.

Her mouth went dry.

"Commander!" another armored soldier called, voice sharp with urgency. Enemies—dark shapes—were charging down the smoke-filled corridor. Too many. Far too many.

Her heart thudded. She had no idea what to say. No plan. No clue who these soldiers even were.

I'm not a commander. I'm ten.

But they were looking at her like their lives depended on it.

"Uh—hold formation!" she shouted, forcing the words out. Her voice cracked, but the soldiers obeyed instantly, lining up, rifles firing into the advancing shadows.

For a heartbeat, it worked. The enemy stumbled.

Then the left flank broke. Screams. Armor crumpling under blasterfire. One soldier fell, then another, and another.

Ben yelled something she couldn't hear, diving forward to block a strike. A blade of red light clashed against his.

The battle dissolved into chaos.

Her chest heaved. This was wrong. Every order she gave seemed to make it worse. Too slow, too hesitant. She shouted to retreat, and more soldiers fell in the scramble. She ordered them to hold, and they were overrun.

One by one, the white-armored figures collapsed, their voices cutting off into silence.

"No," she whispered, throat tight. "No, no, no—"

Through the ringing in her ears, Yoda's voice cut like a bell.

"The burden of command, heavy it is. To lead… is to risk. To choose… is to bear."

Her knees hit the ground. The acrid smoke burned her lungs. Around her lay the fallen, faceless soldiers, and Ben among them—still, silent.

Her vision blurred. "I—I didn't mean to—"

The guilt coiled sharp in her stomach. A weight heavier than the storm outside, heavier than anything she'd carried before.

But beneath it, another voice stirred. Not words. Just the quiet sense of the Force pressing close. Waiting.

She bowed her head, clutching her fists. "I won't let it happen again," she whispered hoarsely. "Never again."

The smoke thinned. The sounds of blasters faded. Slowly, the battlefield melted back into the icy cavern, leaving only silence.

And in the silence—light.

A shard of crystal jutted from the ice wall ahead, glowing faintly, as though it had been waiting for her all along. Its glow was small, but steady. Warm.

Her breath caught. She reached out.

The moment her fingers brushed it, the cave seemed to exhale. The light flared, brighter, pulsing with her heartbeat. The guilt in her chest didn't vanish, but the crystal seemed to answer it: You can grow. You can lead. You can become worthy.

Ahsoka closed her eyes, pressing the crystal to her palm. She wasn't ready yet. Not even close.

But she would be.

...​

The others' footsteps faded almost as soon as they began. One moment, the group had been clustered in the frozen antechamber; the next, the tunnels shifted around them, narrowing and twisting like living veins of ice. Maris felt the separation like a door slamming shut.

She stopped, head snapping back over her shoulder. The faint outlines of the others were gone, swallowed by shadow and frost. The only sound was the crunch of her own boots on the frozen floor.

Good.

Her jaw tightened, though she forced her pace to remain steady. She didn't need them. She never had.

The tunnel curved deeper into the mountain, walls glittering with shards of frozen crystal. Her breath puffed white in front of her, quickening despite her attempts to steady it. With each step, the silence grew heavier. Not empty silence — thick, suffocating, like something waiting just beyond her perception.

Then came the whisper.

Maris.

She froze. The sound didn't echo — it slipped into her ear like breath against her skin, intimate and cold.

Her fingers curled. "Who's there?"

The tunnel did not answer. But the shadows in the ice seemed to shift, curling in long, dark tendrils. Shapes almost formed — clawed hands, reaching, retreating. And then, words again:

No one will ever look down on you again.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

No one will ever dismiss you. Scorn you. Forget you.

Her teeth clenched. She knew that voice. Not the tone — the tone was soft, insidious, coaxing. But the meaning behind it, the promise? She had heard it all her life, unspoken in the way Masters corrected her too quickly, in the way peers avoided her gaze, in the way even Tano looked at her sometimes like she was a problem waiting to happen.

The shadows coiled tighter.

Take it. Take your place. Power is yours if you want it.

The ice walls ahead shuddered. Out from them stepped a figure — tall, cloaked, the hood shadowing a pale face.

Her own face.

Yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness, sickly bright. The double's lips curved into a slow smile.

"You know what we could be," the shadow-Mariss said, voice deeper, resonant. "If you stop clinging to their approval. If you stop waiting for them to see you."

Her hand extended, pale fingers tipped in frost.

Maris's throat dried. She stared at the hand, her own hand, offered like a lifeline. The shadow radiated confidence, certainty — the kind she forced herself to mimic every day, but never quite felt. This other version wore it naturally, like a second skin.

"Take my hand," the double coaxed. "No one will ever look down on us again. Not Jedi, not Masters, not anyone."

Her own fingers twitched upward.

She imagined the look on Tano's face — on Ben's face — if she came out of these caves glowing with a crystal already attuned, strong enough to silence every whisper behind her back. They would have to respect her. They would have no choice.

The shadow smiled wider, sensing the crack. "Yes. You've always known the truth, haven't you? You're meant for more."

Maris's breath came fast, clouding in the frigid air. Her hand rose higher, almost meeting its twin.

And then—

Tyyyvak's voice echoed in her mind. Calm. Deep. Certain.

"No one leaves Ilum without the crystal meant for them."

Her hand stopped an inch short.

The shadow's smile faltered.

If she took that hand, what would she be holding? It wasn't a crystal. It wasn't hers. It was a shortcut — a promise built on chains she couldn't yet see.

"No."

The word cracked in the air, sharp and loud.

Her hand dropped back to her side.

The shadow's yellow eyes flared, rage boiling through the false calm. "Fool." The tendrils lashed out, striking toward her — but the ice walls shuddered again, fissures of light breaking through the dark.

The ground trembled beneath her boots.

And there, in the fracture of the frozen wall, something glowed. A shard of crystal, small and faint, its light hesitant. As though uncertain if she deserved it.

Maris staggered toward it, breath ragged. The shadows clawed at her ankles, but the glow grew stronger the closer she came. She dropped to one knee, pressing her palm to the ice, and the shard broke free into her waiting hand.

It was warm. Against the cold, against the dark, it pulsed gently, steady and alive. Not triumphant — not blazing like the others might find. But it was there.

Hers.

Behind her, the shadow hissed, retreating into the walls. Its yellow eyes lingered longest, burning holes into her as they sank back into the frost.

Maris clutched the crystal tighter. Its glow was fragile, but real.

She wasn't free of the whisper. Not yet. She could still feel it coiled somewhere deep in her chest, waiting.

But for now, she had chosen.

And the cavern released her.

...​

The cave closed in around me faster than the others. One second I was squinting through shadows with the group, the next I blinked and—bam. Nothing. Just me, my own breath, and a tunnel that looked like a frostbitten gundark's throat.

"Great," I muttered. "First rule of scary caves: don't split up. So naturally the cave itself splits me up. Fantastic start."

The walls shimmered faintly, catching some glow that didn't have a source. Every crunch of my boots echoed like it belonged to someone else. I hugged my robe tighter, more for nerves than warmth, though Force knew I was freezing.

Then I heard it.

"Ben."

My stomach plummeted. That wasn't a cave-echo. That was Satine. Her voice, careful, clipped, but carrying a warmth I hadn't realized I'd been starved of until now.

"Ben!" Another voice joined it. Korkie. My idiot twin. Brash and loud and already sounding like he'd gotten himself lost again.

My heart just about somersaulted into my throat. I bolted forward before my brain caught up.

"Korkie? M- Aunt Satine?" My voice cracked like I was back in prepubescent Temple choir. "Where are you—"

And then he was there.

Obi-Wan.

Blocking the tunnel like the world's politest roadblock. His silhouette was lit from nowhere, beard neat, robes exactly as they always were. He looked younger than the real one—less tired—but his eyes… his eyes carried centuries.

"Stay," he said softly. "Please."

I skidded to a stop, boots scraping ice. "What?"

"The galaxy will tear you apart if you walk away. You are safer here, with us. With me."

I blinked at him. My pulse was still thundering, but sarcasm filled the gap panic left behind. "Oh, so we're doing the cryptic trauma theatre thing today? Excellent. Ten out of ten, very immersive staging. Truly, Master Kenobi, the Academy would be proud."

He didn't so much as twitch a smile. Which, honestly, was peak Obi-Wan.

I gestured vaguely at the walls. "You're not real. And no offense, but the real you would've already sighed at me by now. Possibly rubbed your temples."

"Ben." His tone sharpened. "Listen to me. You cannot leave. You will lose everything if you do."

I froze. Because the thing about visions? They always know how to jab at your ribs where it hurts most.

And stars help me, he looked almost desperate. Like the real Obi-Wan when he tried not to show he cared too much.

But still—Satine's voice called again. Korkie's too.

I shook my head, throat tight. "Sorry, Kenobi. Family trumps theatre." I sidestepped him and ran.

The moment I turned away, the cave warped.

The ground dipped, ice cracking beneath me like glass. I stumbled, tried to steady myself—but when I looked up, I wasn't in a cave anymore.

I was standing in Mandalore's throne room.

I'd only been there a few times, but I knew those soaring arches, that cold marble floor. Except now, it was darker. Shadows clung to the corners like cobwebs. And on the throne—

"Ah." My voice went dry. "Well. That's… not supposed to happen."

Maul sat there.

Red-and-black tattoos gleamed beneath the throne's pale light. His horns glinted sharp as blades. His yellow eyes locked on me like a predator sighting dinner.

"So," he purred, voice rolling like thunder over glass. "You have chosen a new path."

I swallowed hard. "…Hi. Love what you've done with the place. Very cozy."

He rose slowly, deliberate, like a krayt dragon stretching its claws.

"Shun the light," he said. "And darkness will follow."

Shadows bled from the floor around him, coiling like serpents. And then—they weren't shadows anymore.

They were people.

One by one, figures stepped out of the dark. Dooku, looming with aristocratic disdain. Ventress, pale grin sharp enough to cut glass. Savage, hulking brute, eyes blazing. Sidious, crooked and cold, every inch of him whispering corruption. Vader, faceless mask breathing like a nightmare. Inquisitors fanned out, sabers hissing to life.

I was surrounded.

"Oh." My laugh came out thin. "The whole family reunion. Lovely. I don't suppose you brought catering?"

They didn't answer. They just closed in.

Each one was a storm of power and rage. I could feel it through the Force, pressing down on me until my knees wobbled.

Dooku's voice slithered over the rest. "So much potential, wasted on childish defiance."

Ventress chuckled. "He won't last a day."

Vader's respirator rasped like a death knell.

Sidious leaned forward, grin splitting. "You will be ours."

My chest tightened. They weren't just Sith. They were every insecurity I'd ever tried to laugh off. Every failure I hadn't lived through yet but already felt looming.

It was too much.

Too many.

"Right," I breathed, pulse hammering. "Survive first, therapy later."

I didn't wait for them to strike. Instinct roared, and I bolted for the throne's side passage. I'd been here before. I knew Mandalore's palace had hidden ways—Satine had whispered it once with that little half-smile.

My boots pounded marble, then stone, then ice again as the passage warped beneath me. The Sith shadows followed, but I ducked and dove and scrambled like a rat in a maze.

The Force screamed danger at me every second. Blades hissed too close, lightning cracked near my back, snarls echoed through the walls.

But I didn't stop.

Because stopping meant letting them win.

And if there's one thing I'd learned about myself? Even against nightmares, I was too stubborn to quit.

...​

Ahsoka's boots skidded slightly on the frost as she rounded a corner in the caves, her breath puffing white in the air. The crystal was warm in her hand—strange, considering the endless chill around her—but she clutched it tightly, afraid that if she let go it would vanish like the rest of the visions had.

The corridors all looked the same. Smooth ice, jagged crystal, light bending in ways that made her feel dizzy if she stared too long. Somewhere between finding her kyber and trying to retrace her steps, she'd gotten turned around.

"Great," she muttered, eyes flicking back. "Lose myself after I succeed. That's a Jedi first."

She slowed, holding the crystal up as if it could act like a lantern. It didn't. At least, not in the practical way she wanted. The glow just refracted and multiplied, bouncing off the walls until it seemed like she was carrying a whole fistful of green sparks.

That was when she saw movement—someone sprinting through the hall ahead.

"Ben?"

Sure enough, he barreled into view, cloak askew, hair sticking out, eyes wide like he'd just been chased by a pack of gundarks. He skidded to a halt when he spotted her, shoulders rising and falling with ragged breaths.

"Oh good," he said, voice too casual for how panicked he looked. "Friendly face. Don't mind me, just—uh—running. From… stuff."

Ahsoka blinked. "From what?"

He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. "Not important. Good news, though—whatever it was, it's not following me anymore. So I think we can call that a win."

She frowned. "You were being chased?"

"Yes. Hm. Allegedly. Possibly." He coughed into his sleeve. "Visions of… Let's not get bogged down in details."

She crossed her arms. "You know visions can't actually hurt you, right?"

"Intellectually? Sure." He jabbed a thumb at his chest. "Biologically? Tell that to my fight-or-flight response, which rudely activates before my brain does any analysis. Just because my heart doesn't know it's fake doesn't mean it isn't convinced I was about to die."

Ahsoka stared. "…Was it really that bad?"

He gave a weak laugh. "It was pretty bad, yes."

"So what did you see?"

Ben froze mid-step, then very deliberately looked at the ceiling. "Um. You know. Can't really remember. Snow, ice, Force stuff. That kind of thing."

Ahsoka tilted her head, montrals twitching. He was lying. He was terrible at lying. She always knew when he was lying—because he had this thing he did with his voice, stretching syllables just slightly too long, like he thought he was buying time. Plus, he never looked anyone in the eyes when he fibbed. Once, he'd tried to convince her he hadn't stolen extra ration bars from the Temple kitchens. Except he said "Nooo, I didn't," while very obviously chewing.

This was the exact same tone.

Right. He was hiding something.

Ben quickly barreled ahead before she could call him on it. "A-anyways, I see you got your crystal! Congrats! Don't suppose you had to go through some vision-quest nightmare too, did you?"

"Yeah," she admitted. "Not fun."

"No kidding. What did you see?"

Ahsoka hesitated. Her throat tightened, thinking back to the flickering shadows of her own fears. But if he wasn't being honest, why should she? "…Um, you know. Can't really remember. Snow, ice, Force stuff. That kind of thing."

Ben squinted. "You stole my line."

"You didn't copyright it." She smirked.

He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning a wound. "Betrayal. At least let me look at your prize."

She opened her palm, letting the green crystal catch the light. It gleamed brighter than ever now, alive somehow in her grasp.

Ben leaned close, even going as far as to pick it up with his near frost bitten fingers to study it. "It's very… green."

"…Is that it?" She scowled, crossing her arms.

"I didn't want to say anything, but…" He squinted. "…is it cracked?"

Her eyes widened. "What?!"

She snatched it back, heart hammering. For a terrifying second she thought he was right—the crystal did look fractured. A faint line ran across its surface, growing deeper and deeper before, with a faint crack, the stone split into two. Ahsoka gasped. Both halves shimmered, identical, humming with energy.

"I broke it," she blurted. "Ben, I broke my crystal!"

He held up his hands quickly. "Whoa, calm down, calm down. That's not a bad thing. Sometimes kybers do that. Means they're—uh—multipurpose."

"Multipurpose?!"

"Yeah! You know. For when someone wants to… dual wield."

She blinked at him. "Seriously?"

"Look, I don't make the Force rules, I just… report them." He gave a helpless shrug.

Her panic faded into awe as she turned the two crystals over in her hands. Two lightsabers. The idea made her grin despite herself.

"…Okay. That's actually kind of amazing."

"Told you." Ben rocked back on his heels. "You're welcome."

She gave him a look. "You didn't do anything."

"Emotional support counts," he said, grinning.

Rolling her eyes, she tucked the crystals safely away. "So. Do you want help finding your crystal now?"

Ben hesitated, then gave her a lopsided smile. "I appreciate it, but no one else can walk this path—"

"—for us," she cut in. "Yeah, Ben. I was listening to the masters, too." And Maris. "But they didn't say anything about walking the path together. Huh?"

Before he could reply, the caves themselves shifted. A sheet of ice-crystal surged upward between them, cutting across the hall like a barrier. The wall was translucent—she could see Ben's outline on the other side, hear the muffled sound of his voice—but the path was closed.

Ahsoka pressed her palms against the cold surface. "Great. Perfect timing."

Ben leaned in on his side, face distorted by the crystal. "Guess the caves don't like loopholes."

She groaned, resisting the urge to bang her head against the wall. If she had her lightsaber already, she could've cut through. She held up her twin kybers in frustration. "I really wish these worked right now. Hold tight. I'll find a way to get to you."

Ben smiled faintly, though his voice was quieter. "Don't bother. You've already got what you came for. That's the important part."

She narrowed her eyes. "What about you?"

"I'll manage." He gave a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. "Besides, the door's only going to stay open so long. You should head back before it closes."

"And just leave you?"

"Not leave," he corrected. "I'll see you there—when I've got my own crystal."

She hesitated, still pressing her palm to the wall. His silhouette wavered, the ice distorting his shape until he looked smaller, farther away.

"…You'd better," she whispered.

Ben's outline lifted a hand, palm pressed against the same spot as hers, separated only by the crystal wall. "Deal."

...​

So is my selfless, confident, heroic moment over? We good? Good. Now then. What am I supposed to do?!

Seriously. I have no idea where I'm going. These tunnels all look exactly the same—icy walls, glittery reflections, faint whispers of "mystical destiny." It's like walking through the galaxy's most confusing jewelry store. "Yes, I'll take the aisle that doesn't end in an existential crisis, please."

Okay, calm down, Ben. Just. Breathe.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. That's what Master Tyyyvak said, right? Focus. Listen to the Force. And… follow.

Hopefully, this time it won't leave me surrounded by half a dozen Sith Lords.

That memory makes me shiver harder than the cold does. All yellow eyes and sneering voices, whispering that I was already theirs. I ran before my brain caught up. Classic me. It's fine. It's fine. That was just the cave being… cave-y. The Force trying to make a point. A scary, nightmare-inducing, "you're doomed" kind of point, but still.

…Force, I hope Ahsoka's doing better than me.

I trudge deeper, boots crunching against the frost, and after what feels like forever, the tunnel widens. My breath fogs as I step into a cavern that opens into—oh. Oh, no.

A chasm.

The tunnel floor just… ends. Like the galaxy's biggest rug pull. In front of me is a vast crack in the ice, yawning open into nothingness. On the far side, a cluster of crystals glimmer faintly, like stars caught in frozen webs. One of them pulses. Just once. A small, but brilliant flash, timed perfectly with the frantic thud in my chest.

That's mine. I know it.

Of course it is.

Of course the Force decided my soul-bonded crystal would be dangling over a bottomless pit. Because why make things easy? No, no, let's make the ten-year-old Jedi youngling prove himself by not plummeting into oblivion. Ten out of ten safety rating. Would definitely recommend to a friend.

I crouch at the edge, squinting into the void. Nothing but shadow. I grab a small rock, flick it off the edge, and wait.

One… two… three…

Seven seconds later, a faint clink.

"Right. Seven seconds deep. That's… probably not good."

I lean back from the edge, swallowing hard. The funny thing about Star Wars—people fall into chasms all the time. It's practically a rite of passage. Darth Maul, Mace Windu, Obi-Wan—seriously, half of Jedi training could just be summarized as "you're gonna fall off something tall eventually, try not to die when it happens."

But here's the thing: falling is easy. Surviving the fall? Fine, use Force Slow, tuck and roll, whatever. Getting across? Whole different story.

So. Options. I could try to jump. Which… would be the stupidest idea ever. I'd make it maybe halfway, even with the Force helping me out. Then it'd be "Ben Kryze, child prodigy, tragically flattened by physics."

Or. Hear me out. Maybe I can use the Force to build… something. An ice-bridge? That's a thing, right? Ice is solid. Bridges are solid. Put the two together, presto. If it works for Elsa, it works for me.

I kneel at the edge, close my eyes, and reach.

The cold bites at my fingers, creeping under my tunic, but beneath it there's something else. A current. The same whispering tug that led me here. The Force doesn't speak in words—not to me, anyway—but it hums, steady and patient, like a heartbeat in the ice.

I stretch my hand out.

The snow shifts. Frost cracks. A shard of ice quivers loose from the wall, hovering in the air like it's waiting for instructions. Another follows. Then another.

My eyes snap open. I'm doing it. I'm actually doing it.

Piece by piece, chunks of ice float into place, stacking, slotting, fusing together. My breath hitches as a narrow span begins to take shape, stretching out over the abyss. It's shaky, uneven, but it's real. A bridge.

"I'm either a genius," I mutter, "or about to be the dumbest obituary in Temple history."

I put one boot on the first slab. It creaks.

I put my weight on it. It holds.

Okay. Okay. This could work.

Step by step, I inch across, arms out for balance. The bridge sways under me like it knows how nervous I am. I try not to look down, which of course means I look down. Straight into seven seconds of empty.

"Focus, Ben. Focus. You've got this. Totally got this. Yup. Just… don't think about falling. Or dying. Or how Obi-Wan's going to kill you again if you die before him."

Halfway across. My heart's hammering, but the crystal is right there, glowing brighter with every step. Like it's cheering me on.

I reach the far side and drop to my knees, panting, fingers brushing the icy rock. My hands are shaking, but I made it.

The crystal hangs in front of me, half-embedded in the ice wall, faintly luminous. It pulses again, perfectly in rhythm with my racing pulse.

For once, I don't feel the need to make a joke.

It's… beautiful.

Carefully, I reach out. The glow swells, warming my fingertips even through the cold. And the moment I touch it—

—everything else fades.

The cave, the cold, the chasm. Gone.

It's just me. And the crystal. And the Force, singing through both of us, like a chord finally striking true.

The light flares, bright enough to blind. I feel it thrumming in my chest, in my bones, in every part of me. It's not just a rock. It's a promise. A partner.

Mine.

When the glow fades, the crystal rests in my palm. Small, but steady. I cradle it carefully, like it might vanish if I breathe too hard.

For the first time since stepping into these caves, I'm not scared.

I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

Exactly where I want to be.

…Except for solid ground. Which is looking a lot more appealing than a self-constructed ice bridge that relies on my complete concentration to stay in place. In hindsight, maybe I should've just Force Pulled the crystal to me.

Live and learn. Hopefully.

The thought barely finishes before the ice beneath me groans. A sound like glass cracking. My stomach drops faster than my feet.

"Aw, come on—"

The bridge shatters.

And then I'm falling.

I don't even have time to scream. Instinct takes over. My arms fling wide, and the Force surges, thick and cold around me. Not a shield. Not a wall. Just—slowing. Like invisible hands dragging at my tunic, at my boots, tugging me toward the ground with a stubborn, sticky kind of resistance.

It's jarring. My knees still buckle when I hit the icy floor, but I'm not a smear on the chasm wall. Small victories.

"Okay," I pant, leaning forward, hands braced on my knees. "New rule. Next time there's a bottomless pit? Just throw a rock in it and walk away."

"Ben?"

The voice makes my head snap up. Not Satine. Not Korkie. Smaller. Nervous.

Maris.

She's hugging herself against the cold, wide-eyed, her steps hesitant as she emerges from a side tunnel. The snowflakes sticking in her hair make her look even more lost.

"You too, huh?" I say, exhaling a long breath. "Got the 'wander around until everything looks the same' tour package?"

Her mouth quirks like she wants to smile, but can't quite manage it. "I… I think I took a wrong turn."

"Join the club. Membership fee's just mild hypothermia."

She blinks, then actually laughs—a quick, nervous burst, but real. I grin despite myself.

"Come on," I say, offering a hand. "Force says this way."

She stares at my hand like it's a lifeline, then takes it. Her palm is icy cold. I give it a squeeze, then start tugging her along.

The Force thrums in the back of my head again. Not words. Not visions. Just a pull. A certainty. I follow it.

Turns out it's better than any star map. We weave through frozen corridors, each one narrower, darker, as if the ice itself wants to push us out. The rumble starts low—a grinding, cracking sound that shakes the frost from the ceiling.

"Uh," I say. "That doesn't sound good."

The tunnel trembles. Ice walls start shifting, slabs sliding into place like the world's angriest puzzle box.

Maris gasps. "It's closing!"

"Then we run!"

We sprint, our boots slapping against slick ice. The corridor ahead is shrinking, walls shoving together with terrifying speed. The entrance—a jagged break in the blue glow of the caves—is still far. Too far.

The kids ahead of us are already squeezing through, scrambling out into the wider chamber. Ahsoka's orange skin is the last flash of color before a wall of ice nearly slams her in.

"Ahsoka!"

She's stuck. One leg through, the other pinned by a narrowing gap. Panic spikes through me—her panic, my panic, mixed together.

Without thinking, I shove Maris forward. "Go! Get through!"

She stumbles, vanishes into the opening.

I stretch out my hand, the Force roaring in my chest. Not gentle this time. Not careful. Just raw instinct.

"Move!"

Ahsoka yelps as she's yanked forward like a doll, tumbling into the chamber beyond. But at least she made it.

Me? I barely had time to do a Force Enhanced Indiana Jones style barrel roll back through, before the temple door behind me.

I stumped back to my feet, knees wobbling, lungs burning, but alive. The ice groans behind us, snapping and sliding into place with finality. I glance back once. The last slab of the door locks shut, a jagged wall of crystal and frost. Silence fills the tunnel, heavy and echoing.

Breathing hard, I straighten, brushing frost off my robes, squinting at the chamber beyond. Every crèche kid accounted for. Hearts pounding, shivering, some laughing nervously, others still staring at the ice as if it might reopen and swallow them whole.

"Everyone… survived?" I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

Ahsoka claps a hand on my shoulder, smirking, though her eyes are still wide. "Barely," she says, voice teasing but tinged with awe. "You were… not subtle."

"Subtlety is for people who don't almost fall to their deaths," I reply. "I prefer dramatic flair. Very Jedi. Very heroic."

Maris stands beside me, still clutching her crystal, eyes shining with relief. "Thanks… for not letting me get lost," she says quietly.

"Force said follow me," I shrug, "but I take credit anyway. Hero points. Probably. Somewhere."

We all shuffle forward, the chill biting less now that the adrenaline's fading. The cave doors behind us are nothing but frozen memory. Ahead lies the temple chamber, warm lights reflecting off icy stalactites and stalagmites, welcoming, safe.

I glance at our little group. Thirteen kids, thirteen crystals, thirteen paths converged again. Somehow, all thirteen made it through the trials. Somehow, we didn't leave anyone behind, and somehow, I didn't die. That counts as a win.

I tuck the crystal carefully into my robe pocket, feeling its pulse sync with my heartbeat. A quiet, personal victory. Step one complete. Step two… well, figuring out the rest is tomorrow's problem.

Maris nudges me lightly. "We… did it."

"Yeah," I say, smiling, "we did it."

...​

The warm glow of the Temple stretched around us like a blanket, melting the cold from my bones before I even realized it had been there. Frost-crusted boots crunched against the stone floor as our little crèche trudged forward, tired but triumphant. Tyyyvak was already there, arms wide, fur bristling with pride.

"Ah… my younglings," she rumbled, sweeping us all in a massive, slightly suffocating embrace. "Maris… bravery grows in your heart. And you, Ben Kryze are most… Inventive. Clever… but reckless."

I chuckled despite myself, pulling back just enough to breathe. "I prefer… 'heroically innovative,' thank you very much." Reckless tends to disqualify you from Jedi of the Year.

Her eyes glimmered with amusement—or maybe that was just the ice still clinging to her fur.

Yoda, perched nearby, chuckled in his tiny, knowing way. "Survived, all did. Great potential, all of you show. Keepers of harmony, you will be."

I shot a sidelong glance at Ahsoka, who was dusting snow off her robes with a casual flick of her wrist.

I muttered under my breath, holding my crystal tight. "I cannot wait to have a nice, warm lightsaber in hand. I never knew it was possible to hate the cold this much."

Ahsoka gave me a sly grin, tilting her head. "Hey, you know you had it easy, right? Humans live on cold planets all the time. Togrutas? Not so much. Do you see any fur on me?"

I waved a hand vaguely, dramatic. "It's called hair, Ahsoka! And can't you see how much I've suffered? Look at how red my nose is!"

Her smirk widened, and she gave me a gentle poke. "Aw, poor little baby. I'm sorry, is your nose red? Well, all of my skin is orange!"

I blinked, trying to process her logic. "…Isn't it… isn't it always?"

"Not the point, Ben."

Kinda feels like it is, I thought, ignoring her correction.

She leaned closer, curiosity sparking in her blue eyes. "So… what color kyber did you get?"

I froze for a moment, inwardly groaning at her obvious deflection. But… fine. I had been wondering too. Didn't really get a good look at it earlier, between the running and the falling. And the saving. I totally deserve to be Jedi of the Year.

I pulled the crystal from my pocket and let it catch the light. A vivid green flared, calm and steady, perfectly synced to my heartbeat.

"…Green. My kyber color is green."

Ahsoka's grin softened, pride and amusement mingling. "Green. We're twins! Or… triplets? You'll do well with it."

I nodded, letting a quiet warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with escaping the icy tunnels. The Force hummed gently, the crystal's pulse echoing in my chest.

The other younglings were chatting among themselves, comparing colors, recounting visions, trying to make sense of the trials. I could see a glimmer of awe in their eyes at each other's courage, at the paths each had taken. Somehow, in the midst of snow, ice, and visions of potential doom, we had all made it back. Alive. Stronger. Changed.

I shifted my weight, feeling the small weight of the crystal in my palm, familiar now, almost like an extension of myself. A quiet smile tugged at my lips. Tomorrow, the real work would start—training, lessons, everything. But for now…

For now, we survived the caves. And I had a magic crystal that felt like it belonged to me, and me to it.

Ahsoka nudged my shoulder lightly, and I looked up at her grin. "You know," she said, "you're probably going to have to explain that 'heroically innovative' thing later."

I rolled my eyes, smirking back. "Yeah, yeah. Step two, I suppose."

The warmth of the Temple, the calm of the Force, and the faint thrum of the crystal in my pocket reminded me of one thing: even in the most impossible situations, even dangling over chasms or facing visions that make your stomach drop, there's a way forward. And we'd found it. Together… in our own ways.

Pretty cool.

...​

I did consider Ben making the second Dark Saber in history.

But then I thought, nah! Green is good. He can always steal the Dark Saber, later. But having your own, meaningful, original lightsaber? That's special.

Hope you all enjoyed. This was, hands down, the longest chapter I've written in quite some time. Enough so, that I seriously considered splitting it in two. But that would have definitely made it a cliff hanger. Which is something I never want to do. I hate that feeling, of wanting to know so desperately what happens next, but having to wait a week to know for sure.

Speaking of, if you hate that feeling too, feel free to check out my Patreon, link below:

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[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 7: Build-A-Blade

I've never thought of a starship as warm before.

That's not what they usually are. They're metal coffins with thrusters attached, rattling through the void while every atom of the galaxy tries to kill you. The only difference between cozy and catastrophic is a few centimeters of durasteel hull and the good graces of a navicomputer.

But after Ilum? After trudging through frozen tunnels, numb fingers clinging to an ice-cold crystal that was supposed to define the rest of my life? Yeah. I'd take a coffin in space over that freezer any day. At least here, when you exhale, your breath doesn't crystallize in front of your face.

The Crucible hummed around us as we filed off the transport and into its belly. Not the shiny white halls of Coruscant, oh no. If you want to make a lightsaber just right, you want to be as close to the stars as possible. Which, of course, means you need a spaceship.

The interior was bronze, almost burnished with age, like the whole ship had been polished by generations of Jedi boots. Pipes ran openly along the walls. Everything thrummed with power, like a heartbeat you could feel in your chest.

Ahsoka gave a soft "whoa" beside me. "It feels… old."

"That's because it is," a voice said — mechanical, crisp, and just a little bit smug.

And there he was.

Professor Huyang.

Imagine if someone had taken the driest old librarian in the Jedi Archives, stretched him out into a spindly metal frame, given him a voicebox that sounded halfway between "lecturing historian" and "polite assassin droid," and then told him to live forever. That was our host.

"Padawans of the Ilum Gathering," Huyang intoned, striding down the central aisle with all the pomp of a king addressing peasants. His photoreceptors swept over us one by one. "For six millennia, I have instructed initiates in the construction of their first lightsaber. From the earliest forgers of Ossus to the High Republic artisans of Starlight Beacon. I have taught warriors who became Knights, Knights who became Masters, and Masters who guided this very Council."

I leaned toward Ahsoka. "Six thousand years, huh? He doesn't look a day over five thousand, nine hundred."

Her montrals twitched as she smothered a laugh.

Unfortunately, the droid's audio receptors were perfect.

His glowing eyes flicked toward me, utterly unimpressed. "I have been called far worse things by Padawans who later became Council members. But your wit, young Kryze, is disappointingly pedestrian."

Ouch. Shot down by a robot grandpa.

"Guess I'll have to up my game," I muttered.

"Please do," he said, and kept walking.

Okay. New goal: get the droid to laugh. Or, failing that, at least short-circuit from exasperation.

We followed him deeper into the ship, our footsteps echoing in time with the Crucible's pulse. I noticed Maris Brood hanging back, her crystal clutched in both hands. She hadn't said much since Ilum—not that she ever said much compared to me or Ahsoka—but she was watching everything. The ship, the droid, even the way the walls seemed to vibrate like they remembered every saber ever built inside them.

Huyang must've noticed too, because when she suddenly blurted, "You've taught every saber-builder for six thousand years?" his tone actually warmed.

"Indeed, youngling. Every Jedi who has constructed a lightsaber since the days of the Old Republic has passed through my hands. Their triumphs, their mistakes, their innovations—I remember them all. And so shall you benefit from their legacy."

Maris's eyes widened. She ducked her head, embarrassed, but I caught the ghost of a smile.

Well, good for her. Someone needed to balance my constant need to mouth off.

Huyang stopped us in a wide chamber where the walls were lined with benches, toolkits, and strange contraptions that looked equal parts blacksmith forge and starship engine room.

"This," he declared, "is where the true test begins. You each carry a kyber crystal, a piece of the Force itself, attuned to your essence. It is not merely a power source. It is your partner. Your reflection. Your future."

He clasped his long hands behind his back.

"But first… history."

Oh no.

"Long before the Jedi Order as you know it, the earliest Force users crafted blades of plasma bound within archaic cells, cumbersome and unstable. The protosabers of Tython, ignited with external packs and heavy cords—"

I leaned to Ahsoka again. "Translation: flashlight with a car battery."

"—eventually evolved into the refined weapon you shall soon create. The lightsaber. Both weapon and tool, defender and destroyer, symbol and reality. And it is you who shall carry its legacy forward."

I raised a hand. "Do we get a quiz after this?"

Without missing a beat, Huyang said, "Yes."

The entire class groaned. Even Ahsoka shot me a glare that said Look what you did.

I shrugged. "Hey, knowledge is power."

"Spoken like someone who has very little of either," Huyang said dryly.

…Okay, maybe I liked this droid.

Still, as he moved on to describing the ritual of "bonding with the crystal," I let my mind wander. My hand brushed the small pouch at my belt where my kyber rested. Green, faintly pulsing, as though alive. Not the black I'd secretly been hoping for—I mean, come on, "Ben Kryze, Wielder of the Darkblade" had a nice ring to it—but green was fine. Green was my favorite color anyway.

Besides, the Darksaber was still out there, and one day it would be mine.

But for now? I'd build my own. A Ben Kryze Original.

Huyang's voice droned on about focusing the mind, steady hands, the dance of crystal and emitter. I barely caught half of it, too distracted by the way the ship seemed to buzz with history. Ahsoka was practically glowing, soaking up every word like it was gospel. Maris still held her crystal tight, as though she was afraid to let it go.

And me?

I grinned, because this was it. The moment I'd been waiting for since the Temple crèche. Not the lectures, not the rules, not the thousand "Attachment is forbidden" speeches.

A lightsaber.

My lightsaber.

And nothing — not the Council, not the Sith, not even this snippy six-thousand-year-old droid — was going to keep me from making it my own.

...​

The workroom aboard The Crucible was silent but for the soft groan of ancient durasteel and the pulse of the hyperdrive beyond the bulkheads. Huyang preferred that silence. It carried weight. A hush sharpened focus far more than chatter, and lightsabers deserved nothing less than reverence.

The initiates stood in a line before him, each clutching the crystal they had wrested from Ilum's heart. The stones were still raw with the echo of the trials, humming faintly in their hands. To the younglings, they were prizes. To Huyang, they were promises.

He reached out his spindly hands, servos whirring with familiar precision, and gestured for the first crystal.

Ahsoka Tano stepped forward, her montrals tilted slightly in that mixture of confidence and nerves he had seen countless times before. She placed her shards in his palm. Huyang rotated them delicately beneath the glow of the workroom's lamp, his photoreceptors adjusting their spectrum until the crystal's inner light bloomed.

"Disciplined," Huyang intoned, his vocoder lending the word a metallic gravity. "Balanced. This crystal, though split, resonates evenly across its lattice. It belongs to a mind that seeks harmony, even when pressed."

Ahsoka exhaled, shoulders easing. Pride radiated off her in the way of all initiates—subtle to them, glaring to him. Huyang had learned not to chastise such pride. The crystal would do it in its own time.

He set her shard gently into a resting cradle. "It will serve you well, Padawan Tano. If you serve it as faithfully."

The Togruta bowed her head in respect before retreating.

Next, Maris Brood. She hesitated—he noted the flicker of her gaze toward the floor, then toward her peers. At last she stepped forward, small hands tight around her prize.

Huyang extended his palm again. "Courage, young one. No crystal bites."

She offered it, and he felt the tremor of her grip. The shard settled against his plating, and immediately his sensors registered the fluctuation. The crystal's resonance did not hum in one clear tone—it stuttered, thrumming irregularly like a heartbeat caught between panic and defiance.

"Ah," Huyang murmured, rotating it gently. "Potential, certainly. Strong, even. But turbulence clouds its lattice. Unresolved energies will challenge its master. Handle with care."

Maris's head bowed, respectfully. Her cheeks colored faintly, shame tightening her lips.

Huyang did not soften the truth, but he adjusted its shape. "Remember, young one—many great Jedi began with crystals far more volatile than this. The blade you forge will temper it, as discipline tempers the self."

She looked up at that, only slightly, but enough. She placed her hands back at her sides and stepped away.

Then came the last.

Ben Kryze swaggered forward with all the subtlety of a rancor in a meditation chamber, crystal pinched between his fingers as though it were a toy rather than the heart of a Jedi's weapon.

"Careful," Huyang said, extending his hand.

"I am being careful," the boy muttered, though he tossed the shard onto Huyang's palm rather than placing it.

The droid adjusted his grip instantly, catching the crystal without a scratch. His photoreceptors focused, scanning the lattice. The hum reached him first—lower than most, uneven, yet strangely… resonant.

He turned it, measured its harmonics, and then leaned closer, adjusting a spectral filter. Inside, the lattice was fractured, yes, but not broken. Two distinct frequency peaks overlapped within its core, creating a dual harmonic resonance that should not, by any measure of crystal growth, exist.

Fascinating.

"Unstable," Huyang finally declared. He let the word hang, watching the boy's reaction.

Ben raised an eyebrow. "Unstable? Like… gonna explode unstable, or moody-teenager unstable?"

The droid did not dignify that with a reply. "Not defective," he continued instead. "Rarer still—this shard possesses a dual harmonic resonance. Few crystals in six millennia of my instruction have done so. Intriguing."

Ben folded his arms. "Translation, please? Because all I'm hearing is that my rock is temperamental, apparently."

Huyang turned his head slowly until both photoreceptors fixed on the boy. "Your comprehension lacks refinement. Still, perhaps… not entirely inaccurate."

Ben smirked as if he'd won something.

Huyang placed the crystal into its cradle with greater care than he had the others. "It will not build itself, Initiate Kryze. When you attempt to channel its energy, you may find it… resistant. Remember this: the bond you form with it will shape your blade—and your path—far more than your jesting."

"Noted," Ben said breezily, though Huyang detected the faint tightening of his jaw.

The droid folded his hands behind his back, stepping away from the row of crystals. Three stones rested now upon the bronze worktable, each vibrating with their own tenor of possibility.

Six millennia, and yet each time felt new. Each youngling believed themselves at the center of the galaxy, and perhaps, in their way, they were—for a single lightsaber at a time.

"Prepare yourselves," Huyang said, voice carrying like a bell through the chamber. "The act of assembly is not a task of hands alone. It is meditation, commitment, and revelation. Fail to respect the process, and the process will fail you."

...​

If the Crucible was old and humming with the ghosts of a thousand Padawans, the Forge was practically singing with them. The room glowed, literally, with a low plasma light that seemed to radiate from the walls themselves. Ancient machinery churned in the background—massive contraptions that looked like they'd been built when the galaxy was still figuring out how to hammer two bits of metal together without blowing themselves up.

The heat wasn't stifling, exactly, but it had a weight to it. Like walking into a story older than you were meant to touch.

All right, Kryze. This is it. My very own lightsaber. A weapon, an heirloom, a calling card. A declaration that I'd arrived. The moment the Force, history, destiny, and my own smug sense of style all came together in one humming blade.

And I had absolutely no idea what it was supposed to look like.

Everyone else seemed to, though.

Ahsoka sat at her workstation like she'd been born in one of these seats. She laid her pieces out with a surgeon's precision, every component perfectly aligned. When she slotted the emitter matrix into the casing, her hands didn't even shake. I don't think her heartbeat even sped up.

Maris, though… her hands were trembling so hard she nearly dropped her focusing lens. She hunched over, shoulders curled in, as though the wrong twist of a screw would set the entire Forge to self-destruct. Her lips moved soundlessly—probably reciting Huyang's instructions word-for-word like some kind of spell.

And me?

I was staring at my pile of parts like they were going to assemble themselves if I glared hard enough. I've seen Starkiller do it. There's precedent.

… yeah, that's not happening. Okay, okay! I'll build it. Just… where to start? The hilt's design?

"Classic," I muttered under my breath. "That's the way to go, right? One-handed, clean lines, Jedi-chic. Very I'll slice you in half, but politely."

But then… I mean, Dooku had a curved handle. Count Swirlycape himself. Elegant. Practical. I think? It was pretty good at dueling. I could try that.

Or I could do Ezra Bridger's weird blaster-saber combo. Very hipster, very off-brand Jedi, very what do you mean I can't shoot AND slice you at the same time?

Crossguard? No. Never. Stupidest design I'd ever seen. The guard wouldn't guard anything. A lightsaber would shear through it in half a second unless you made the whole thing out of Beskar. And if you had Beskar, why waste it on the guard? Just make the whole saber out of it!

Or a knife at least!

Wasteful.

Meanwhile, Ahsoka had already soldered her first connection. She looked so serene she could've been meditating while building.

Maris's hand slipped and her focusing crystal rolled dangerously close to the edge of her bench. She lunged after it, almost spilling half her parts across the floor.

I sighed. Fine. For once in my chaotic little life, I wasn't going to mock someone.

"You know," I said loud enough for Maris to hear, "if you drop the lens again, the Forge spirit is legally required to appear and curse you with eternal flat hair." Well… maybe a little mocking.

Her head jerked up, startled. Then, to my relief, a tiny, reluctant laugh escaped her. Just enough to steady her hands again.

Score one for Ben Kryze, morale officer.

I turned back to my parts. Still no clue. Still no design.

"Instructions," I told myself, "are more like… guidelines than actual rules."

I grabbed the power cell, shoved it into the casing. A snug fit, maybe too snug. The wires didn't line up properly, so I twisted them until they did. The emitter matrix didn't quite want to click, so I encouraged it with the handle of a screwdriver.

The crystal chamber? Well, the little Force-rock was supposed to slide neatly into the slot. Instead, it buzzed angrily like it was offended at my lack of craftsmanship.

"Don't look at me like that," I told it. "You're just a rock that glows. You don't get a vote."

It continued glowing with intense judgment.

Sparks flew when I tried to connect the emitter to the power cell. Real, honest-to-Force sparks that hissed and spat across the bench. I yanked my hands back a half second before the whole assembly discharged with a sound like an angry gundark.

A searing beam of raw plasma cut clean through the air and scorched the corner of my workbench.

"Whoa!" I yelped, jerking back.

Before the half-formed saber could turn me into Ben à la Charcoal, a flickering blue shield shimmered between me and my would-be suicide project.

Huyang didn't even look up from where he was supervising another initiate across the room. His hand twitched once, activating the shield with the grace of someone who'd saved a thousand clumsy Padawans before breakfast.

He walked over with the patience of an academic who'd seen everything. Which, to be fair, he had.

"Improvised assembly," he said, peering down at my crackling hilt. "Imprecise. Rushed. And yet…" He tilted his bronze head to the side, photoreceptors gleaming. "…interesting."

"Again? Really?" I asked, waving away the sparks. "I get we have a whole cryptic mythicism thing to live up to, but come on. All I'm hearing is my rock is moody, my handle's a death trap, and I'm never going to survive to Padawan. Which, okay, fair. But not helpful!"

"Very well. Then allow me to say this," Huyang said, "your saber reflects your path. Beware too much shadow if you walk the light. Beware too much light if you court shadow."

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the galaxy.

I blinked at him. "Right. Of course. Why say something useful, like fix the power cell before you explode, when you can drop a cryptic fortune-cookie riddle instead?"

Huyang didn't even twitch. "Padawans have called my wisdom many things. None have survived long if they ignored it."

"Wow," I said. "That sounded suspiciously like a threat."

"An observation," he corrected. Then he returned to his patrol of the forges, cloak swishing behind him like he was some kind of Jedi librarian Batman.

He doesn't even need that cloak. He's a droid! Droids don't get cold. Do they? I wonder if their circuits freeze—focus, Ben!

I glared down at my half-built saber. It glared back. Or maybe that was just the glow of my crystal, pulsing faintly with an almost alive rhythm.

Great. My first lightsaber, and it already hated me.

"Sorry." I apologized to my crystal, feeling ridiculous for apologizing. But it needed to be said.

It said nothing. Because it was a rock.

"I know I'm being difficult, I just…" I sighed. "I want to do this right. Work with me here. Please?"

It continued to say nothing. But, since it's not trying to blind me anymore, I think I could take its silence as acceptance.

"Okay. Let's try again… with the instructions."

...​

The chamber seemed to hold its breath.

All around her, the initiates stood in small, uneven lines, sabers newly forged and cradled in careful hands. The air still smelled of heated metal and plasma, of oil and ancient machinery cooling down after long use. A dozen crystals pulsed faintly, waiting.

Then Huyang's voice cut through the silence, even but carrying weight:

"Now," he said. "Ignite them."

One by one, they obeyed.

The first snap-hiss cracked like thunder in the stillness, followed by the low, steady hum of a newborn blade. Then another joined it—higher-pitched, almost singing. Soon the chamber was alive with sound, each saber a different voice in a strange and luminous choir.

Maris's breath caught. She had heard lightsabers before, of course. But this—this was different. This wasn't masters dueling in the Temple sparring halls. This was them. The children she studied with, trained beside, argued with in the dormitories. The sound filled her chest like a heartbeat, all uneven and clashing and somehow harmonious.

Ahsoka stepped forward, and when her blade came alive, Maris had to squint. The green shone so bright it almost dazzled, casting a clean, steady glow over the walls. Its hum was perfectly balanced—no flicker, no warble. Strong, confident.

Huyang inclined his head, just barely, but Maris caught it. Approval.

Of course Ahsoka's would be perfect. Ahsoka always followed instructions, always listened. Maris felt a sudden, irrational tightness in her throat.

Then it was her turn.

Her thumb trembled over the ignition switch. She pressed it down. For one terrible second, nothing happened. Then—crack! A jagged line of blue light shot out, unstable, sputtering like a flame in wind. Maris's heart sank.

It's wrong. It's all wrong, I messed it up—

But then the blade steadied. The hum grew firm. Its glow smoothed into a proper line of light, quivering only faintly at the edges.

Maris exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath the entire time.

Ahsoka smiled at her, and Maris tried to smile back. But she couldn't ignore the unease prickling in her stomach. The others' sabers had sung with confidence. Hers… hers had stuttered.

No matter, she thought quickly. It's stable now. It works. That's what matters.

But her hands still shook faintly as she lowered the weapon.

Then Ben stepped forward.

Maris braced herself. He would either succeed spectacularly or blow something up. Possibly both.

The blade ignited with a sound unlike any other in the chamber.

It didn't sing or hum. It growled. A low-pitched, guttural sound, like the snarl of some sleeping beast disturbed from its rest. The green glow filled the chamber, steady and solid, yet carrying a weight that felt older, heavier, than the other sabers. Beautiful, yes—but unsettling, too, as though the color was the only familiar thing about it.

The room reacted instantly. A few initiates leaned forward, curious. Others recoiled, unsettled.

Maris's pulse jumped. She didn't know why it scared her, only that it did.

Even Huyang seemed… moved. His glowing eyes narrowed slightly as he tilted his head.

"In six millennia of training Jedi younglings," the droid said, "I have never heard one quite like that. Make of it what you will."

Ben, naturally, just grinned. "So what you're saying is, I'm special. Finally, some recognition."

Maris rolled her eyes. Typical.

Before anyone could blink, Ahsoka twirled her blade up into a ready stance. "Show-off."

Ben's grin widened. "Takes one to know one."

The two blades clashed together with a crash of sparks. The other initiates gasped. Huyang's photoreceptors flared red.

"If you lose a limb before you even leave this chamber," he barked, "I am not reattaching it!"

Neither of them seemed to hear. Ahsoka's strikes were quick, testing, playful. Ben blocked sloppily at first, then swung back harder, forcing her to skip backward, laughing. Their blades hummed and clashed, adding wild new notes to the chamber's song.

Maris stood at the edge, saber idle in her hands.

She told herself she didn't want to join. That it was better this way. That the Code said attachment was forbidden, and it was good she didn't share the same easy… closeness those two had. It wasn't jealousy. Of course not.

She wasn't lonely.

She had the Force. And the Force was all she needed.

Then Ben glanced over his shoulder mid-swing, grin bright and wicked. "Maris, you getting in on this?! Come on, I need some backup here! Ahsoka actually exercises for fun!"

Her hearts jolted.

"It's good for your heart, Ben!" Ahsoka retorted. Human problems, in Maris's opinion. Personally, she had two hearts, and she couldn't sit still for anything other than meditation. Adrenalin was too… addictive.

"Then why does it make me feel so miserable?!" Ben argued back. "Maris! Hurry! Save me!"

A dozen thoughts fought in her head at once—It isn't proper. It's dangerous. I don't belong in that kind of bond. Attachments are forbidden. Forbidden. Forbidden.

But her hand was already tightening on the hilt. Her thumb pressed the switch.

The blue blade sprang to life again, flickering at the edges—but steady enough.

"Yes, please," she breathed, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

And she stepped forward.

...​

The Crucible had gone quiet for the night. You'd think a ship that old would creak or groan or rattle when left to itself, but it didn't. It just… breathed. At least, that's what it sounded like to me as I lay on my bunk, staring at the ceiling. A low hum in the walls, steady as a heartbeat.

My lightsaber sat on the blanket beside me. My lightsaber. Mine.

It hadn't left my sight since we'd left the Forge. I'd carried it through supper, kept it propped against the table leg like it might leap up and scurry off if I wasn't watching. Ahsoka teased me about it, of course—"Careful, Ben, you're going to wear the paint off with all that staring"—but I didn't care. Let her laugh. Let them all laugh. They didn't understand.

Now, with the others asleep and no Master Huyang hovering like a judgmental hawk, I picked it up. The hilt was cool in my palm, heavier than it had any right to be. Not just metal and wire anymore. Something deeper thrummed inside, faint but alive. I thumbed the activator.

Snap-hiss.

Emerald light spilled across the walls. Shadows stretched away like they were running from it. The blade growled—low, steady, almost pleased.

"Now you're mine," I whispered, grinning at the ceiling. "My precious."

The words slipped out before I could stop them. I froze, then snorted. Oh Force, really? That's what I came up with? My precious? Somewhere out in the galaxy, some ancient, hunched gremlin was probably suing me for plagiarism.

Still, the words felt… right. Wrong, but right. A private little joke between me and the saber. My saber.

I rose, letting it hum as I gave it a few practice swings. Slow at first, just feeling the weight, then faster, sharper, until the air itself whistled. It wasn't just balance or craftsmanship—I could feel it responding. Not like a tool, but like a partner. Every shift of my wrist, every adjustment of my stance, the crystal sang back to me.

It was alive.

No, more than alive. Aware.

For a heartbeat, I felt its focus brush mine—like being stared at through a keyhole. Not hostile, not friendly. Just… watching. Waiting.

A chill ran down my spine. Huyang's words replayed, dry and too-late: In six millennia, I have never heard one quite like that. Make of it what you will.

I deactivated the blade, the growl dying with a hiss. The cabin plunged into darkness. Only the afterimage of green burned in my vision.

"Don't start spooking yourself," I muttered, dropping onto my bunk again. "It's just a crystal. Just a weapon. Nothing more."

I tried to believe that.

But as I lay back, the hilt resting on my chest like a heartbeat that wasn't mine, I couldn't quite shake the thought that maybe—just maybe—it had chosen me as much as I had chosen it.

And that was fine. Perfectly fine. Absolutely fine. The wand may choose the wizard—even the space wizard—but it was the wizard who was in control.

I was in control.

…wasn't I?

...​

Short answer? Yes.

But, is it something that's going to keep him awake for the rest of the night until he realizes that? Also yes.

By the way, the growl wasn't literal, but have you ever noticed that some lightsaber make different sounds than others? It's the subtle difference of a hum. Even when just igniting it. Like, Sith lightsabers have this distinct hiss, and the Darksaber has this kind of melodical sound. It's an interesting quirk. I thought Ben's could operate on the same way.

Symbolism, baby!

Stay tuned for tomorrow's chapter. Or, screw that. Go check out my Patreon, and read ahead, link below:

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[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 8: Lessons in Hitting Things (With Lightsabers)

The training hall smelled faintly of metal polish and ozone, the scent that clung to every surface in the Jedi Temple. The floor gleamed in the morning light that spilled through tall windows, perfectly swept and perfectly ready to be scuffed up by a dozen younglings about to learn how to hit each other with glowing sticks.

Master Tyyvak stood at the front, her towering Wookiee frame casting a long shadow across the mats. Her bowcaster was slung across her back as always, though Ahsoka had never seen her fire it. She didn't need to—her sheer presence was enough to make even the rowdiest younglings shut up. Well, most of them.

On another note, why did she have a bowcaster and not a lightsaber? She's a Jedi. That's kind of their thing. Unless… the chamber of the bowcaster is the hilt of the lightsaber! That's so cool! And… probably really difficult to assemble, actually. Ahsoka's much happier with her twin blades, thank you very much.

"We begin today," Tyyvak rumbled in Shyriiwook, her growl warm as always. "Your first supervised sparring matches."

A ripple of sound passed through the gathered class—gasps, nervous whispers, a few muffled laughs. Ahsoka's Montrals twitched with a mix of excitement and nerves. Finally. This was it. The real test. Not katas in neat little rows, not balance drills, not moving stones around with the Force until her head hurt. This was a chance to prove herself. To show she wasn't just some scrappy kid from Shili that the Jedi had scooped up. She was ready. She could do this. She had to.

Beside her, Ben practically vibrated with anticipation, rocking on the balls of his feet as if the mats themselves were too slow for him. He wore a grin so wide Ahsoka was sure it had to hurt.

"Ohhh, here we go," he whispered, too loudly. "The moment of destiny. The showdown of legends. The grand melee of—"

"Quiet," Ahsoka hissed at him, though her own lips twitched. He was impossible sometimes.

Ben mimed zipping his lips. That lasted about three seconds before he leaned back toward her, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Remember, children," he muttered in a singsong imitation of Huyang's precise accent, "don't point the glowy end at your face. Training sabers may be non-lethal, but they are still very sting-y."

A couple of younglings nearby snorted. Even Ahsoka bit back a laugh, though she elbowed him in the ribs for good measure.

Across the line, Maris Brood stood with her arms folded, the edge of her dark Padawan tunic brushing her boots. She didn't laugh. She didn't even roll her eyes. She just fixed Ben with a look so flat and unimpressed it could have been carved from stone. The faintest tilt of her chin said everything: You're going to die, clown.

Ahsoka noticed—because she always noticed—that Maris had grown more comfortable around them lately. She spoke more, sat closer during lessons, even teased in her own quiet, sharp-edged way. But apparently, with Maris, being mean was affection. Ahsoka couldn't help but smile at the thought.

Master Tyyvak raised one massive paw, and silence fell again.

"You will spar with your new lightsabers. On their training setting," She continued. "These settings are mandatory, and are designed to teach without maiming. But pain will still teach. You may not lose a limb, but each strike landed will hurt. Do not fear it. Learn from it."

Her growl deepened, echoing through the chamber.

"Control is the heart of a Jedi. Without control, you are nothing more than a danger to yourself and others."

Ahsoka swallowed. Her palms itched with the need to prove she had that control. That she was ready.

Ben, meanwhile, whispered under his breath like it was a game: "Control, control, you must learn control…" He stopped just short of humming a dramatic score.

Ahsoka smacked his arm again.

Maris smirked this time. Just barely.

Master Tyyyvak walked each initiate through the process of using their training setting, silver hilts gleaming as she passed down the line. Each student's face lit with awe—or in Ben's case, smug delight—as their weapons ignited.

Ahsoka's heart hammered in her chest when her saber hit her palm, cool and solid. She thumbed the activator, and a blade of shimmering green burst to life with a snap-hiss. It buzzed faintly, humming with energy, vibrating all the way down to her bones. Her breath caught.

She wasn't just imagining it anymore. This wasn't practice with a stick. This was real.

Ben spun his lightsaber like a baton, nearly clipping one of their classmates before he caught it, waggled his eyebrows, and gave an exaggerated bow.

Maris sighed. "You are going to die."

...​

Master Tyyvak's voice carried across the training floor, calm as ever, but I swear I felt a chill.

"Today," she announced, "you'll be sparring not only with one another, but also with some of the Temple's Padawans. They've generously volunteered their time."

The room buzzed instantly. Younglings shifted on their feet, some excited, some pale. Me? I was half thrilled, half terrified. Mostly thrilled, because if there was one thing better than swinging a lightsaber around, it was swinging one at someone who knew what they were doing.

Probably.

Names were called, pairs arranged. Then my ears caught two I actually recognized.

Aayla Secura—tall, blue, ridiculously graceful—was assigned to Ahsoka. I heard my friend's tiny gasp, and saw her eyes go wide as if she'd just been told she'd spar against a holo-drama star. Honestly, same.

You know, if the Jedi really want to enforce this whole unspoken rule of celibacy thing, they may want to consider less… revealing outfits. Slave Leia had more modesty.

"Padawan Skywalker, you'll spar against Initiate Kryze."

The sparring floor was suddenly a lot less fun.

Oh boy.

The crowd of younglings erupted in little gasps and whispers, like someone had just announced free cafeteria nerf nuggets. Even Ahsoka tilted her head, eyes going wide. Skywalker. The legendary hotshot. The prodigy. The Jedi Temple's equivalent of the kid who was so good at gym class dodgeball you started pretending you had asthma to sit out.

I tried to play it cool. "So," I said, twirling the training saber hilt between my palms, "this is what it feels like to be offered up as a sacrifice."

Anakin, all cocky grin and easy swagger, stepped into the ring. He looked like he belonged there—broad shoulders, confident smirk, that whole I'm-already-the-main-character aura. He gave me a nod that was somehow both friendly and patronizing.

"Don't worry, kid," he said. "I'll go easy on you."

"Great," I shot back. "I'll go hard on you."

A ripple of laughter from the other younglings. Even Tyyvak's mouth twitched, though he quickly smoothed it back into stern Jedi neutrality.

We took our positions. Anakin dropped smoothly into Form V's classic Djem So stance—blade angled up, posture aggressive but balanced. I, meanwhile, copied something I'd read about Vaapad. Which is to say, I held the saber in a way that looked dramatic and tried not to trip on my own feet.

If Mace Windu could beat Palpatine with this, then surely I could beat a prequel-era Anakin. Right? Right.

Focus. Calm. Rely on your training. All good advice. All useless against Anakin Skywalker. He was the Chosen One, the Hero With No Fear. And given his dad was the Force, a total nepo baby… yes, I see the irony in me saying this.

In my defense, my mom still refuses to let me refer to herself as anything other than Auntie Satine. Plus she handed me off to the Jedi. That's got to be the Star Wars equivalent of leaving your kid on an orphanage's doorstep. I have none of the perks of being a nepo baby.

Anakin has all of them.

He's skilled with a lightsaber. He's a Goliath in the Force. Totally OP. But I had one advantage. Back on Earth, I had relentlessly devoured the Star Wars franchise. I'd seen Anakin at his best. At his worst. At his most vulnerable. I knew his one weakness.

"Pocket sand!"

I hurled the handful from my robes straight at his face.

Don't ask me where I got it. You have no idea how hard it is to find sand on Coruscant. It's worse than looking for water on Tatooine. Let's just say a few decorative planter boxes in the Temple gardens are now mysteriously emptier.

"Ah! It's so coarse, rough, and irritating!" Anakin recoiled, actually whining, blinking furiously as he rubbed at his eyes. The gasps from the crèche became shrieks of laughter. Even Aayla Secura, across the room, cracked a grin.

For a glorious instant, I was a god among children.

I pressed the advantage, charging forward with the kind of reckless overconfidence that makes Jedi Masters sigh deeply into their hands. My blade smacked against Anakin's, forcing him back a step.

"Fear me, Skywalker," I declared, grinning wide. "I am the Sandman."

The other younglings howled. Maris Brood actually snorted.

For two whole seconds, I was winning. Two. Whole. Seconds.

Then Anakin adapted.

With blinding speed, he pivoted, locked my blade, and shoved me backward. My arms jolted like I'd tried to block a landspeeder with a broomstick. He wasn't smiling anymore—now his expression was half amusement, half… curiosity. Like he'd just discovered a new bug to dissect.

"Unorthodox," he said, voice low. "But sloppy."

Uh oh.

What followed was less a duel and more a demonstration. Anakin flowed into Djem So with terrifying efficiency. Every swing hammered down like a meteor. Every parry jolted my arms numb. I tried a fancy Vaapad spin—he batted it aside like I was waving glowsticks at a concert.

The smugness drained right out of me. This wasn't a duel. This was survival.

I backpedaled furiously, grasping for new tricks. Fake stumble. Switch hands. Shout "Look, it's Senator Amidala!" to distract him. Nothing worked. He cut through my improvisations like they were training remotes.

At one point he disarmed me entirely, sending my saber clattering across the floor. Before I could panic, he kicked it back toward me. "Pick it up," he said. Almost kindly.

Which somehow felt worse.

I scrambled, ignited it again, and tried one last gambit—rolling low, attempting a clumsy leg sweep. He hopped over it easily, tapped my back with his blade, and sent me sprawling face-first into the mat.

The sparring ring erupted in cheers and groans.

Anakin deactivated his saber, extending a hand to help me up. "Not bad," he said, voice tinged with genuine respect. "You've got guts. And… creativity." His eyes narrowed just slightly, as if cataloging me. "But guts and pocket sand won't get you far."

I groaned, accepting his hand, my pride limping behind me. "So what you're saying is… Vaapad plus sand equals still losing?"

"Exactly." He grinned now, flashing the charm that would one day drive half the galaxy insane. "But don't stop trying crazy things. Sometimes, crazy works."

Master Tyyvak called the match. The younglings applauded. Ahsoka caught my eye from across the floor, giving me a mix of encouragement and what-were-you-thinking.

Answer: I wasn't. But it was totally worth it.

Because for two glorious seconds… Anakin Skywalker was afraid of sand.

...​

The clatter of training sabers echoed across the sparring chamber, accompanied by the gasps and cheers of younglings too enthralled to remember they were supposed to be quiet. Obi-Wan Kenobi remained standing at the back of the hall, hands folded neatly within his sleeves, face composed in the dignified stillness that came with long practice.

In truth, his jaw was tight enough to ache.

Ben had just hit the floor for the third time. Sand sprayed across the mat like so much glittering evidence of desperation, and though the boy scrambled gamely to his feet each time, the outcome was never in doubt. Anakin was too strong, too fast, too confident. A storm contained within the shape of a teenager.

Perhaps Obi-Wan trained him too well.

But Ben—his Ben—was stubbornly trying to fight the storm with a bucket and a grin.

"Interesting boy you've got there."

Obi-Wan didn't need to glance aside to recognize the smooth, amused drawl. Quinlan Vos leaned against the nearest column, arms folded, dark eyes alight with mischief as he watched his own Padawan whirl through her match on the opposite side of the room. Aayla Secura was cutting down initiates in clean, fluid arcs, her movements as precise as they were graceful. The girl fought like a dancer who had decided the floor was littered with enemies.

"She's performing admirably," Obi-Wan said evenly.

Vos smirked. "She is. Meanwhile, yours seems determined to turn the duel into a comedy routine."

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly through his nose. He would not rise to the bait.

Vos leaned in anyway. "Tell me, is it standard in your lineage to encourage sand-throwing as a valid combat technique, or is that a… Kenobi innovation?"

"He's not in my lineage." Obi-Wan's lips thinned. "I've merely offered a word of two of advice, as we all should." He may have to offer more, as well. He had noticed the sand. Force help him, he'd noticed everything. The cheek, the irreverence, the utter lack of restraint. And yet—

Yet, the boy had lasted longer against Anakin than half the Temple's initiates would have dared. Clever, reckless, utterly inappropriate…but inventive.

A familiar, treacherous warmth tugged at Obi-Wan's chest. Force help him, he really is his mother's son. If a tad more… eager for action.

Across the mat, Anakin disarmed Ben for the final time with a neat twist and sent the boy sprawling in a heap. The younglings erupted in cheers. Anakin offered Ben a hand up, and though Ben accepted it, he ruined the gesture by saying something irreverent as always.

Though, judging by Anakin's answering grin, his padawan took no offense. Good. It's… nice, to see them get along so well. Obi-Wan was worried that Ben may take defeat as bitterly as Anakin. Or that Anakin's pride may be more wounded by such underhanded tactics.

He should have known better. Anakin employed the unorthodox far more than even Qui-Go dared.

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. Quinlan barked a laugh.

When the sparring matches ended, the initiates broke into clusters, voices high with chatter. Aayla accepted the admiration of several wide-eyed younglings with a nod as calm as any Knight's. Ben, by contrast, trudged toward his friends like a soldier returning from defeat, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

Maris Brood, a recent friend of his s—of Ben, was the first to greet him, her smile sharp. "You lasted, what, four minutes? Impressive. Most younglings only take three to humiliate themselves in front of the entire Temple."

Hmm. Ben should look into finding more supportive friends.

Ben groaned. "Thanks, Maris. Remind me to send you a thank-you note for your support." Great minds think alike. Like father, like—no. Not like father, Obi-Wan… you have not earned that.

She smirked. "Oh, you'll get one—from the healers when they're done stitching your pride back together."

Before Ben could retort, Ahsoka bounded to his side, montrals bouncing, eyes bright with something far more earnest. "I thought you were great," she blurted. "Brave, even. I mean—going up against Anakin Skywalker? You didn't stand a chance! But you tried anyway, and that's… that's something."

Obi-Wan liked her. If he didn't already have his eyes on Ben, he might've tried to snatch her up as his next padawan. If he can teach Anakin, he can teach anyone. As it was, perhaps he'll pass along a friendly reminder to Plo Koon.

Ben's shoulders eased, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. "Thanks, Snips."

"Snips?" Ahsoka tilted her head.

He shrugged. "It fits."

Obi-Wan cleared his throat before Maris could cut in again. "Ben. A word."

The boy froze, then offered Ahsoka a helpless little grimace before trudging over. He stopped before Obi-Wan, head bowed just enough to suggest guilt, though his eyes still carried that incorrigible spark.

Why did he find that so endearing?

From the sidelines, Quinlan leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging his mouth. "Better you than me, old friend."

Obi-Wan didn't so much as twitch. "Quinlan," he said, voice smooth as polished stone. "If you'd be so kind as to take your running commentary elsewhere, I would like a private word with my—" He caught himself, and the pause was audible. "…with the boy."

Vos snorted. "Ah. Privacy. I see. Don't worry, Kenobi—your secret fatherly pride is safe with me."

"Quinlan."

"Fine, fine. I'm going. Force forbid I get between you and your heartfelt lecture."

He sauntered away with that maddening swagger of his, and Obi-Wan, for his part, allowed only the smallest of exhales before turning back to Ben.

...​

I could tell by the way he said my name—low, precise, each syllable clipped like it was being filed down with a whetstone—that I was in trouble. Not Temple-rule-breaking trouble. Worse. Obi-Wan Kenobi trouble.

"Ben."

He gestured toward the hallway with that perfect, infuriating calm of his. Like he wasn't walking me to my doom, but simply suggesting a nice little stroll. My feet, the traitors, followed.

We stopped in one of the side chambers, quiet and dim, the hum of training sabers replaced by the buzz of my pulse in my ears. Obi-Wan folded his arms. That was never a good sign.

"So." He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. "Would you like to explain what that was?"

"Uh… innovative?" I tried, plastering on my best grin. "Creative problem-solving? A stunning display of tactical genius?"

His brow arched so high I thought it might detach and float away.

"All right, all right," I said quickly. "Maybe I got a little carried away with the sand trick. But you have to admit—it worked. For a while."

"That is precisely the problem." He stepped closer, and his voice softened—but that softness was somehow worse than shouting. "Your creativity is a strength. I will not deny that. But without restraint, it will destroy you."

The words landed like a blow. I tried to laugh them off, but the sound died halfway out of my throat. "Destroy me? Bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"Is it?" His gaze didn't waver. "Today you faced a sparring match with a friend. Tomorrow it may be an enemy with a blade that cuts deeper than training sabers. Tricks and flourishes will not save you if you lack discipline. If you gamble with lives the way you gambled today—"

He stopped.

Drew in a breath. Then, softer still, he said, "I wanted you to succeed, Ben. I did. But not like that. Not by endangering yourself just to prove you could."

I blinked at him. That… that was new. Obi-Wan didn't admit things like that. He corrected, instructed, lectured—but this was something else. Something dangerously close to personal.

A thousand answers fought their way to the surface. Sarcasm. Defiance. A joke about him sounding like my dad. But none of them felt right, not with the weight in his eyes.

And I hated that part of me—some traitorous, quiet part—was warmed by it.

"I…" My voice cracked. I coughed, tried again. "I wasn't trying to—look, I just wanted to show I could keep up. That I belong here. I thought if I did something big enough, you'd… notice."

His expression softened in a way that made me feel both seen and stripped bare.

"I notice," he said. Simple. Certain. "Far more than you realize."

The room tilted, or maybe that was just my head trying to make sense of the stew of feelings bubbling inside me—annoyance, embarrassment, a little bit of pride, and something dangerously close to relief.

I looked away, muttering, "Force, you're making this really hard to hate you, you know that?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. Just barely. But it was there. "Good. That suggests I am doing something right."

I wanted to argue. I really, really did. But for once, I didn't.

It's genuinely hard to stay mad at someone like Obi-Wan Kenobi. Was he perfect? Of course not. Nobody is. But the thing about him is… he tries. Always. Relentlessly. And not because it's convenient, or glamorous, or makes him look good. He just does the right thing because it's the right thing.

Can you imagine being that selfless? I can't.

Think about it—who else do you know who'd throw his whole life into protecting some politician he barely met, just because the Code said so? Or take on training a volatile kid just because his dying master asked him to? Or march headfirst into leading a galactic war, not for glory, but because someone had to step up so fewer innocents would suffer? That's Obi-Wan. That's just… who he is.

He wasn't there when Korkie and I were born. But I can't pin that on him. It wasn't selfishness, or him trying to run from family. It was the opposite, really—he was bound up in a duty that stretched far beyond one person, or even one world. He carries that weight, every single day, and still somehow keeps walking.

So how can I hate him? The truth is, I can't. I admire him too much. I wanted to be him. I wanted to walk like him, talk like him… I even copied his accent. Not that anyone could tell; I picked it up on Mandalore anyway.

I do kinda wish he'd just call me "son", though. Having one parent in denial was more than enough, thank you. But, who knows? As a wise old gremlin once said, "Always in motion, the future is."

...​

Ben was hunched over his workbench again, the glow of the tools painting his face in harsh blue lines. His half-finished lightsaber lay in pieces before him, guts of crystal housing and emitter coils splayed out like an autopsy. He muttered under his breath while he adjusted the wiring.

"Needs an upgrade… countermeasures… built-in failsafe for when some nepo-baby thinks their midochlorian count makes them untouchable."

Ahsoka leaned against the doorway of their shared dorm, her left foot tapping absently. He hadn't noticed her yet. He rarely did when he got like this. His jokes carried the same cadence as always, sharp and irreverent, but she'd started to notice the difference. The humor was his sword, his shield, and his armor, and when he wrapped himself in it this tightly, it usually meant something had cut deep.

He'd shrugged off Obi-Wan's reprimand earlier like it was nothing, but Ahsoka could see the weight he tried to hide. Where she had learned to trust the Temple, to let herself be shaped by it, Ben seemed determined to fight it at every turn. She wondered if he even knew why.

She thought back to Maris in training that day—quiet, withdrawn, but never oblivious. Her eyes had followed Ben more than once, sharp and unspoken. Ahsoka wasn't sure what Maris saw in him, but she knew it wasn't just the clown act he put on for everyone else.

"Going to stare all night, or are you going to help?" Ben finally said without looking up, the corner of his mouth twitching in a half-smile. He sensed her presence. Just as she sensed his. Which is why she knew he was hurting more than he let on.

More than bruises. Deeper than pride.

Ahsoka didn't answer right away. She crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite him, resting her chin on her hand. "You ever think about the future?" she asked.

Ben smirked. "Sure. All the time. Usually involves me with a cloak dramatically billowing in the wind."

"Ben." She let his name hang between them, weighty.

For a moment, his smirk faltered. Just a flicker—but she saw it. He bent back over the saber with exaggerated focus, pretending her question had never been asked.

Ahsoka sighed and leaned back, letting her gaze drift to the ceiling. The truth was simple enough: where she felt at home here, Ben felt cornered. She loved the Jedi path, the structure, the belonging. He acted like it was a battle he could never stop fighting.

She wondered what that meant for the two of them, years from now. Would they still be sitting across from each other, friends and sparring partners? Or would the Order push him too hard, until something finally broke?

Ahsoka wasn't as sure as she'd like to be. But she hoped. Whatever happened, she'd be there. She just prayed the Order wouldn't take the choice from them.

...​

Sand is the deadliest weapon against the Chosen One.

More so than fire, lightsabers, or even lightning. Sand is the kryptonite of all Skywalkers. And now you know. And knowing is half the battle.

Speaking of, did you know that I have a Patreon where you can read ahead, right now? See the link below:

My Patreon

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 9: The Bonds We Forge… In Detention

The crèche cafeteria was loud enough to rival a podracing pit. Metal trays clattered, utensils scraped, and the chatter of a hundred initiates bounced off the vaulted ceiling. Even the kitchen droids had started barking orders—well, synthesized barking, but close enough.

Ahsoka grabbed her tray and shuffled into line. The day's breakfast options were standard Temple fare: blue milk, grain puffs, and nutrient blocks cut into geometric shapes that looked more like tools for building than food. Ahsoka took a triangle one, just to prove she was brave.

At first, things went smoothly. Everyone loaded up their trays under the watchful sensors of the kitchen droids. But then, as always, the competition began.

"Three rolls!" an initiate crowed from a nearby table, triumphantly biting into one.

"Four," another shot back, flashing a grin as he tucked his extras under his robe.

Ahsoka smirked. The unspoken game was simple: how many extra servings could you Force-pull onto your tray without being caught by the kitchen droids? Everyone knew the rules, even the droids—who beeped in mounting exasperation every time a serving vanished mid-air.

Ahsoka was good at the game. Not the best, but good. She casually waved her hand by her side, tugging a second roll off the counter and onto her tray with a whisper of the Force. The droids didn't even twitch.

"Not bad," Ben whispered beside her. His eyes gleamed with the kind of scheming mischief that usually meant trouble. "But you're thinking too small."

Ahsoka narrowed her eyes. "Too small?"

He gestured toward the far end of the counter, where an entire serving tray of sweet rolls sat under a warm heat lamp. "That's the real prize. Why bother fighting over scraps when you can seize the supply lines themselves?"

Ahsoka groaned. "Ben, don't—"

But he was already stretching out his hand, muttering something about "logistical supremacy" under his breath.

At first, it looked like he might actually pull it off. The serving tray trembled, hovered an inch off the counter, and began to drift toward them. Ahsoka's jaw dropped. He's actually doing it.

Then the tray tilted.

The sweet rolls slid in slow motion.

And the blue milk—an entire pitcher precariously perched beside them—went with it.

The crash was deafening. Rolls scattered across the floor like grenades, and a tidal wave of blue milk drenched Ben from head to toe. The splash caught Ahsoka across the front, soaking her tunic and montrals.

The cafeteria froze.

Then the laughter started.

Ben stood there, dripping blue milk, blinking as if he hadn't entirely processed what had just happened. Then, with as much dignity as he could muster, he said:

"Tactical supply lines are more fragile than I anticipated."

Ahsoka wiped milk from her eyes and scowled. "You're impossible."

That only made the laughter louder.

The kitchen droids wheeled over in a fury, beeping indignantly as they started scooping rolls off the floor. "Unauthorized food manipulation! Violation of rationing protocols! Report will be filed!"

Ben gave a sweeping bow to the nearest droid, dripping milk onto the tiles. "I accept full responsibility for this operation's failure."

Ahsoka was about to snap at him again when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye.

Maris.

The Zabrak initiate was sitting two spots down the table, quiet as always, her expression unreadable. While everyone else was pointing, laughing, or whispering, Maris casually lifted one hand beneath the table. A lone sweet roll slid across the surface, landing squarely on Ben's tray.

Ben blinked at it. Then at her.

She didn't look at him. Didn't even acknowledge what she'd done. She just broke off a piece of her own roll and chewed, as if nothing had happened.

But Ahsoka saw the quick flicker of Ben's smile, the way he straightened just a little taller, milk-soaked tunic and all.

Ahsoka frowned. Maris wasn't the type to play games. And she definitely wasn't the type to help Ben.

So why did it feel like something had just shifted?

Ahsoka didn't know. But she knew one thing for sure: breakfast in the crèche cafeteria had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

… as had many other things.

...​

The Archives were alive with silence. That was how Jocasta Nu preferred them: the hush of knowledge settling around her shoulders like a robe. The faint hum of the security fields, the even fainter shuffle of initiates' boots on the marble floor, the occasional tap-tap of a datapad stylus—these were the sounds she cherished. The galaxy outside might rage with skirmishes, politics, and endless noise, but here? Here was order. Here was clarity.

She knew, of course, that her initiates didn't always see it that way. To them, the Archives were dusty halls, filled with static files and old Masters too long-winded for their own good. Not these two, though.

Ahsoka Tano was pure light. Jocasta had watched her dart between the shelves, montrals swaying, eager to quiz herself on obscure battles and the names of long-forgotten Consulars. She could hardly keep still long enough to absorb a full lecture, but the joy she found in learning was undeniable.

And then there was Ben Kryze. Older than most of his crèche-mates by a year, and sharper than most Padawans Jocasta had trained herself. He devoured history like it was a meal, asked questions so incisive they sometimes cut deeper than she'd like, and had that dangerous Mandalorian attachment streak that made half the Council nervous.

Yes, he was trouble. Bright, inquisitive trouble. Which was why Jocasta found herself unsurprised when Ahsoka Tano appeared at her desk with a far-too-bright smile.

"Master Nu," Ahsoka chirped, hands clasped behind her back. "Did you ever tell us about the First Great Schism? The one with the Hundred-Year Darkness?"

Jocasta's brow arched. The Togruta's timing was impeccable—almost too impeccable. "I believe I did, young one. Twice, if memory serves."

Ahsoka's grin widened, the picture of guileless innocence. "I think I forgot some parts. Maybe you could explain again? Especially the, um, politics part. With all the Dark Jedi. And the armies. And—"

Jocasta allowed herself the faintest sigh, smoothing her robes. Yes, this was a distraction. A transparent one. She glanced past Ahsoka's twitching montrals, toward the holoterminals two aisles over. She did not need to look to know who had slipped behind them.

"Very well," she said at last, steepling her fingers. "But politics, initiate, are never so simple as you younglings imagine. The Hundred-Year Darkness began with pride, as most things do…"

She launched into the tale, watching Ahsoka nod rapidly, laugh at her own questions, and stumble through clumsy attempts to appear fascinated. Jocasta hid her smile. She would play along—for now.

It was almost flattering, being part of their little conspiracy. They thought themselves clever, these two, and in truth, they were. Jocasta had spent decades among younglings who showed no spark of curiosity at all. That these two loved knowledge so dearly, even when they abused it, warmed her old heart.

Still. She would let Ben Kryze hang himself with his own cleverness, just long enough to learn a lesson.

...​

"Excuse me, Master?"

The voice belonged to Tallo, the Mon Calamari initiate from the same crèche. Jocasta turned to find him shifting uncomfortably, datapad clutched in webbed fingers. His head-fins twitched with visible unease.

"Yes, Initiate Tallo?"

"I think there might be something wrong with the Archives."

Jocasta inclined her head. "The Archives are never wrong. But you may explain."

Tallo shuffled closer, lowering his voice. "I think… well, there's a planet that had its name changed."

"Ah." Jocasta hummed with understanding. "That does happen. Many worlds have different names prior to being settled. But, as colonists make their home, they tend to make their mark. Little by little, the bird makes its nest."

"Oh. I guess that makes sense. But, why would they change the name of Coruscant, the Core World of the Republic to… Uranus."

A long, terrible pause followed. Jocasta blinked once. Slowly.

"…my what?"

Tallo hastily turned the datapad around. Sure enough, bold as day, the entry for Galactic Republic Capital had been updated. CORUSCANT—struck through. URANUS—typed in, complete with a small holoprojection of a pale blue gas giant floating where the ecumenopolis should have been.

Ahsoka made a small choking noise.

Jocasta Nu rose, her robes swishing like a thundercloud. She did not storm—storming was for the young. But her presence filled the chamber with a gravity that made even the security droids shift uneasily on their tracks. She swept past rows of shelves and terminals until she came to the source.

And oh, yes. She found plenty.

Mustafar: A beautiful winter vacation for the whole family! Come for the slopes, stay for the nice cool breeze! Don't forget to bring a jacket!

Kamino: Not flooded. You're flooded.

Endor: Official mascot—murder bears.

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

On one hand, she should be furious. An initiate had exploited a vulnerability in the archival index, no doubt thinking himself terribly clever. On the other hand… the backups were intact. Every alteration neatly logged, every override easily reversed. The child had even highlighted the faulty code that allowed the tampering in the first place.

It was vandalism—but it was useful vandalism.

Jocasta straightened, smoothing her expression into calm neutrality. She could feel eyes on her—the initiates waiting to see how the dragon of the Archives would roar. Instead, she folded her hands.

"Curious," she murmured. "Quite curious."

Of course, she would correct this. Of course, she would assign penance. But perhaps she would also… encourage it. A child who could find such flaws could help protect the Archives.

Yes. Perhaps the punishment would be… more work.

Her lips curved into the faintest smile. "I believe," she said, turning toward the wide-eyed initiates, "that I shall have a word with Initiate Kryze. Once he decides to stop hiding."

A shuffle from the next row over, followed by the quiet clunk of a datapad hastily dropped.

Jocasta Nu pretended not to hear it.

After all, the chase was always the best part.

...​

You know what's dangerous? Not lightsabers, not blaster fire, not Sith Lords in black cloaks with questionable breathing habits. No—far worse than all of that is boredom.

And let me tell you, when you dump a dozen Force-sensitive kids in a common room with nothing to do after sparring drills, boredom becomes a war crime.

Which is why we have holo-chess.

Only problem is, holo-chess is boring too. The little figures are bland, the strategy predictable, and the computer AI snores itself to sleep if you play solo. So naturally, I took it upon myself to improve the system. Enhance it. Elevate it.

Translation: I hacked it.

And oh, did I outdo myself.

The board flickered to life in the middle of the room, and instead of the usual geometric holo-pieces, we had—drumroll—members of the Jedi Council.

"Wait," Ahsoka said, pointing. "Is that… Master Yoda as a pawn?"

"Correction," I said, proudly crossing my arms. "That's eight Master Yodas as pawns. Quantity is its own quality."

Sure enough, a row of tiny green Yodas shuffled forward, each clutching a lightsaber half their size, muttering things like 'Win this game, I shall,' and 'Strong with the Force, this opening move is.'

Ezra—I mean, not that Ezra, different Ezra, the Nikto from another class—snorted and nearly fell off the couch. "Please tell me Mace Windu isn't…"

"Rooks, yes," I confirmed, grinning as the tall holo-Mace figures materialized in the corners of the board. They crossed their arms, scowled, and radiated general disapproval.

Ahsoka buried her face in her hands. "You're going to get us arrested."

"Arrested? No, no. At worst, expelled. Possibly launched into the sun. But think of the artistry!"

I gestured grandly as the rest of the board populated. Depa Billaba as a bishop, Kit Fisto grinning far too widely, Plo Koon wheezing politely, Shaak Ti looking like she regretted existing on this board at all. The real masterpiece, though? The queen.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi, ladies and gentlemen," I said, as the holo figure of my most favorite (and definitely not my father) Jedi materialized, looking impossibly noble with a tiny animated cape.

"Really?" Ahsoka whispered. "You made your… you made Obi-Wan the queen? He isn't even on the Council!"

"Yet." I argued. "He's due for a promotion. Besides, why not? It's strategically powerful. Very versatile piece. No symbolism whatsoever."

None that I'll confess to, at any rate.

And then came the king: Master Yaddle.

"Why?" Ahsoka demanded.

"Because no one ever expects Yaddle," I said solemnly.

We had barely gotten two moves in when the door hissed open and in strolled Quinlan Vos, radiating trouble magnet as always.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "What do we have here? Unauthorized holo-gambling in the youngling common room?"

"Not gambling," I said quickly. "This is… a cultural enrichment exercise."

"Cultural enrichment, huh?" He strolled closer, peering at the board. His grin widened. "Is that Yoda? As a pawn?"

Eight tiny Yodas turned in unison and said: 'Flattered, I am.'

Quinlan slapped his thigh and barked a laugh. "Oh, I love it. Alright, I got twenty credits on the Togruta."

Ahsoka blinked. "Wait. What?"

"You're playing, right?" Quinlan said, tossing a chit onto the table. "I bet you beat Ben inside of ten moves."

"I—wait, what—" Ahsoka sputtered. "I didn't agree—"

"Thirty on me," I cut in, swiping Quinlan's chit before Ahsoka could. "And if she loses, I get snacks for a week."

Ahsoka glared at me. "Oh, it's on."

The game began with all the subtlety of a podrace crash. Ahsoka played aggressively, sending her Obi-Wan queen flying across the board with zero hesitation. I countered by ordering one of my Yodas to march right into the line of fire.

"Sacrificing Yoda already?" Quinlan asked.

"Strategic retreat," I said.

The pawn-Yoda turned to me and grumbled: 'Betrayed, I am.' Then it dissolved in a burst of static as Obi-Wan sliced it in half.

"Sorry, Master," I muttered.

And I was sorry. But sacrifices needed to be made.

It was all going well until about move five, when I decided to make things more interesting.

See, technically, holo-chess runs off a standard entertainment grid. Which, if you happen to accidentally upload a "combat simulation patch" onto it… well, things get spicy.

I nudged the command lines on my datapad, and suddenly, instead of politely shuffling across the board, the holo-Maces drew their sabers and began dueling the opposing pieces.

"Oh no," Ahsoka groaned.

"Oh YES," Quinlan said, delighted. "This is the best day of my life."

The Obi-Wan queen performed a flying leap, cape fluttering dramatically, and bisected three Yodas in a row. Plo Koon counterattacked by unleashing Force lightning, which I swear he has never used in real life.

"Don't worry about accuracy," I told the group. "It's about vibes."

And then the board exploded.

Literally exploded. Sparks shot out, the holo-field went haywire, and suddenly we had Council members battling full-size in the middle of the common room.

"RETREAT, RETREAT!" I yelled, diving behind the couch as two Maces dueled each other by accident.

"RETREAT TO WHERE?!" Ahsoka shouted back, dodging a very polite Plo Koon as he tried to Force-push the wall.

Quinlan, instead of helping, doubled over laughing so hard he nearly fell into the fire-suppression system.

That was when Jocasta Nu walked in.

"Children," she said flatly, hands clasped behind her back, surveying the chaos. "What… is happening here?"

I sprang to my feet, brushing sparks off my tunic. "What? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just a normal, wholesome holo-game."

Behind me, a holo-Shaak Ti tackled a holo-Kit Fisto into the couch.

Jocasta raised one eyebrow. "I see." She stepped closer, fixing me with the gaze of someone who has catalogued every bad excuse since the dawn of the Republic. "Would this… mishap… have anything to do with the technical difficulties I discovered in the Archives earlier today?"

I froze.

"Why would you ask me?" I squeaked. "Surely, you don't think I… No, never. I—I didn't even know we had Archives."

Ahsoka buried her face in her hands again. Quinlan wheezed.

"Ah," Jocasta said, with a terrifyingly calm nod. "I see. Detention."

Just when I thought my doom was sealed, Maris Brood swooped in out of nowhere like some kind of goth guardian angel.

"Wait," she said, stepping forward. "It was me. I changed the settings. My fault."

My jaw dropped. "You—what?!"

"Don't look so shocked," she muttered, crossing her arms. "You'd just get yourself expelled."

Jocasta studied her for a long moment, then glanced back at me. "Hmm. Very well. Detention… for both of you."

"WHAT?!" I yelped.

Ahsoka faceplanted into the couch cushions. Quinlan roared with laughter, then added another chit to the table. "Double or nothing that they don't last a week before another incident."

Jocasta turned to him. "And you, Knight Vos, will be explaining to Master Windu why I found you encouraging underage gambling."

Quinlan's grin faltered. "…Oh."

I smirked. "Guess we all lose, huh?"

Quinlan shot me a look, then ruffled my hair on the way out. "Kid, you're gonna be the death of me."

"Working on it," I said cheerfully.

And thus ended the Great Holo-Game Fiasco.

For now.

...​

Detention at the Jedi Temple wasn't exactly what I pictured.

When Master Tyyvak lumbered into the room—seven feet of shaggy Wookiee with eyes like molten patience—I braced myself for doom. This was the Jedi equivalent of being grounded by a thunderstorm. She didn't roar, didn't even growl. Just handed me and Maris Brood a stack of flimsi-sheets and a stylus each, then pointed at a row of cushions.

"Copy the Jedi Code," she rumbled. "All of it."

That was it. No dramatic lecture. No punishment chamber. Just… handwriting practice.

I glanced sideways at Maris. She sat cross-legged, her stylus already scratching dutifully. Me? My hand cramped just looking at the pile.

Well. If I was going down, I wasn't going down quietly.

"Bet you," I whispered, leaning just far enough over my cushion to annoy her, "that I can misquote the Code five times before she notices."

Her eyes flicked toward me, then down at my sheet. The tiniest smirk tugged at her mouth. "You'll be lucky to make it to three."

Challenge accepted.

I started innocently enough: There is no emotion, there is… really suspicious frowning. Nothing. No growl from Tyyvak. No sudden Wookiee wrath.

Two lines later: There is no ignorance, there is… a very questionable sense of style in Jedi robes.

Still nothing.

By the fourth misquote, Maris was biting her lip, shoulders shaking. She wasn't laughing out loud—Force forbid she actually break her tragic, brooding aura—but she was laughing. And that felt like a win.

"You're going to get us skinned alive," she hissed.

"Oh, come on," I said. "It's educational. She's testing our creativity."

"Pretty sure she's testing how long until I strangle you."

We went back and forth like that for a while. I threw in bad puns. She sniped at my handwriting. By the time I reached There is no chaos, there is… definitely chaos, Master Tyyvak let out a very long, very tired Wookiee sigh.

Which is Jedi Master for: You two are hopeless.

Before she could redirect us, the doors swished open and salvation arrived in the form of Master Jocasta Nu.

"Master Tyyvak," she said, voice perfectly polite but carrying that librarian authority that made every youngling sit up straighter. "If you would be so kind as to release these two into my custody, the Archives could make good use of their… energy."

"Take them," Tyyvak rumbled without hesitation.

And that's how I ended up in Jedi Archives detention. Which, for the record, is about a thousand times worse than copying the Code.

Jocasta handed us datapads and directed us to the endless shelves. "Data entry," she said briskly. "Cataloguing, cross-referencing. Do not tamper." Then, surprisingly, she looked directly at me and added: "And thank you, young one."

I blinked. "Wait—thank me?"

"Yes. One of the planets you altered during your… prank—Kamino, I believe—was already missing from the Archives. Deleted." Her lips pursed dangerously. "Not by you, of course. Long before your arrival. But when I find whoever tampered with my Archives…" She paused, as if remembering she was supposed to be the embodiment of Jedi serenity. "…I will be very disappointed."

I decided then and there that I never, under any circumstances, wanted to disappoint Jocasta Nu.

I don't scare easily, but—yeah. Apparently, librarians can be more terrifying than most Sith.

So we typed. And sorted. And cross-referenced. Hours of mind-numbing, finger-cramping cataloguing.

At one point, I leaned toward Maris and whispered, "I take it back. The Wookiee was merciful."

"You don't say," she deadpanned.

But the thing was—underneath the sarcasm, she was actually talking. More than usual. Enough that, once I was sure Jocasta was out of earshot, I surrendered to a moment of emotional sincerity.

"So… thanks. For covering for me earlier. With the holo-chess thing. You didn't have to."

Maris didn't look up from her datapad. "I know."

"Then why?"

Her fingers froze for a second. Then she sighed, turning just enough to meet my eyes. "You're one of the only kids who actually talks to me. Not just at me, or about me. To me. And… you're funny. Sometimes." She jabbed me lightly with the stylus. "Don't get a big ego."

I stared at her. "Wait, so you do like me?"

Her cheeks colored, and she turned back to her datapad quickly. "I said don't get a big ego."

But I caught it—the tiniest laugh, slipping past her guard.

And I swear, it was the first time I'd ever heard her sound… normal. Like an actual kid, not some ghost on the sidelines.

"So, what's your favorite thing about me? Is it just my sense of humor, or—ah!" Should have quit while I was ahead.

"Hmm. I think it might be the sounds you make when your punched. Like music to my ears."

...​

The summons from the Council came with all the subtlety of a detonated thermal charge. Obi-Wan had barely stepped out of the creche wing when Anakin came striding down the hall, boots echoing against the Temple's smooth stone, already tugging on his outer robes as if the Force itself had told him to hurry.

"They want us in the war room," Anakin said, his voice sharp with anticipation. "Urgent briefing. Sounds like Outer Rim."

Of course it did. It always did these days.

Obi-Wan smoothed a hand down his own robes, wishing for once that the galaxy would wait until morning. "We've only just returned," he murmured. "You'd think the Council could allow a single uninterrupted night."

Anakin smirked. "They're not exactly known for their sense of timing."

Obi-Wan didn't reply, because his eyes had already drifted down the hall toward the dormitories. He could feel Ben's presence as one feels a hearthfire on a cold night—steady, warm, stubbornly bright. The boy was asleep, most likely tangled in blankets like he had been earlier that evening, whispering dreams under his breath.

It struck Obi-Wan with sudden, inconvenient force that he might not be here when the child woke.

Anakin followed his gaze, groaning. "Oh no. Don't tell me you're thinking of going back in there."

Obi-Wan arched a brow. "And if I were?"

"You're going to wake him," Anakin said. "And then he'll cry. And then you'll have to give one of your legendary speeches about patience and responsibility, and neither of you will sleep. And then we'll both be late for our 'urgent' mission. Again."

"That was one time," Obi-Wan said, a touch more stiffly than he intended.

Anakin folded his arms, grin widening. "Face it, Master. You're basically his dad."

The words landed like a blaster bolt disguised as a joke, one he clearly had no idea would strike so close to home. Obi-Wan gave him a long, level look, the kind of look meant to quell Padawan insolence. Unfortunately, Anakin had long since grown immune.

"I am not his father," Obi-Wan said at last. His voice was cool, measured. "I am his… guardian."

"Uh-huh," Anakin drawled. "Sure. Because guardians hover outside doorways debating if they should tuck their kids in again before they go save the galaxy."

Obi-Wan refused to dignify that with an answer. He did, however, find his feet carrying him back toward the dormitory door.

Inside, the room was washed in the soft blue glow of the Temple's night-lights. Ben lay curled on his side, hair sticking out at improbable angles, the faintest crease still between his brows as though he were frowning even in sleep. The boy never truly relaxed.

Obi-Wan stood there longer than he meant to, silence wrapping around him like a cloak. He imagined kneeling, shaking Ben awake, telling him gently that he'd be gone a while but would return soon. He imagined saying—Force help him—the words he had never been able to say to anyone:

I'll come back for you. I promise.

But promises were dangerous things. The Jedi Code warned against them for good reason. Promises tethered you, and Obi-Wan could not afford to be tethered. Not again.

So he let the boy sleep.

"Sleep well, young one," he whispered instead, so low even the Force barely caught it.

When he turned back, Anakin was leaning against the doorframe with the air of someone who had been eavesdropping shamelessly.

"You're hopeless," Anakin said.

"On the contrary," Obi-Wan replied smoothly, gathering his robe around his shoulders. "I am perfectly rational."

"Rational dads don't sneak goodnight speeches."

Obi-Wan brushed past him. "If you continue to misuse the word 'dad,' I may begin to suspect your vocabulary is shrinking."

Anakin laughed all the way down the corridor.

Obi-Wan did not laugh. He only walked faster, as though distance could smother the guilt that clung to him like smoke. He knew what Ben would think come morning. The boy had been abandoned once already. He would see this departure as proof of it happening again.

And yet Obi-Wan still hadn't woken him.

...​

I was sprawled out on my bunk, arms folded behind my head, staring at the ceiling like it had personally offended me. Which, honestly, it probably had. The Temple ceilings had this smug way of being high and polished and impossibly out of reach, like they were mocking you for being stuck beneath them. Fitting metaphor for the Order, really.

Ahsoka was curled up cross-legged on the opposite bed, quietly fiddling with a datapad. She hadn't said anything since Obi-Wan and Anakin left. Didn't need to. The silence already said enough.

"I hate this," I muttered, not bothering to look at her.

Her montrals tilted toward me. "Hate what?"

"The rules." I rolled onto my side, glaring at nothing. "You can't tell me Obi-Wan doesn't care. I'm not blind—I'm just not supposed to say it. It's ridiculous. Like if we just ignore it, it'll go away. Even him! He's supposed to be this whole Jedi ideal, all detached and serene, but I've seen the way he looks at me sometimes. Like… like he wants to say something. He just won't."

Ahsoka's fingers stilled on the datapad. She didn't interrupt. That only made me go on harder.

"Oh no, attachments are dangerous," I said in my best mock-Master-Windu voice. "Because apparently love is worse than letting a bunch of kids run around unsupervised hacking the holo-net and nearly blowing out the Temple servers. Which, by the way, was totally educational."

That at least earned me a twitch of her mouth, but she didn't laugh.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "It's like they want us to pretend we're droids or something. No family, no ties, no feelings. Just… obedience. Meanwhile Obi-Wan can barely look me in the eye half the time, and I can't say a thing about it. Because, you know. Jedi."

The datapad clicked as Ahsoka set it aside. Her voice was softer than usual when she finally spoke. "I get it."

I blinked at her. "You do?"

"Yeah." She stared at her hands in her lap. "I don't even remember my family. Not really. Just… flashes. And I tell myself it doesn't matter because I have the Jedi now, because I have you. But sometimes… sometimes I wonder what it would've been like to still have them. To know them." Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "And the Jedi say I shouldn't wonder. But I do anyway."

I shifted uncomfortably on the bed, because what was I supposed to do with that? Feelings weren't exactly on the Temple curriculum. So, naturally, I did what I always do: covered it with sarcasm.

"Well," I said, forcing a grin, "we could always start our own Order. Rule one: free dessert at every meal. Rule two: we're allowed to hug."

Usually that sort of thing got at least a laugh, if not a snort. But this time Ahsoka just looked at me, eyes big and serious in the dim dorm light.

"That doesn't sound so bad," she whispered.

The grin slipped off my face before I could stop it.

For a long moment, neither of us said anything. Just two kids in the dark, talking about things we weren't supposed to want.

It's tough being a Jedi.

...​

It really is. But you know what's worse?

Being a stormtrooper. The helmets can't let you see for shit, which is why they can never shoot anything, and they're killed by everyone, all the time. Rebel scum, Jedi survivors, Sith Inquisitors, Sith Lords (when they're in the mood), and you really have to wonder what happened to the majority of them when the Empire went under.

Can you imagine anyone getting hired with their work experience? Yikes.

Oh, yeah. Check out my Patreon if you want to read ahead. Here's the link:

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[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 10: Shadows In The Hall

I wasn't sneaking out.

Let's just get that clear. Sneaking implies guilt. And while I may have been out past curfew, bare feet slapping against the Temple's polished floors, that was purely for honorable purposes. Very noble. Very Jedi.

…Okay, fine. Snacks.

But in my defense, I hadn't eaten since dinner, and Jedi rations were smaller than a Mandalorian's sense of humor. I needed something to keep me alive through my late-night tinkering—because those holo-decipherers and saber hilt adjustments weren't going to invent themselves. And if I just happened to know that the refectory kitchen droids left the pantry unlocked during rest cycles—well, that was hardly my fault.

So yes, not sneaking. Merely walking briskly. Stealthily. With purpose.

That's when I heard it.

At first, I thought it was just the hum of a scrubber droid. The hall outside the Council's wing was usually quiet, except for the occasional sweeping machine singing to itself about dust. But then I caught actual words. Low voices. Serious voices.

I froze.

It was coming from one of the side antechambers, door half-closed. And it wasn't just any voices.

Mace Windu. Ki-Adi-Mundi. And—oh stars—Yoda. And those were just the ones I recognized!

I should've kept walking. I knew that. Curiosity is the path to trouble, and trouble is the path to getting caught and having to scrub refresher units with your toothbrush. But then I heard something that rooted me to the spot.

My name.

Not clearly. Just a faint syllable, swallowed by the hum of the air vents. But I'd recognize it anywhere.

"Ben…"

Every muscle in my body went rigid.

I inched closer, pressing myself against the wall like some kind of professional spy instead of a hungry eleven-year-old with crumb dust on his tunic. My ear hovered just near the doorframe, and I caught more fragments.

"…Mandalore…"

"…attachments risk…"

"…divided loyalties…"

I swear my heart stopped.

They knew.

They knew everything. Satine. Korkie. The letters. My totally subtle habit of staring too long at the holo-news whenever Mandalore came up. I imagined Master Windu turning toward the others, gravely intoning: This child is dangerous. He must be dealt with.

Dealt with how, you ask? Oh, I had plenty of ideas.

Mind-wipe. That was top of the list. They did it to Revan, didn't they? Wiped the Dark Lord of the Sith like a malfunctioning datapad. Who's to say they wouldn't do it to me? And sure, I wasn't exactly an evil Sith bent on galactic domination—but maybe they were being proactive this time. Preventative memory scrubbing.

Or worse, exile.

I pictured a solemn Council chamber, Masters lined in a circle. Yoda raising his little three-fingered hand, voice grave. Out, young Kryze must go. Cast into the Outer Rim, he shall be.

Then Windu, looming over me. This Council does not grant you the rank of Padawan. In fact, this Council doesn't grant you anything. We're confiscating your toothbrush.

Even Ki-Adi-Mundi, with his very large head, chiming in: There can only be seven wives on Cerea, but zero Mandolorians in the Temple.

I think I blacked out for a second.

When I came to, the voices were fading. Chairs scraping. Footsteps moving deeper into the chamber. I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over my own robe hem. My snack raid had officially transformed into a survival mission.

I sprinted back toward the dorms, all stealth forgotten. My imagination was already ten steps ahead: packing my things, sneaking onto a freighter, living on the run. Ben the Outcast. The Prodigal Prodigy. It had a certain ring to it. Better than Exile at any rate.

By the time I skidded into our quarters, Ahsoka was sitting up in bed, montrals drooping, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

"You're loud," she muttered. "Did you fall in the hallway again?"

"No time," I hissed, diving onto my bunk. "The Council's onto me."

That woke her up.

"Onto you?" she whispered. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! That's the problem. They're inventing crimes to kick me out. I overheard them—Windu, Ki-Adi, Yoda. They said Mandalore. They said attachments. They said divided loyalties!"

Ahsoka blinked, clearly debating whether to be concerned or just amused.

"Maybe they weren't talking about you."

"They said my name!"

"Or someone else named Ben."

"How many Bens do you know in this Temple? Exactly one. Me. Case closed."

She rubbed her face. "Okay. So you think the Council held a super-secret late-night meeting just to talk about you."

"Obviously. What else would they do with their time? Play dejarik? No. They sit around plotting how to exile small children from the galaxy."

Ahsoka groaned and flopped back against her pillow. "You're panicking."

"I'm not panicking. I'm… preparing. For exile. Or a memory wipe. Maybe both."

"You are panicking."

"You stop panicking!"

"I'm not panicking!"

"Well, then stop not-panicking so loudly!"

We stared at each other across the dark room. My heart was still hammering, my brain racing with worst-case scenarios. Then Ahsoka rolled over and muttered into her pillow, "If they were going to throw you out, they'd have done it already."

That… was almost reassuring. Almost.

Still, I lay awake long after she drifted off, staring at the ceiling. Mandalore. Attachments. Loyalties. They were watching me. I just knew it.

And if the Council thought they could out-paranoia me, they had another thing coming.

...​

The hum of the cruiser's engines was steady, almost soothing. Almost.

Obi-Wan Kenobi sat stiff-backed in the co-pilot's seat, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes fixed on the streaks of starlight that blurred past their viewport. It wasn't that he disliked space travel. Not exactly. He disliked piloting through space travel—an endless sea of nothing with only fragile shields and inertia between one's body and a fiery, instantaneous death.

Which was precisely why he was letting his Padawan fly.

"Ease the stabilizers, Anakin," Obi-Wan said, without turning his head. "You're drifting one-point-three degrees off course."

"I know," Anakin muttered, his hands dancing over the controls with the casual confidence of someone who didn't fully grasp the value of his own life. "I'm adjusting for the pull of that gas giant's gravity. See? Smooth as silk."

The ship shuddered just enough to make Obi-Wan's stomach tighten. Smooth as silk, indeed.

"I still maintain," Obi-Wan said mildly, "that starships were not intended to be handled like podracers."

Anakin flashed him a grin, quick and boyish. "And yet you keep letting me do it."

Obi-Wan cleared his throat, carefully not answering. He had let him do it—because Anakin was a prodigy, because his skill at the helm was undeniable, and because, deep down, Obi-Wan would much rather have Anakin at the controls than himself. But it wouldn't do to admit that. Not out loud.

Instead, he checked the navicomputer for the fourth time. "We should be nearing the system soon. If Kamino exists, it ought to be here."

The name lingered in the air, carrying weight Obi-Wan couldn't shake. A missing planet. A file erased from the Jedi Archives. Jocasta had been polite—so polite—but he had felt the disapproval simmering under her calm words, as though his inquiry had struck at something personal. And why wouldn't it? Tampering with the Archives was tampering with the very memory of the Jedi.

He frowned faintly. Who would dare? And for what purpose?

Anakin leaned back in the pilot's chair, feet tapping against the deck in idle rhythm. "So. This Kamino. You think it's really out here?"

Obi-Wan folded his arms. "That is what we're here to find out."

"Uh-huh." Anakin pulled a face. "Translation: you don't know."

"Sometimes, Anakin, the hallmark of wisdom is admitting what one does not know."

"Yeah, well, sometimes it's also knowing when someone's hiding something. The Council's being cagey." His jaw tightened, and for a moment the boy's age fell away, replaced by the sharp edge of suspicion. "Why send us instead of a team of archivists?"

"Because," Obi-Wan said evenly, "we are Jedi. Our duty is to follow where the Force leads us."

Anakin snorted. "That's not an answer."

It wasn't. Obi-Wan knew that. The truth was that he didn't understand it any better than Anakin did. Why them? Why now? And why did the thought of a missing world leave a cold thread of unease running down his spine?

He adjusted his robe, smoothing it across his lap. "Patience, Anakin. Answers will come."

"Sure. After we've already found the trouble."

Obi-Wan allowed himself a small smile. "That does seem to be the pattern, doesn't it?"

...​

The ship's beacons pinged as they entered the coordinates. A cluster of stars lit up on the screen, surrounding a narrow band of darkness.

"Here we are," Anakin said, leaning forward. His eyes shone with anticipation. "Let's see if your mystery water world wants to show up."

Obi-Wan straightened, watching the scanner carefully. Nothing. Just the emptiness of the void. He felt his mouth tighten.

"Strange," he murmured. "According to the star charts, this system should host at least one habitable planet. Yet there's nothing on record."

"Maybe there was. Until somebody erased it," Anakin said pointedly.

Obi-Wan gave him a look. "The possibility has occurred to me."

"Then maybe we should stop pretending it's just an 'administrative error' like the Council keeps saying."

There was that edge again—the frustration, the questioning. The boy's faith in the Order was thinner than he realized. Obi-Wan felt a familiar tug in his chest: worry, responsibility, and beneath it all, the quiet weight of guilt. He had left Ben behind in the Temple, sleeping peacefully, his small face softened in the glow of the dorm lights. He hadn't had the heart to wake him. Not when words failed so often between them.

Ben deserved stability, not goodbyes Obi-Wan didn't know how to make.

And now Anakin was pressing at the edges of obedience as well. Two Padawans. One official, one not. Obi-Wan found himself stretched thin between them, torn between what he owed the Jedi, owed Qui-Gon, and what he owed to Satine's children. To his children.

"Don't slouch," Obi-Wan said suddenly, if only to break the thought.

Anakin rolled his eyes but straightened in his seat. "Yes, Master."

The scanners beeped. Both men leaned forward. A faint anomaly flickered across the display—like a shadow where no shadow should be. Or rather, an entire world, precisely where it was meant to be.

Anakin grinned. "Got you."

Obi-Wan's pulse quickened. He reached for the manual override, hands moving with steady precision despite the knot in his stomach. "Bring us in closer. Slowly."

"Slowly?" Anakin's grin widened. "You're no fun."

"I am alive," Obi-Wan said dryly, "which is generally more useful than fun."

Anakin's laughter filled the cockpit, bright and irreverent. Obi-Wan hid his relief behind a faint smile. For all his doubts, for all his gnawing unease, at least they had found something.

A missing world. A hidden secret. And a mission that might be far more dangerous than either of them realized.

Obi-Wan's hands tightened on the armrest as the ship banked toward the anomaly. "The sooner we finish this," he muttered under his breath, "the sooner I can stop flying."

"Did you say something, Master?" Anakin asked, voice projecting innocence.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes briefly. "Just… focus on not killing us, Anakin."

"Relax," Anakin said, pulling them smoothly into descent. "I've got this."

Obi-Wan let out a very quiet, very skeptical sigh.

...​

Look, sometimes being a Jedi-in-training means noble acts of service. Protecting the innocent. Preserving the peace. Other times, it means a midnight infiltration run for contraband soup packets and a blanket.

That's where I came in.

"We strike fast, strike quiet," I whispered, crouched at the corner of the corridor like some kind of holovid commando. "Two shadows in the dark, undetectable. Ghosts."

"We're not ghosts," Ahsoka muttered, crouched beside me. "We're idiots sneaking past Temple curfew."

"Correction—brilliant idiots. With codenames. You're Fulcrum."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why am I Fulcrum?"

"Because it sounds mysterious. Pivotal. Like you're the hinge of fate itself." I jabbed a thumb proudly at my chest. "And I'm Starkiller."

Ahsoka blinked, then hissed, "That's not even remotely Jedi-sounding."

"Neither is Fulcrum!"

"You picked it!"

"You did it first," I whispered back indignantly. "I just… uh… coined it for you before you did. I saw it in a vision. And the For the Force trumps all, end of story."

Ahsoka's eye twitched. "That is the dumbest excuse—"

"Shh!" I pressed a finger to my lips. "Sound discipline, Fulcrum. You'll blow our cover."

Her sigh was loud enough to wake half the dorms. But when she peeked around the corner with me, she was grinning.

Target: Maris Brood, sick as a bog-rat and too stubborn to admit it.

Objective: smuggle supplies into her room without anyone catching on.

It wasn't like she'd asked for help. Maris never asked for anything. She just lurked in shadows and coughed when she thought nobody was listening. Which made it my problem. Because apparently if you befriend the brooding loner once, you're on the hook forever.

Curse my weakness for goth girls.

"You know she could've just gone to the Halls of Healing," Ahsoka whispered as we crept along a side hall.

"She could have," I agreed. "If she wasn't stubbornly refusing to admit she's sick. Or if she wasn't already so pale, the healers wouldn't assume it's just her 'aesthetic.'"

"Her aesthetic is 'half-dead wraith.'"

"Exactly. She's blending in too well for her own good."

Ahsoka tried not to laugh. Tried. It came out as a snort.

Our first checkpoint: a supply room tucked past one of the meditation wings. Problem: locked door.

"Okay," I said, pressing a hand to the panel. "Here's how it works. I slice the door, grab the goods, and we're out before anyone notices."

Ahsoka crossed her arms. "You don't know how to slice."

"Correction—I don't know how to slice well." Holographic locks, encryptions, codes, those were my bread and butter. Physical hardware? I prefer to use my lightsaber as a key. Sadly, this is a stealth mission, and plasma holes aren't very discrete.

Her groan was almost fond. Almost.

I fiddled with the panel, poking wires until sparks nearly singed my fingertips. The door beeped irritably and stayed shut.

Ahsoka nudged me aside, keyed in three swift inputs, and the panel glowed green. The door hissed open.

I blinked. "How did you—"

"I pay attention in tech lessons. Unlike somebody."

"Fulcrum," I whispered reverently, "you complete me."

She shoved me inside before anyone could hear.

Five minutes later, our packs bulged with contraband: soup sachets, extra blankets, a spare datapad preloaded with holotoons. I might've thrown in some candy cubes for good measure. (For Maris. Definitely for Maris. Not me.)

"All right," I said, tugging my strap tight. "Exfiltration route: through the west archives. Fewer patrols."

"West archives?" Ahsoka frowned. "That's restricted."

"Technically, less restricted. If we follow someone in, it doesn't count as breaking rules."

"That's not how rules work."

"It is if you bend them really hard."

Ahsoka gave me that look—the one equal parts exasperation and reluctant amusement. But she followed anyway.

...​

We shadowed our mark: an absent-minded Knight balancing datapads in his arms. Perfect cover. He keyed into the archives, the door swishing open, and we slid through just as it closed.

For two glorious seconds, it felt like victory.

Then the door hissed shut inches from my heel.

"Too close," I muttered. "Way too close. Almost lost a foot."

"You'd deserve it," Ahsoka said, wide-eyed and grinning despite herself.

The archives loomed around us: towering shelves, endless datastacks glowing faint blue. Even whispering felt dangerous here, like the books themselves might tattle.

We crept between aisles, every creak of our boots echoing like a blastershot. My heart hammered with the thrill of it—every shadow an enemy, every glow-panel a spotlight.

"This is ridiculous," Ahsoka whispered. "We're going to get caught."

"Correction—we're going to succeed heroically. Trust the plan."

"The plan is you winging it."

"Yes. Heroically."

She muttered something un-Jedi-like under her breath but kept moving.

The mission went sideways two corridors later. A door slid open ahead of us, and a tall figure stepped out, datapad in hand.

I froze. Ahsoka froze. The figure turned—

And sneezed. Loudly.

Ahsoka yanked me into a side alcove. We pressed flat against the wall as the archivist shuffled off, muttering about dust filters.

I exhaled shakily. "See? Easy."

"You almost got us killed by a sneeze."

"That was a deadly sneeze," I insisted. "Could've leveled us both."

Ahsoka smacked my arm, but she was laughing under her breath.

...​

The thing about spy missions is, you can't plan for everything.

You can try. Check your boxes for exits, entrances, contacts, and doublecrossers. But there's always something you can't account for. Someone, or something, at the right place, at the right time, can cause a lot of trouble, in the most unexpected ways.

We'd just made it past the archive wing—smooth, silent, undetected—when the real enemy struck. Not a Knight, not a Master, not even a nosy Padawan with questions.

A service droid.

The squat, boxy kind that trundled along the halls humming cheerfully to itself. I think they're called Mouse Droids, basically just glorified roombas. Normally harmless. Except this one coughed sparks as it rounded the corner, jittered on a busted wheel, and smacked straight into the wall panel.

The wall groaned. Then the ceiling did too.

"Oh no," Ahsoka breathed.

"Oh yes," I corrected. Because the universe clearly hated me.

The droid fizzed, a light fixture blew, and suddenly chunks of ceiling gave way.

The crash was deafening. Duracrete and plating came down in sheets. One jagged slab hurtled right above Ahsoka.

I didn't think. I just moved.

I lunged, grabbed her arm, yanked her hard toward me. She stumbled, nearly toppling us both—but the slab missed her by a heartbeat, smashing where she'd stood.

That should've been the end of it. Except the next wave of debris was coming straight for me.

Instinct flared hot in my chest. My hands shot up—too fragile to shield, too late to run—

And the Force caught it.

The slabs froze a handspan above me, humming with invisible strain. My knees shook, teeth clenched. Every muscle screamed like I was holding up a starship, not just a ceiling panel. This is why you always do your Force stretches, people. Never skip a good warmup unless you want to be crushed to death.

Only it didn't crush me.

Didn't even touch me.

Slowly, carefully, I shoved it aside. The duracrete slab thunked onto the floor, safe and harmless.

My breath tore out of me in a laugh. A wild, victorious laugh. "Ha! Did you see that?!"

Ahsoka gawked at me, her body stiff, eyes wide as moons.

"I saved your life," I told her, voice climbing higher than I meant. "And mine! And I didn't even die! I'm amazing!" I swept a hand dramatically toward the wreckage. "Write that down in the Archives. Jedi Knight material, right here."

My pack sagged on my shoulder. I glanced down—half our contraband was intact. Blankets, soup, datapad. All good.

Except the candy cubes.

Gone. Crushed beneath a mountain of rubble.

I pressed a hand to my heart. "They were too young."

Ahsoka just stared at me, breathing hard. Finally, she managed, "Ben… you almost got flattened."

"Keyword: almost." I grinned like an idiot. "As in: not really. Because I'm awesome."

She didn't grin back. Her voice was quieter, shaky around the edges. "I'm serious. That—if you hadn't pulled me—"

I caught the look in her eyes then. Not exasperation. Not amusement. Real fear.

For me.

For a second, my giddiness faltered. I wanted to say something comforting, something heroic. Instead, I blurted, "Well, next time duck faster."

Her expression said she wanted to smack me. But she just exhaled, slow, grounding herself.

"Thanks," she whispered at last. Simple. Honest.

I nodded, trying not to bounce with leftover adrenaline. Because yeah, I was bruised, filthy, candy-less. But I'd done it. I'd saved her.

And for one shining second, I felt like a real Jedi.

...​

The dorm wing was hushed, night-cycle lights dimmed to a sleepy blue glow. Most of the Padawans were out cold by now, sprawled across bunks or curled up under thin Temple blankets. She should be joining them. Resting her body, and preparing for the demanding training their crèche has been going through since they forged their lightsabers.

But Ben had one last mission to complete.

Ahsoka lingered at the doorway, arms folded, as he tiptoed into Maris's cubicle with all the ceremony of a hero delivering treasure to a queen. His pack bulged with the spoils of their ridiculous adventure—blankets, soup packets, a slim datapad loaded with holo-toons he'd insisted Maris would be too shy to ask for.

Personally, Ahsoka believed no one should ever feel embarrassed for watching holo-toons. She actually preferred them on some levels, due to the sheer effort both the animators and the actors had to take to craft their story.

Maris sat up groggily, her horns catching the faint light. Even sick, even pale, she still managed a look of suspicion sharp enough to cut durasteel. That softened the instant Ben handed her the goods.

"Thought you could use these," he said, tossing it off like it was nothing, and they hadn't risked life, limb, and detention, because Maris was too proud for the Halls of Healing. "You know, because you look like death warmed over. In a dignified way."

Her lips twitched. Somehow, she accepted it as a compliment.

Then she surprised them both. She leaned forward and hugged him.

Ben stiffened like someone had stuck a training saber up his back, then awkwardly patted her shoulders in return. His face was all embarrassed pride, like he'd just been knighted on the spot.

Over his shoulder, Maris's eyes found Ahsoka's.

Oh, she was clever about it—her expression softened the second Ben pulled back, all doe-eyed gratitude, the picture of frail innocence.

But for that heartbeat when he couldn't see, she glared.

Right at Ahsoka.

As if to say: Mine. Back off.

Ahsoka narrowed her eyes right back. Nice try, friend-stealer.

Neither of them said a word, though. That would risk Ben catching on, and neither of them were willing to jeopardize that.

Ben, blissfully unaware, scratched the back of his neck. "So, uh, don't tell anyone we broke into half the Temple for this, alright? Master Windu might add 'contraband smuggling' to the list of things I'm not supposed to do."

Maris gave a small smile. "Thank you, Ben." Her voice was soft, worn, but real.

He shrugged, grinning too wide. "Don't mention it. Literally. Don't mention it."

When she curled back beneath the blanket, datapad tucked against her chest like a prize, Ben backed out with exaggerated stealth. He shot Ahsoka a wink. "Mission success."

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn't deny the warmth in her chest.

Because beneath all the bravado, all the jokes, she could see what it meant to him. Helping someone. Making a difference, even in the smallest way. He wore his heroism like a mask of sarcasm, but it was there, bright as any lightsaber.

And maybe that was why he butted heads with the Jedi rules so much. Not because he didn't care about being a Jedi. But because he cared too much about people. He needed to prove—to himself, to everyone—that he could be both.

A good Jedi.

And a good friend.

She tugged her blanket tighter around her shoulders, watching him flop into his bunk across the room with all the grace of a wounded bantha.

He was snoring within minutes, still smiling.

Ahsoka lay awake longer, staring at the ceiling.

For all his jokes about starting his own Order with dessert rules and free hugs, maybe he wasn't entirely wrong. Maybe he was seeing something the rest of them were too scared to.

She didn't say it aloud. She didn't even want to think it too loudly.

But as she drifted toward sleep, one thought stuck with her.

If Ben really did try to change the Jedi…

She wasn't sure she wouldn't follow him.

...​

"Who's the more foolish? The fool, or the fool who follows him?" — Obi-Wan Kenobi

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[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 11: Shopping Around

The rain hadn't stopped since they'd arrived.

Sheets of water hammered down upon Kamino's endless ocean, a relentless percussion that drummed against the transparisteel windows of Tipoca City. Sterile white corridors stretched ahead in perfect symmetry, polished floors gleaming as if the very world had been designed to reflect the storm outside. Obi-Wan Kenobi kept his hands folded neatly within his sleeves, every inch the composed Jedi Knight, though inwardly he had to admit he found little comfort in the planet's bleak uniformity.

Still, there was some small amusement to be found in his Padawan's expression.

Anakin Skywalker had never been subtle with his moods, and right now the seventeen-year-old looked equal parts fascinated and horrified. His blue eyes darted between the vast panes of glass, tracking the waves far below. "The whole planet?" he whispered under his breath, as if trying to make sense of it. "It's all water?"

"Indeed," Obi-Wan murmured, lips twitching at the corner. "Quite the contrast to Tatooine, wouldn't you say?"

Anakin grimaced. "I don't like it. Feels… wrong. Like it's waiting to swallow us."

"Not every world can be made of sand, my young Padawan." Obi-Wan offered the faintest of smiles, but Anakin only folded his arms, scowling at the storm as though he meant to intimidate it into behaving. Once a Tatooine boy, always a Tatooine boy.

Their guide awaited them at the corridor's end: long, spindly limbs, elongated neck, eyes like polished glass. The Kaminoan administrator bowed her head in what passed for courtesy. "Master Jedi," she greeted in her serene, lilting tone. "Welcome to Kamino. I am Taun We. We have been expecting you."

Expecting us? Obi-Wan masked his frown. "That is curious. We did not announce our arrival."

Taun We's great black eyes blinked slowly, as though the distinction were meaningless. "Your Order has always been welcome here. Please, follow me."

Anakin cast Obi-Wan a sidelong look as they walked, his muttered voice carrying just enough to reach his master. "She talks like she's trying to put me to sleep."

"Patience," Obi-Wan chided softly, though he shared the unease. The Kaminoans' detachment bordered on uncanny; he felt as though every word was rehearsed, every motion part of some larger design.

They entered a high, sterile chamber where the rain's sound was muted to a dull hum. Taun We gestured gracefully toward a set of seats neither of them took. "I trust your journey was not too taxing," she said.

Obi-Wan inclined his head, stepping forward. "After a recent… mishap with our Archives, we discovered this planet was removed from our records some years ago by a Jedi Master. We had come hoping to learn more?"

Taun We tilted her narrow head. "A Jedi Master, you say? The only Jedi we've been in contact with is Master Sifo-Dyas."

Anakin's brow furrowed. He glanced sharply at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan's composure faltered a fraction. "Sifo-Dyas?" he repeated carefully. "He's been missing for several years. Is he here?"

"No." Taun We's voice was calm, detached. "I am sorry to say, we have found him to be missing equally as long. We had hoped that perhaps he sent you to check on his commission."

"Commission?" Obi-Wan said, fighting to keep his tone neutral. "For what?"

The Kaminoan's eyes gleamed with a hint of surprise. "You do not know? How strange." She folded her hands elegantly before her. "I'm not certain I am at liberty to discuss our clients' purchases with outsiders. A troubling scenario, given Master Sifo-Dyas commissioned it for the Order."

Anakin, ever impulsive, leaned forward. "Then why don't you just tell us? We are Jedi."

"Padawan," Obi-Wan warned quietly.

Taun We inclined her head once more. "Perhaps you can discuss this further with your Council, and we can reconvene at a later date? In the meantime, we will continue our work here. Please, do not be concerned in the matter of payment. Master Sifo-Dyas was quite generous in his advance, and we are content to wait until all is resolved."

The words hung in the sterile chamber, clinical and heavy all at once.

Obi-Wan forced his expression into its usual serenity, though unease coiled deep in his chest. The Kaminoans spoke of Sifo-Dyas as if he were still alive, still involved in dealings with the Order. Yet Obi-Wan knew — as did the Council — that the man had been dead for years. Records erased, names resurfacing, and now this talk of commissions…

He bowed in farewell, thanked Taun We for her hospitality, and guided Anakin back toward the storm-lit corridors.

"Master," Anakin muttered as soon as they were clear. "What in the blazes was that about?"

"I do not yet know," Obi-Wan admitted. He kept his voice calm, for both their sakes, though his mind raced. "But I suspect the Council will be very eager to hear of it."

And yet, no matter how he turned it over, one word clung stubbornly to his thoughts, like a burr refusing to be shaken free.

Commission.

Ignoring the obvious question of why a Jedi Master would commission anything with an organization outside of the Order, an equally more confounding question would be how. Aside from some prepared funds, which they usually received from charitable donations, they hardly had any assets to their name.

Yet somehow, not only was Syfo-Dias able to accomplish this before he died, he was able to die it in such standards, that they're still continuing the work without any current payment or compensation. Where did he get the credits? Did he rob a Spice Ring from one of the Order's missions?

Obi-Wan doubted it.

While he can't claim to know every face and name in the Order, he's made a bad habit of drawing the infamous ones' attention. Sifo-Dyas hardly qualified. Though, Obi-Wan suspected his investigation was going to require a lot more digging.

There were, after all, many questions that needed to be answered. What did he commission? Why did he go so far to hide it? What will be the Council's response to this mess, and why must it involve Obi-Wan Kenobi every single time?

The only silver lining he had going for him, was that at least his… other ward, was having a much easier time at the Temple.

...​

If I'd ever doubted I was the center of the galaxy, today proved it beyond question.

Because the moment I stepped into the training hall, both Ahsoka and Maris lunged for me.

Literally. One grabbed my left arm, the other my right, and I suddenly became a very confused tug-of-war rope. It actually kind of hurt a little. But all attention is good attention. Or am I thinking of publicity?

Yeah, I'm thinking of publicity.

"We're doing saber drills," Ahsoka announced, her grip firm as durasteel. "Form practice, teamwork exercises, the works."

"No," Maris cut in, voice sharp but oddly smug. "We're going to the Archives. There's a restricted section I've been wanting to explore, and Ben promised to help."

"Since when?" I managed, because I definitely had not.

"Since now," Maris replied without missing a beat, tugging me closer to her side.

My brain, traitorous as always, decided this was the right moment to deliver a memory from my past life. Or rather, a small, unfulfilled wish from past life.

In my time back on Earth, I dreamed about this. Being fought over by cute girls. The ultimate teenage fantasy, right?

Except—context is everything. Back then, the girls in question were human, around my age, which at the time was early-twenties. Not ten-year-olds. And definitely not members of a religious order that actively enforced celibacy.

So… maybe not so much like the dream after all.

Still. Not every day you got to say you were the prize in a best-friend war.

"Girls, girls," I said, beaming like the galaxy's smuggest idiot. "There's enough of me to go around."

Ahsoka rolled her eyes so hard I thought she might sprain something. "You're not that important, Ben."

"Could've fooled me," I said cheerfully, glancing at Maris, who did not disagree nearly fast enough.

Ahsoka's plan was obvious: structured training, drills, sweating in the Temple yard until my arms felt like jelly. She'd already been praised by half the instructors for her dedication, and now she wanted me to play along. Which, fair, it is nice to be praised for something you're good at. I'm still waiting for compliments on my stunning good looks, and great sense of humor.

Meanwhile, Maris was dangling the shiny lure of forbidden knowledge—sneaking into off-limits wings of the Archives, poking around places Jocasta Nu would personally strangle us for trespassing. I'm not sure if I'm being metaphorical. I think any further tampering with her Archives might actually push her to the Dark Side.

So on one hand: exercise and responsibility. On the other: mischief and potential academic execution… yeah. Loving these options, by the way.

I squinted at both of them. "Tough choice. Do I go with the girl who wants to whip me into shape, or the girl who wants me dead?"

"Not dead," Maris said, glaring at Ahsoka. "Enlightened."

"Training builds discipline," Ahsoka shot back. "Which you clearly need."

I raised my free hand. "Correction: what I need is applause. And snacks. Possibly a throne." Or all three, ideally. Do you know how long it's been since I was able to sit down in a comfortable chair, eat as much junk food as I could stomach, and play video games until my brain rots? Neither am I, and that's pretty concerning!

Neither of them dignified that with a response.

Instead, they leaned closer, glaring daggers at each other over my head. I swear, if looks could kill, I'd be down one best friend already.

Which was a problem, because I kind of liked having both of them around.

So I did the only reasonable thing.

"Why not both?" I said brightly.

Two pairs of incredulous eyes swung toward me.

"You're joking," Ahsoka said flatly.

Maris's lips twitched. "He's not joking."

"Nope!" I grinned, throwing an arm around each of their shoulders like this was the start of some heroic team-up. "Think about it! Training and enlightenment! The best of both worlds. What could possibly go wrong?"

Judging by the way they continued glaring at each other over me, the answer was: everything. Maybe I'm not the best at this whole "mediating" thing. Should have paid more attention in our classes on it. Or at least looked it up on my own time.

But hey—for now, I was still the most popular kid in the Temple.

And I was going to milk that for all it was worth.

...​

If Maris Brood thought she could just swoop in and steal Ben away, Ahsoka decided, she had another thing coming.

Not that she would ever admit that's what it felt like.

No, she was just… looking out for him. That was all. Ben had the survival instincts of a tooka kitten in a rancor pit, and Maris was exactly the type to lure him into the shadows with a smirk and a secret. It wasn't jealousy. It was strategy. Protection.

…Probably.

The first skirmish in this silent war came during afternoon study. The Temple's archive halls stretched on forever, rows of glowing shelves and silent reading alcoves branching like arteries from the main chamber. Most initiates came here in groups, muttering about research assignments, but Ahsoka had always preferred training to studying. Which was exactly why she'd made the detour: Ben had been "disappeared" for hours, and she had a strong suspicion of where.

Sure enough, when she rounded a corner into one of the quiet nooks, there they were.

Ben sprawled on the floor with a datapad balanced on his chest, grinning at something he was reading. Maris perched cross-legged beside him, head bent close, her voice low and conspiratorial as she pointed to some passage. From a distance, they looked like two conspirators plotting galactic domination.

Oh, no. Not happening.

"Training time," Ahsoka announced, marching in as though she owned the place.

Ben blinked up at her, squinting against the light from the hallway. "Training?"

"Mandatory sparring drills." She hooked two fingers through his sleeve before he could protest. "You've been lazing around all day. Up."

Maris's dark eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. "He's reading."

"Reading doesn't block blaster bolts," Ahsoka shot back, her montrals tilting forward in defiance.

Ben's gaze darted between them, a flicker of mischief in his grin. He wasn't choosing sides. No, he was already figuring out how to milk this for attention.

"Ladies, ladies," he said with maddening ease. "Clearly there's enough of me to—"

"Up." Ahsoka yanked before he could finish.

He stumbled to his feet, laughter bubbling out of him as she towed him away. "I'm beginning to think you enjoy bossing me around, Snips."

"I call it saving your life," she muttered, refusing to glance back at the Zabrak girl still seated in the alcove, her glare sharp enough to pierce durasteel.

...​

Round two went to Maris.

It happened at the dining hall. The room was packed, as it always was during evening meal, chatter bouncing off the vaulted ceiling while the scent of spice bread and nerf stew drifted through the air.

Ahsoka had been right behind Ben, tray in hand, weaving between tables. They were almost at the counter when the door slid shut in her face.

Locked.

"What—?" She slapped the panel, but the controls stayed dead.

From inside, she caught a glimpse of Maris looking very pleased with herself as Ben turned at the sound of the door hissing shut.

"Ahsoka?" he called, his voice muffled through the door.

"I'm fine!" she shouted back, cheeks heating. Her montrals twitched in irritation.

There was a murmur of voices inside. A moment later, the door slid open just long enough for Ben to slip out, balancing not one but two trays in his arms.

He held one up like a prize. "Don't worry. I saved you a plate."

Ahsoka froze. It was… thoughtful. Annoyingly so. But behind him, she could see Maris's smirk, pure victory written across her face.

"Thanks," Ahsoka muttered, taking the tray before she dropped it in frustration.

Ben only grinned wider, oblivious to the silent battle raging just over his shoulder.

...​

The worst part? Ben loved every second of it.

Later, sprawled on the dormitory floor with crumbs of spice bread still clinging to his tunic, he leaned back on his elbows and said, "If Master Windu saw how adored I am, he'd have to lighten up. I mean, clearly I'm vital to Temple morale."

Ahsoka scoffed, tugging her blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Vital nuisance, maybe."

He winked. "Same thing."

...​

Ahsoka wanted to dismiss Maris as reckless. Dangerous, even. She had this quiet intensity, this edge, that didn't belong in the Temple. It was the kind of thing that lured boys like Ben into shadows, where they could be tempted into trouble they didn't understand.

And yet… she had to admit, Maris was clever. Clever enough to push when it counted, clever enough to retreat when it made her look innocent.

And — Force help her — Maris made those all-black robes look good. The way they draped, the way she seemed to melt into the shadows. Could Ahsoka pull that off? Maybe. If she tried.

Not that she would.

Not for Ben.

Definitely not because she refused to let Maris Brood win.

This wasn't jealousy.

This was war.

...​

It started with four words that should have been my warning sign:

"Come on, it's safe."

Maris had that glint in her eyes — the one that meant either "I'm about to uncover forbidden knowledge" or "I'm about to get you expelled." Maybe both.

I dug in my heels as she tugged me along the dim corridor that led deeper into the Archives, away from the approved study halls and into the shadowed stacks I knew full well we weren't supposed to be anywhere near.

"Safe?" I whispered, glancing around like Master Yoda might drop out of a ventilation shaft at any second. He might. He has a tendency to do that.. "Safe? This is the restricted section. Master Jocasta Nu eats children for less."

Maris smirked over her shoulder. "She's with the Council. Some emergency meeting. Knight Kenobi just returned with his Padawan from a mission. Everyone's distracted."

"That doesn't make it safe," I muttered. "That makes it suicide. Do you know what happens if Master Jocasta finds us in here?"

"She lectures us?"

"She frowns at us," I corrected darkly. "The frown. The disapproving frown. I'd rather face a Sith Lord with a death wish than Jocasta Nu with that frown. Honestly, if anything's going to push her to the Dark Side, it's me."

Maris only rolled her eyes, sliding a hand over the security panel. The door chimed and, with a spark from some tool she'd smuggled in her sleeve, the lock gave way.

I stared at her. "Where did you even learn that?"

She only smiled, stepping inside like she'd just cracked open destiny itself.

So melodramatic… so cool.

The restricted stacks felt different from the rest of the Archives. Quieter. Colder. The glowstrips hummed at half-light, and the shelves stretched tall and ancient, filled with holocrons and dusty records sealed away from curious initiates like me.

Curious initiates like me… who were now following Maris into certain doom.

"This is where they keep the fun stuff," she whispered, scanning the shelves. You know? I think I miss her timidness. I'm a bad influence.

Actually, I'm perfect. Ahsoka's the bad influence.

"I'm going to die because of you," I muttered, trailing after her. "And when Jocasta mounts my skull on her desk as a warning, I hope you feel bad."

"Stop whining." She pulled a crystal case from the shelf, breath fogging the glass. "Here. Look."

Inside, a holo flickered to life — a recording of a Jedi in green robes, standing before a crowd. His accent was Corellian, rich and warm, and he spoke of balance, of roots, of a different way of walking the Jedi path.

"The Green Jedi," Maris whispered, reverence softening her usual sharpness. "Corellia's order. I didn't think they were actually real! No wonder they keep it in the Restricted Section.."

I squinted at the projection. "Green Jedi? What, do they blend in better on forest planets?"

She elbowed me, shushing. The holorecord expanded, images flashing: a Jedi council chamber not unlike Coruscant's, but smaller, earthier. Families seated in the galleries. Knights walking openly with partners and children. A sense of… community.

The narration explained what the images showed: a branch of the Jedi Order rooted in Corellia's traditions. Looser rules. Greater ties to their people. Attachments not forbidden, but celebrated.

I tried to make a joke, I really did. Something about "finally, an Order with a dating policy." But the words stuck in my throat.

Because for once, this didn't look like heresy or disaster.

It looked… normal.

Belonging.

Balance.

"Imagine it," Maris murmured, eyes drinking in the holo. "An Order without chains. Without Council lectures. Jedi with the freedom to live as they choose, not just survive under rules."

Her voice held that hungry edge, the kind I'd come to recognize. For her, this was about power. Strength in freedom. A way out from under the weight of tradition.

For me… it was different.

I stared at the holo, at the Jedi who looked proud to stand with his people instead of apart from them. And for the first time since coming here, I let myself think:

This… this actually sounds like a path that wouldn't eat me alive.

I forced a laugh, scratching the back of my neck. "Well. Guess I'd better start working on my résumé. Ben Kryze, future Green Jedi ambassador. I'll need new robes, though. Something stylish. Maybe a color other than beige. Or ten."

Maris smirked. "You'd look good in green."

"Please, I'd look good in anything." But the joke was weak, my grin too thin.

Because even as I spoke, I couldn't stop staring at that holo—couldn't stop wondering if this was what I'd been missing all along. Not freedom for its own sake. But a place where I could actually belong. I am so tired of having this crisis. Do I fit in, do I not? Can I make it work?

I have wanted for so long to be a Jedi. But almost half of what I say and do, tells me I can't be. But the way these guys think tells me I could be…. Whatever. It's just food for thought, right?

I'm never leaving the Order. My dad's here. My friends are here. More importantly, this is probably the one place in the entire galaxy I have a chance at saving said galaxy from a tyrannical empire.

Why leave?

...​

The archives were supposed to be quiet. Reverent, even. A place where the whispers of the past could be studied without interruption.

Which was why Ahsoka Tano very nearly exploded when she rounded the corner and found Ben and Maris sitting cross-legged on the floor of a clearly restricted wing, a holoprojector buzzing between them.

"Are you kidding me?"

Both of them jerked like younglings caught raiding the Temple kitchens. Maris snapped the projector off with a guilty flick, while Ben's face went through about six emotions before he settled on sheepish grinning.

"Ahsoka," Ben said, all faux innocence. "Fancy seeing you here. Did you come to, uh… study?"

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "Restricted sections? Without permission? Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you'd be in if Master Nu caught you here?"

Maris rose slowly to her feet, eyes narrow, voice calm in a way that only made it worse. "Relax, Tano. She's with the Council. No one's going to know."

"That's not the point!" Ahsoka snapped. "You dragged him into this!"

Ben opened his mouth, but before he could defend himself, Maris tilted her head. "I didn't drag him anywhere. He came because he wanted to."

That was the last straw.

Ahsoka's lightsaber snapped to life with a snap-hiss, green light spilling across the shelves. "You want to test that theory?"

Maris's hand darted to her belt, her own training saber igniting in a hiss of orange light. Her smirk was thin and sharp. "Gladly."

The clash of training blades rang out, filling the archive chamber. Sparks scattered off the polished floor as Ahsoka pressed the attack, strikes fast and forceful. Maris met her blow for blow, precise, almost surgical in her counters.

"Careful!" Ben called from the sidelines, half horrified, half entertained. He gestured dramatically to the shelves around them. "Those are priceless Jedi records you're about to set on fire. If Master Yoda asks, I wasn't here."

He muttered under his breath, but Ahsoka wasn't sure she got it. Weird. Her hearing is usually spot on. Of course, give y the lightsabers clashing, it might've slipped.

She's pretty sure he said something about: not wanting to rob the little pyromaniac of the pleasure. Just ask Luke about what happened to the Sacred Jedi Texts. Complete mystery what that meant.

Ahsoka's blade hissed past Maris's shoulder, close enough to ruffle the fabric of her robe. Maris countered with a low sweep that nearly knocked Ahsoka off her feet.

"This isn't about him," Ahsoka said, breath coming sharp between words, "it's about you breaking the rules—"

"Funny," Maris shot back, eyes flashing, "because it looks a lot like it's about him."

The training sabers locked, green and orange light colliding in a flare that cast both their faces in sharp relief. Neither of them gave ground.

Then the roar came.

It wasn't just sound—it was a quake, a tremor through the floor and shelves that made even the holoprojectors flicker.

Both Ahsoka and Maris froze, heads whipping toward the entrance.

Their Wookiee crèche master stood there, looming larger than life fangs bared in an expression of fury that needed no translation. Her roar reverberated again, making datapads rattle in their slots.

The sabers snapped off in unison. Ahsoka swallowed hard, her montrals ringing from the volume. She'd never been so relieved—or so terrified—that it wasn't Master Jocasta who had caught them.

Maris lowered her gaze with a picture of false innocence, though the tiny smirk tugging at her lips gave her away.

Ahsoka's own heart hammered in her chest. She opened her mouth to defend herself, but no words came. All she could do was bow her head in shame.

Ben raised his hand from the sidelines like a guilty conspirator in a schoolyard. "Uh… technically, I told them this was a bad idea?"

Master Tyyyvak roared again.

Ben coughed. "Right. Shutting up now."

...​

Later, after the scolding and dispersal, Ahsoka lay in her bunk staring at the ceiling, jaw tight. Maris had gotten away with too much. Ben was still cracking jokes, brushing it off like nothing mattered.

But she'd seen it — the flicker in his eyes when that holorecord had played. The way he couldn't stop looking at it. Something about those "Green Jedi" had struck deeper than his sarcasm admitted.

And it scared her.

...​

I was alone when I replayed the holo again.

The green-robed Jedi filled the projection, their voices calm, their words simple: family, community, freedom. Things that weren't supposed to belong to people like me.

I leaned back against the bunk, arms folded, trying to laugh it off. "Green's always been my favorite color anyway. Maybe because it's like the color of life. Or saving the environment. Not that there's much environment left to save on Coruscant."

Bit of a mute point, after you hollow out your own planet.

My smile tugged wry. "Or maybe I just like green because it's not basic blue. Or red. Or Jedi. Or Sith. It's something else. Something in between. Something that could actually work for me."

For a moment, I let myself believe it.

Then I shook my head, forcing a laugh that sounded thin even to my own ears. "Or maybe I'm just overthinking it."

The holo dimmed, leaving only the dark.

And the thought lingered anyway.

Stupid brain.

...​

There, there, Ben.

We've all been there. Sometimes, it just feels like our brain doesn't want us to go to sleep.

For example, I couldn't sleep until I wrote the next chapter for this fic! What? You don't believe me? You honestly think I didn't stay up for the last eight hours to write twenty-thirty pages of the next chapter of this fic? Well, how dare you.

I didn't, but I did write the next chapter. And several more after. Feel free to read them on my Patreon, link below:

My Patreon

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 12: Diplomatic Immunity

The air inside the Jedi Council chamber was cool and still, as though even the ventilation refused to disturb the weight of a dozen Masters deep in thought. The faint hum of the hologram projector filled the silence, an insistent reminder that there were questions left unanswered—chief among them: Kamino exists.

Obi-Wan stood in the center of the room, his cloak draped neatly, hands folded. He had long ago learned that posture mattered here. Straight back. Even breathing. Never fidget. He could have been mistaken for one of the chamber's statues if not for the flicker of exhaustion behind his eyes.

"The system was not missing," he concluded, keeping his tone steady. "It was… removed. Deliberately. And I believe I know why. The Kaminoans claim a Jedi—Master Sifo-Dyas, in fact—commissioned a project for the Republic eight years ago. They declined to say what it was."

Murmurs rippled among the Masters. Even Windu's calm mask faltered for a breath. Yoda's ears tilted downward, thoughtful, as though the words themselves carried dust from an old wound.

"Strange… this is," Yoda said at last. "Missing, Sifo-Dyas was. Long before such an order could be placed."

Obi-Wan inclined his head. "Yes, Master. And the Kaminoans claim he was acting on behalf of the Council. They were… surprised we had not come sooner."

There was a heaviness in that silence that followed—an unspoken question no one wanted to answer: Who erased Kamino? And why?

Obi-Wan's composure never slipped, but his mind drifted. Sifo-Dyas, gone for a decade. A vanished world restored to record. Most days, such a mystery would have demanded his full attention. This was not most days. Thanks entirely, to the quiet ping from his datapad the night before—the holonet headline he hadn't expected to see in a lifetime:

DUCHESS SATINE KRYZE TO ADDRESS THE GALACTIC SENATE ON MANDALORE'S DEPARTURE.

The words had lingered like a whisper in the back of his thoughts ever since.

He realized belatedly that Mace Windu was speaking again.

"We'll need to confirm this with the Chancellor," Windu said, his gaze sharp. "The Senate should be informed that a project was commissioned in their name—and of the Jedi's supposed involvement."

"Agreed," Obi-Wan said automatically, the muscle memory of diplomacy saving him before his attention betrayed him.

"Much to uncover there is," Yoda added, his eyes narrowing slightly at Obi-Wan, as if reading more than words. "You have done well, Master Kenobi. Rest, you should."

The meeting adjourned soon after, Masters filing out with the same measured calm they always did—except for Anakin, who, as ever, moved with the faint impatience of a man convinced destiny was waiting outside the door.

When they reached the corridor, Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, letting the tension leave his shoulders. It did not help.

"So…" Anakin began, the grin already forming. "Kamino's a thing now."

"Indeed."

"And Sifo-Dyas commissioned… something."

"So it seems."

Anakin tilted his head, studying him. "You're awfully quiet for someone who just discovered a decade-long mystery. Usually you'd be halfway to giving me a lecture on the importance of research and investigation by now."

Obi-Wan sighed. "I have several concerns, Anakin, but I see no point in discussing them in the hallway."

Anakin smirked. "That's not what's bothering you, though."

"Really?"

"Really." He leaned in slightly, conspiratorial. "You've got that look again."

"What look?"

"The I've-seen-a-ghost-but-I'll-deny-it-to-my-grave look."

Obi-Wan's jaw tightened. "Anakin—"

"Come on, Master," Anakin pressed, grin widening. "Any old flames I should make sure not to bump into? Someone from the Mandalorian delegation, perhaps?"

Obi-Wan turned sharply to face him, the full force of Jedi composure barely masking exasperation. "Anakin."

"I'm just saying," Anakin continued, utterly unrepentant, "you do have a type. Refined, stubborn, probably owns a blaster. Very on-brand for you."

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've been spending far too much time with Ben." A friendship that he now deeply regretted helping blossom. Why couldn't he be a sane and responsible sentient-being, and let the children argue for his attention?

"Maybe. But I'm not wrong."

Before Obi-Wan could retort, the chamber doors slid open again behind them. Mace Windu's voice carried out, calm but cutting.

"Master Kenobi, before you go—there's something you should know."

Both men turned as Windu approached, datapad in hand. "The Council has been informed that Duchess Satine Kryze will be speaking before the Senate this afternoon, concerning Mandalore's election to remain independent of the Galactic Republic."

Obi-Wan's throat went dry. He forced a nod. "I… see."

"We think you should attend," Windu continued. "You spent considerable time with her during the civil conflict on Mandalore. You understand her views better than anyone. If there's any indication Mandalore's neutrality is shifting—"

"You'll want to know at once," Obi-Wan finished, quietly.

Windu nodded. "Exactly." He glanced at Anakin. "Skywalker, you may accompany him. Discreetly."

"Of course," Anakin said, already biting back a grin.

When Windu departed, Anakin waited precisely three seconds before turning to his Master. "So," he said cheerfully, "the plot thickens."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. "Anakin, I am not—"

"—in denial?"

"—discussing this."

"Right. Sure. You're just going to coincidentally attend a Senate session where your very old friend is giving a passionate speech about peace, and—"

"Enough." Obi-Wan's tone was calm, but his eyes carried the faintest plea. "Anakin, some matters are best left—"

"—unspoken?"

Obi-Wan exhaled. "Precisely."

They walked in silence for a time, the hum of speeders echoing faintly from the open-air balconies. But Anakin's grin refused to fade, and Obi-Wan's attempts at serenity were already failing when a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention.

Just beyond the corridor junction, half-hidden behind an ornamental pillar, a familiar mop of reddish hair peeked out. A pair of wide eyes watched him with unrestrained curiosity.

Ben.

The boy ducked back the instant their gazes met—far too quickly to pretend he hadn't been eavesdropping.

Anakin noticed the motion and raised a brow. "Is that—?"

"Yes," Obi-Wan said before Anakin could finish.

A beat.

"Should we—?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Anakin grinned again. "He's definitely plotting something."

"I am well aware," Obi-Wan muttered, rubbing at his temple. "Force help us all."

...​

There are three rules to any successful infiltration:

Confidence.

Preparation.

Absolutely no witnesses.

And I, naturally, had none of those.

"Step one," I muttered, jogging down the Temple corridor, cloak flapping behind me like I thought it made me stealthier. "Acquire disguise. Step two: don't get caught. Step three: charm the duchess—my aunt, who's actually my mom, but won't admit that—before Obi-Dad implodes and emotionally represses himself into a coma."

Ahsoka blinked at me from where she was leaning against a pillar, arms folded, montrals twitching in that way that meant she was already done with me. "Ben, you realize that sentence contained at least three crimes, right?"

"Four, technically," I said. "Impersonating a government employee is still a felony."

She groaned. "And yet you said that like it's a selling point."

"Of course it is! We're not doing anything illegal, we're doing something heroic."

"You're trying to sneak into the Senate to meet a politician you're not supposed to know is your mom."

"When you put it like that," I said, "you make it sound weird."

"It is weird."

"Exactly. Which means it's memorable."

Before she could protest, Maris Brood appeared like the little dark-side angel on my shoulder. Even though she wasn't actually that dark. I think the horns, and the hair, and the makeup just made her look a touch evil. Or goth. Her recent sense of dark humor probably didn't do her any favors. A little habit she picked up following me around.

Yet another sign of what an excellent role model I am. What? I'm being serious. It used to be that she was too shy to say a word. Now she's verbally abusive… in a good way.

Today she had her hood up and that smug smirk that could curdle blue milk.

"I heard something about crimes," she said sweetly. "Please tell me I didn't miss the planning phase again."

Ahsoka threw her hands up. "Oh, perfect. The chaos twins are assembling."

"Chaos trio," Maris corrected. "I'm senior co-founder."

Technically, we recruited her last, so if anything, me and Ahsoka are the co-founders. But I'll allow it. If only because I'm terrified of what my ranking in the totem poll will be if I say anything.

I grinned. "Glad you're here. We're breaking into the Senate."

"Finally."

Ahsoka just stared at us both like she was rethinking every friendship decision she'd ever made. "You're both going to get expelled."

"That's fine," I said cheerfully. "We'll start a freelance detective agency. 'Kryze, Tano, and Brood: Galactic Problem Solvers.'"

Maris nodded. "Sounds marketable."

"Terrifying," Ahsoka muttered.

...​

Attempt #1: Maintenance Apprentice.

Our first stop was the Temple's supply bay, where I found a mop, a rag, and a jumpsuit about two sizes too big. Ahsoka tried not to laugh when I tripped over the pant legs. Maris didn't bother trying.

"Ben," Ahsoka said, "the mop is taller than you."

"Height is a social construct," I argued, then immediately lost balance and fell into a cleaning droid.

The droid beeped in protest and shot a jet of soapy water at me. I screamed, tripped again, and face-planted into a bucket.

The Force was not with this disguise.

"Mission compromised," Maris deadpanned. "Agent down."

...​

Attempt #2: Delivery Boy.

After a quick towel-off, I reemerged in what I swore was a legitimate delivery uniform I'd found in storage. The logo said Galactic Grains, which sounded food-related enough.

Ahsoka looked at me skeptically. "What are you delivering?"

"Diplomatic pizza."

"There's no such thing as diplomatic pizza."

"There is now."

"You're going to get arrested."

"Correction," Maris said, "he's going to get arrested. We're going to laugh."

I ignored them and swaggered toward the Temple exit with a crate full of datapads that I was pretending were "pizza boxes." A Temple guard gave me one look and said, "You're not cleared for off-world transit."

I froze, panicked, then blurted, "Special order for the Senate cafeteria!"

He didn't even answer. Just hit the comm. Within thirty seconds, I was back inside and banned from the launch deck for "creative misuse of property."

...​

Attempt #3: Historian's Apprentice.

The third time, I went for subtlety.

Jedi Archives. Robe tucked neatly. Hair brushed. Glasses borrowed from a librarian droid for "academic legitimacy."

I even practiced saying "Hmm" in a scholarly way.

"Hmm."

Ahsoka squinted. "You look like you're about to assign homework."

"Perfect," I said. "That's authority."

Maris plucked a holobook from the shelf. "So what's the cover story this time?"

"Junior archivist," I said proudly. "Assigned to assist with data transfers to the Senate library."

Ahsoka frowned. "That's… actually believable."

"I know."

"Which means it's terrifying."

...​

We were halfway through loading datapads onto a repulsor cart when she appeared.

Master Jocasta Nu, the most terrifying librarian in the galaxy. Her footsteps were silent, but somehow her disapproval made a sound.

"Padawan Kryze," she said, tone sharp enough to slice through cortosis. "Explain."

Ahsoka and Maris both took a strategic step back, leaving me alone to face the execution squad.

"Uh… archival field trip?" I tried.

Her gaze traveled from my borrowed glasses to the repulsor cart to the datapads precariously stacked in alphabetical disorder.

She sighed. Long. Deep. The kind of sigh that carries centuries of disappointment.

"If you're going to sneak into the Senate," she said finally, "at least cite your sources properly."

I blinked. "Wait. That's not a no?"

"It's an academic supervision," she said crisply. "You may assist with the database transfer under my oversight. Consider this your penance—and your lesson in subtlety."

Ahsoka gaped. "You're actually letting him go?"

"Knowledge," Jocasta said, "is best acquired through experience. Preferably under duress."

Maris grinned. "She's kind of my hero."

...​

By the time we reached the Temple hangar, I was sitting smugly atop the data cart in full "junior historian" regalia, complete with a stylus behind one ear.

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. "You're insufferable."

"Thank you," I said.

Maris crossed her arms. "This is still going to crash and burn, right?"

"Oh, absolutely," Ahsoka said.

I smiled, glancing at the sky. "Then we're right on schedule."

...​

If you've never been inside the Galactic Senate, imagine a thousand overdramatic politicians floating in their own personal bubbles while yelling at each other through holograms. Then imagine it smells faintly of ozone and expensive perfume. That's the vibe.

I sat beside Master Jocasta Nu in the observation booth, trying very hard not to spin the chair. It was one of those fancy swivel kinds, and I could feel it testing my willpower.

Across from us, Ahsoka and Maris sat cross-legged on the floor beside the data cart, pretending to be responsible "assistants." They both looked about as enthralled as banthas at a moisture conference.

"Try to pay attention," Jocasta murmured without looking up from her datapad. "This is history in the making."

"Pretty sure most history in the making involves a lot of people talking about trade routes," I whispered back.

"Correct," she said primly. "And that is why historians, not heroes, preserve civilization."

Hard to argue with that, but I did anyway. "Yeah, but heroes get better theme music."

Ahsoka snorted loud enough to earn us a glare from Jocasta, who went back to note-taking.

That's when the Chancellor's booming voice filled the chamber. "The Senate recognizes the honorable Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore."

And suddenly, my heart forgot how to work.

She stepped into view on the central podium, draped in those flowing silver-blue robes I remembered from holonews broadcasts. Her hair was pinned up with the same elegant precision she used for her words. Every movement radiated control, composure, grace. She looked like the kind of person who could stare down an army and ask them to please reconsider their life choices.

And she was my mother.

Well. Secretly my mother. Officially my aunt. Unofficially the galaxy's most talented denier.

"Citizens of the Republic," she began, voice calm and clear. "Mandalore stands before you not as a threat, but as a testament to peace. We have rejected the path of war… and with that same dignity, we must now reject the Republic. We are formally declaring our independence, as the democracy we hold dear no longer exists in its current form..."

Even through the holoscreens and distance, her conviction hit like a shockwave. She wasn't just speaking; she was commanding belief.

And I felt proud.

Proud in that tight, aching way that only hurts because it's full of love. That's my mom. The woman who made me. The woman who made peace sound braver than battle. Which was pretty fucking impressive considering our culture.

Although, the fact that Mandalore was bailing on the Republic years before The Clone Wars happened was a tad bit alarming? Did I do this? Damn butterfly effect. Now how am I supposed to predict things?

"Hey," Ahsoka whispered beside me. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I lied, eyes still locked on Satine. "Just… watching history in the making."

She gave me a small smile and squeezed my wrist. "Guess that's what historians do, huh?"

"Guess so."

...​

Padmé Amidala was the next to stand, her white gown practically glowing under the chamber lights. "The Republic should support Mandalore's autonomy," she declared. "If we truly stand for democracy, we must respect the right of a world to support it in whatever capacity they deem best."

She sounded righteous, confident, and extremely photogenic.

I squinted. How did she do that?

Like, no frizz, no sweat, no visible pores. I'd been in here ten minutes and already looked like I'd fought a small war with humidity.

Okay but seriously, how does everyone in this galaxy have perfect hair? Is it a Force thing? A midichlorian conditioner? Is that what Yoda's been hiding? Selfish little gremlin doesn't even have hair!

Across the chamber, Obi-Wan and Anakin sat in the diplomatic gallery. Obi-Wan looked dignified as always—polished beard, robe folded just so, hands clasped like he was pretending not to feel feelings.

And then there was Anakin.

Oh, Anakin.

The man was supposed to be a Jedi Padawan. Reserved, wise, but he was staring at Senator Amidala like she was the last power converter on Tatooine.

His entire face screamed crush. Like, not even subtle. Not "admiring a colleague" subtle. We're talking full-on romantic holodrama poster levels of yearning.

If this were a stealth mission, he'd have been spotted from orbit.

"Wow," I muttered. "He's subtle as a podracer explosion."

Ahsoka followed my gaze. Her expression went through all five stages of denial in about three seconds. "Oh no. Oh no, no, no."

"Yup," I said. "He's in loooove."

"Don't say it like that."

"He's in—"

"I will Force shove you off this balcony."

Maris snickered from behind us. "What are we looking at?"

"Forbidden romance," I said solemnly.

"Gross."

"Agreed," Ahsoka said, rubbing her temples. "Also potentially treasonous. Seriously, how is he this bad at hiding it?"

"Maybe the Jedi teach emotional suppression but skip 'acting natural in public.'"

Maris tilted her head. "She's older than him, right?"

"By like five years," I whispered. "Met him when he was nine."

Maris blinked. "…And we're sure he's the creepy one?"

"Huh… never thought about it that way, but yeah. Does seem a little suspicious. I mean, a crush is harmless enough, but if it's reciprocal… yeah, I don't know. Feels a little like grooming." I really, really didn't want to think about it that way.

But now it's all I can think about.

Ahsoka made a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and a scream. "I can't believe you just said that."

"I'm just saying," I said. "Obi-Wan represses, Anakin obsesses, Satine digresses, and somehow I'm the normal one here." I really hate the fact that I couldn't think of an esses for Padmé's grooming. Possesses, perhaps?

Nah, too much alliteration.

"Force help us all," Maris muttered.

...​

Down below, the debate intensified. Senators shouted. Droids beeped. Satine stood her ground with calm dignity, parrying accusations like verbal lightsabers.

When the Chancellor called for recess, she bowed slightly and stepped down from the platform. The camera followed her as she exchanged polite words with Padmé and a handful of officials.

Then, for just a moment, the holofeed panned across the Jedi gallery.

And her eyes—those sharp, sapphire-blue eyes—flickered upward. Toward Obi-Wan.

It was less than a second. But I saw it.

Recognition. Warmth. Pain. All of it, packed into a single heartbeat.

Obi-Wan didn't move. Didn't even breathe.

But his hand twitched—just once, like a man reaching for a ghost he'd already let go.

And I understood.

That's what it meant to be a Jedi, right? To feel everything and pretend you didn't.

I looked back down at Satine. She'd already turned away, mask of composure firmly back in place.

"Step three," I murmured to myself, "charm the duchess before Obi-Dad implodes."

Ahsoka sighed. "You're really going through with it?"

"Of course," I said. "Someone's gotta reunite the galaxy's most emotionally constipated couple."

Maris smirked. "And you think you're the guy to do it?"

I flashed my best grin. "Nope. But I am the guy dumb enough to try."

...​

The Senate corridors always felt colder than the chambers themselves. The air hummed faintly with repulsorlift noise, a constant reminder that the Republic ran on sound and spectacle both. Obi-Wan walked beside Anakin in contemplative silence, his thoughts lingering on Satine's voice echoing through the hall minutes earlier—composed, brilliant, infuriatingly principled.

It had been years. Too many.

And now, she was here again.

"Master," Anakin drawled, sidling closer, "you've got that look again."

Obi-Wan sighed. "What look, exactly?"

"The brooding knight with unresolved feelings look."

"I do not brood."

Anakin grinned. "You absolutely brood. You've been brooding since she said 'Mandalore must remain independent.' Honestly, if you furrow your brow any deeper, I'll start storing spare tools in there."

Obi-Wan gave him the sort of patient look only years of mentorship could cultivate. "You seem unusually invested in my facial expressions, Anakin. Should I be concerned?"

"Just making conversation."

"Indeed."

The exchange might've continued, had the universe not taken pity on Obi-Wan by presenting the very woman he least wished to encounter under his Padawan's scrutiny.

Satine Kryze stepped out from a side corridor, surrounded by two aides and that effortless aura of calm defiance. Her gown caught the light like the surface of a river—refined, understated, and unmistakably her.

Anakin blinked. "Huh. So that's her."

"Anakin," Obi-Wan warned.

"I'm just saying! She's got presence."

"Anakin."

"Alright, alright, I'll shut up. You're welcome."

Obi-Wan exhaled through his nose, composed himself, and offered a polite bow. "It's good to see you again, my lady."

Satine's lips curved into a faint smile. "It's been far too long, Master Kenobi."

"Too long," he echoed softly.

For a moment, words failed both of them. The hum of droids, the shuffle of aides, and Anakin's visible smirk filled the silence.

"So…" Anakin began, leaning in with that grin that could light a reactor. "Should I leave you two alone or start planning the wedding seating chart?"

Satine's blue eyes narrowed like a blaster sight. "You must be Skywalker."

"Guilty."

"Your reputation precedes you."

"Good things, I hope?"

Her tone turned ice-cool. "Not particularly."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, the very picture of restraint. "Anakin, perhaps you could go… anywhere else."

"Right, right. Give the star-crossed lovers some privacy."

"Anakin."

He was gone before Obi-Wan could scold him further, leaving behind only the faint echo of a chuckle and the distinct impression that this would somehow end up in the Council gossip network within the hour.

Satine tilted her head. "He's rather incorrigible."

"He is," Obi-Wan agreed, smiling despite himself. "But he means well. Most of the time."

"Reminds me of someone," she said, her gaze softening.

"Surely not."

The air between them shifted—lighter for a heartbeat, then heavier with all that had gone unsaid since their last parting. Satine's poise wavered, just enough to show the emotion beneath.

"Tell me," she began quietly, "is he well?"

Obi-Wan blinked. "Anakin?"

She gave a faint, frustrated laugh. "Ben."

Ah. Of course.

The question landed with all the force of memory—the boy's quick wit, his unguarded curiosity, his talent for being exactly where he shouldn't be.

"He's thriving," Obi-Wan said gently. "His instructors speak highly of him. As do his peers, when he isn't getting them into trouble."

"That sounds about right."

"He misses you, I think," Obi-Wan added, then caught himself. "Though I'm sure he would say otherwise."

Her smile was small, fragile around the edges. "And… does he know?"

"About you? Not entirely… though, he certainly has his suspicions." A disturbingly accurate theory, as a matter of fact, given that he's determined with no uncertainty that Obi-Wan was his father.

She exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that carried years of decisions and regrets. "We both know there'd come a day when we told the twins the truth. They more than deserve it."

"And they will have it," Obi-Wan said. "When they're ready. When we're ready."

For a long moment, they simply stood there—two diplomats of different creeds, bound by a secret larger than either could admit aloud.

"I hoped…" she sighed, with a small smile. "I'm not sure what I hoped. That he'd be with you, perhaps? It's been a long time since I've heard from him. It's been ages since…"

Obi-Wan's mouth twitched. "Since he's written to you."

"He's told you?!"

"Not exactly." He confessed. "But I have seen the letters. Only I have seen them. The Order would… It's not precisely forbidden to send messages, but… we don't want our initiates to get the wrong ones, if you take my meaning."

Satine gave him a look that was part gratitude, part scolding. "You always did know how to bend rules when sentiment was involved."

"Don't tell the Council."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

He almost smiled again. Almost. "He's grown, Satine. Restless. Sharp. A touch dramatic, if I'm being honest."

"That would be your influence."

"Unfair."

"Accurate."

They'd begun walking again, more by instinct than intent, their words weaving through the tension like old music. And then Obi-Wan, with all the subtlety of a master manipulator disguised as a model Jedi, guided them toward a marble pillar near the outer corridor.

"I wish I could see him," Satine murmured. "Just once, even if he still has to call me his aunt."

"I'm afraid that's difficult," Obi-Wan replied, feigning regret. "The Temple is… particular about Mandalorian visitors around our younglings."

"Of course."

"Still," he continued lightly, checking his wrist comm with exaggerated distraction, "I'm suddenly reminded of a report I must file. Urgently."

She blinked. "Now?"

"Diplomatic matters wait for no one, my lady."

And with that, he gave a courtly half-bow, stepping away—though not before casting a sidelong glance toward the pillar behind which a certain tiny, impatient shadow was trying very hard not to breathe.

Obi-Wan pretended not to see him.

As he turned the corner, he heard it—the faint intake of breath, the tremble of disbelief in Satine's voice.

"Ben?"

"Hi, Aunt Satine," came the sheepish, cracking whisper.

Obi-Wan smiled to himself as he walked off, letting the moment belong to them. For once, he would allow himself a secret—one the Council needn't ever know.

And perhaps, just this once, the galaxy could spare him a happy coincidence.

...​

You ever have one of those days where you're too tired to think, but your brain insists on thinking anyway?

That was me.

I was lying in my bunk, staring at the ceiling lights that dimmed themselves automatically at curfew, trying not to feel too pleased with myself. I technically did make it into the Senate. That counted as a win, right? Sure, Jocasta had technically "invited" me, but I'd been halfway through Operation Totally Accidental Encounter long before she caught me.

Ahsoka would call that "bending the truth."

I called it "creative interpretation."

"Ben," she said from the next bunk over, "you're still awake."

"Nope."

"Then how are you answering me, Ben?"

I sighed. "Can't a guy talk in his sleep without being judged?"

"You're going to get caught one of these days."

"Only if I stop being awesome first."

She groaned and rolled over, muttering something about meditation practice and impending disaster. Ahsoka had gotten very good at predicting my disasters. It was starting to feel like a Force power.

I grinned up at the ceiling, but it faded fast. The smile, not the ceiling. That was still there.

I was the one starting to fade. Because behind all the jokes and half-baked disguises, the debonair, couldn't care attitude, the thing I couldn't stop thinking about wasn't the Senate or the speech. It was her.

Satine.

My… mother. Or "Aunt Satine," as the official record—and she—preferred.

Force, that word felt weird now. Aunt. Like she just occasionally sent me Life Day cards and polite reminders not to eat unpasteurized jogan cheese. Not like the woman who'd risked everything to keep Korkie and me safe.

When I saw her on that platform today—calm, radiant, commanding the attention of thousands like she was born for it—I felt…

Proud.

And tiny.

Like watching a star from orbit. Beautiful, but way too far to touch.

And when she saw me after—when Obi-Wan accidentally left us alone in that corridor—Force, it all fell apart.

She'd frozen at first, like her mind couldn't quite process it. Then she just… dropped all that duchess poise in one motion and pulled me into the biggest hug in the galaxy.

No speeches. No royal restraint. Just warmth and tears and that familiar perfume that somehow smelled like Mandalorian steel and peace lilies.

I think we both said the same thing at the same time.

"I missed you."

I'm not sure which one of us meant it more.

She asked if I was happy. If I was safe. If the Jedi were treating me well.

I said yes to all three. Mostly true answers, if you didn't count the parts where I regularly broke curfew, trespassed in restricted archives, and emotionally blackmailed Anakin into teaching me advanced saber forms behind Obi-Wan's back.

But seeing her cry—actually cry—did something weird to my insides.

Jedi aren't supposed to form attachments. And yeah, I'd tried to live by that. Tried to be what I was supposed to be. But it turns out, it's really hard to meditate away the part of you that wants to be hugged by your mom.

Even now, lying here, I could still feel it. That ache in my chest that meditation didn't fix. I turned onto my side, to try and get more comfortable. Didn't help. I sighed, "Following the Light Side is hard."

Across the room, Ahsoka mumbled sleepily, "Then stop doing dumb stuff."

"Never."

"Then stop complaining."

"…Also never."

She groaned again and buried her head under the blanket. I smiled.

But it didn't last long.

Because once my mind started spinning, it never stopped. I thought about Satine's speech again—the way she'd stood there and said Mandalore wouldn't take sides. The courage it took to tell a galaxy full of war-hungry senators to shove it, politely.

I admired that.

Not because I agreed with her pacifism—Force, no, I was a sucker for a good lightsaber duel—but because she refused to play by Palpatine's game.

She stood there and said, "No. We'll be our own thing."

And that… hit me.

Because, honestly? I kind of wanted to be like that. Not Jedi. Not Sith. Not some political pawn with a cool robe and a list of commandments. Maybe I was a "third option" kind of guy.

The 'Fuck Both Your Factions' Faction.

I chuckled softly to myself. "Vote Kryze 5 BBY: Peace Through Mild Anarchy."

Ahsoka stirred. "What are you talking about… and what's BBY supposed to stand for?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep before I start a movement."

"Ben, if you start a movement again, I'm telling Master Obi-Wan."

"That was one time!"

"The Temple fountain still smells like fruit syrup."

"Creative expression!"

"Sticky rebellion."

I threw a pillow at her bunk. She threw it back with twice as much Force-enhanced velocity. Fair play.

Silence fell again, save for the quiet hum of the Temple's night generators.

I stared at the ceiling until it blurred.

So much had happened lately—Kamino, Satine, Obi-Wan being weirdly tense all week, Anakin acting like a lovesick space cadet, and me, stuck somewhere between all of it.

Sometimes I felt like the galaxy was moving faster than I could catch up. Other times, I felt like it was waiting on me to make a move. That's a dangerous feeling for someone like me. Because I will make a move.

Eventually. Just… maybe not tonight. I'm tired, after all. Could use some sleep.

I'll conquer the galaxy tomorrow.

...​

Procrastination. Truly, you are the enemy of progress.

Still, things are going to get very exciting, very quickly. Stay tuned! Or, if you'd prefer, feel free to read ahead on my Patreon, link below:

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[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 13: Field Trip to Nowhere

The holoprojector flickered to life with its usual soft hum, bathing the Chancellor's private office in pale blue light. Three figures coalesced in the air before his desk—Masters Yoda, Windu, and Ti—each standing at perfect attention, each a portrait of Jedi composure.

How odd. He could have sworn Shaak Ti was dead. Ah, well. Perhaps it was just a part of one his visceral fantasies about slaughtering the entire Jedi Order.

Palpatine smiled warmly, steepling his fingers. "Masters. What an unexpected pleasure. I trust the Council has reached some clarity regarding Master Kenobi's discovery?"

"Clarity," Windu said, his tone clipped, "is precisely what we lack."

The Chancellor's brow furrowed in concern, the picture of empathy. Inside, however, he was nearly humming with satisfaction.

Yoda inclined his head, eyes half-closed in thought. "The world of Kamino, erased from our archives it was. Rediscovered, now. Curious… and troubling."

"Most troubling," Palpatine agreed. "An entire star system wiped from record? Why, it's unthinkable. The sort of crime that undermines the very trust the Republic places in its institutions."

The Masters exchanged looks. Even through the distortion of the hologram, Palpatine could feel Windu's scrutiny. That one never relaxed. Though, not without reason, Palpatine could admit.

"It seems," Shaak Ti said carefully, "that the Kaminoans were under the impression a Jedi ordered something on behalf of the Republic—eight years ago. The late Master Sifo-Dyas."

Palpatine feigned surprise, just a heartbeat too late for it to seem rehearsed. "Sifo-Dyas? But… hasn't he been missing long before then?"

"He was," Windu replied. "That's what concerns us."

The Chancellor sat back, letting the silence breathe. In truth, he'd already heard the news from other sources—long before this meeting. His contacts on Kamino had warned him that the Order had taken renewed interest. The timeline had been accelerated, and that, he did not like.

He needed patience. The Grand Plan depended on it.

"Well," he said finally, smoothing his tone into something gentle and fatherly. "Surely there's some mistake. A clerical error, perhaps? I understand even the Jedi archives aren't infallible."

"Removed, this world was," Yoda said gravely. "Deliberately."

Palpatine's expression froze just long enough to seem appropriately alarmed. "Removed? By whom?"

"That is what we intend to find out," Windu said. "But we believed the Senate should be informed. The Kaminoans claim the project was commissioned on behalf of the Republic. If true, that places this squarely under your authority, Chancellor."

"Ah," Palpatine murmured, placing a hand over his heart, "I see. And what, may I ask, was commissioned?"

The three Masters exchanged another glance. Shaak Ti shook her head. "They declined to say."

A pause.

A perfect pause.

Palpatine let his features soften into something halfway between concern and confusion. "Then it seems we are all in the dark. How regrettable. Still, I'm grateful for your diligence, Masters. Please, keep me informed of any new developments. The Republic must remain vigilant in such uncertain times."

Yoda bowed his head. "Informed, you shall be."

"Thank you," Palpatine said smoothly. "And please—convey my personal appreciation to Master Kenobi. His vigilance does the Order proud."

He meant every word.

Just not in the way they thought.

The holograms flickered out, leaving the office in darkness save for the ambient glow of Coruscant beyond the windows. The Chancellor sat in silence for several long moments, staring at the empty air where the Jedi had stood.

Then, slowly, he smiled.

Kamino. Rediscovered ahead of schedule. His army, his masterpiece, revealed before the galaxy was ready. It was a problem—but not an insurmountable one. If anything, it was a reminder that he would need to accelerate other parts of his design.

Pieces were moving. Some faster than expected.

He rose from his chair and drifted toward the window, hands clasped behind his back, the city's endless sprawl reflected in his eyes. Below, the speeder traffic formed golden rivers between the towers—so small from this height, so easily guided with a nudge here and a push there.

The Jedi were proud of their detachment, their wisdom. But they were still children on the board. He'd already placed his hand on the next generation—one boy in particular.

Anakin Skywalker.

A bright flame, too bright. Left unattended, it would burn itself out. But in the right hands…

He would have to be careful now. The boy's loyalty was still tethered to Kenobi, and that grated more than he cared to admit. That man—that smug, self-righteous creature—had stolen more than one prize from him over the years. First his apprentice. Now his replacement.

For a moment, his smile faltered, and the warmth drained from his face entirely.

From what he's been told, Master Kenobi has been training the boy well. A fine stand in for the late Master Qui-Gon Jinn—which was at least one thing Maul got right. He couldn't imagine how burdensome it would be to corrupt the young Padawan under the Maverick Jedi's careful watch.

If only his late apprentice could have finished the job.

The thought curdled like venom in his mind.

Obi-Wan Kenobi. The perfect Jedi. The Republic's golden son. Always calm, always composed, always in the way. He'd been there on Naboo, too—he remembered that moment clearly. When the flames died down, when the apprentice he'd spent years shaping lay in pieces down the bottom of a reactor shaft, it was Kenobi's blade that had done it.

There would be a reckoning for that.

But not yet.

No, the galaxy was still fragile, still malleable. The Confederacy's shadow was still spreading, and fear was the soil in which power grew. His army must remain a secret until the moment it was needed. Until the Senate begged for protection. Until the Jedi themselves came to him for salvation.

Only then would the galaxy see what he had built in its name.

He turned back to his desk, activating the console with a flick of his hand. A dozen encrypted messages awaited, each from a different corner of his web—Kamino, Geonosis, Serenno. He skimmed them briefly, his mood cooling into something like satisfaction.

The plan would endure. The plan always endured.

And when the time came, when the galaxy cried out for order, it would be his voice—gentle, reassuring, inevitable—that answered.

He paused, gaze drifting once more to the cityscape outside his window. Billions of lights glittered in the distance, and for a moment they almost looked like stars.

"The galaxy forgets nothing," he murmured, the faintest smile curling his lips. "It only waits to remember… at the right time."

The window dimmed as the office lights came back online, and with them, the mask of the Chancellor returned—warm, weary, and oh so human.

...​

There are bad classes.

And then there's this class.

Now, naturally, I am a perfect, civil, and prestigious member of the Jedi Order. Renowned for my ability to follow rules, and my adherence to our code. So I, certainly, have never experimented with the Dark Side of the Force.

But if I did, this is what it would feel like—slow, endless, and entirely devoid of mercy.

"Now, if you turn to page three-hundred and twelve," drones the instructor — a tall, paper-dry Togruta with the energy of a damp towel — "you'll find the full breakdown of Senate Appropriations for the Mid-Rim Relief Fund. Please note that all requisition requests above fifty-thousand credits must first be cleared by the Subcommittee on Planetary Infrastructure."

My eyes glaze over faster than a carbonite door.

I've faced sparring drones that move faster than this lecture. I've meditated through hour-long chants about the "inner calm of the outer self." But nothing — nothing — in this galaxy prepared me for Jedi Temple Civics 203: "A Comprehensive Overview of Republic Bureaucracy."

I lean forward on my desk, whispering under my breath. "If I wanted to suffer this much, I'd have stayed in the womb."

Ahsoka doesn't even look at me. "Focus, Ben."

"I am focusing," I whisper back. "On how to escape this mortal coil." And on how to reincarnate into someone less miserable the next time I win the Isekai lottery.

On my other side, Maris is pretending to take notes, but the faint flick-flick of her stylus tells a different story. She's sketching. I glance over. It's a vibroblade — blood grooves, runes, the whole deal. The blade even has a little cartoon skull on the hilt. Subtle.

"Nice," I whisper. "When do we submit those for grading?"

She smirks, not looking up. "When I finish drawing the blood."

I decide not to ask if she means metaphorically.

"—and that concludes Section VII of Senate Appropriations," says the instructor, pausing as if to let that sink in.

It does not.

Something in me just… snaps.

I raise my hand. "Question."

The instructor sighs. "Yes, Initiate Kryze?"

"Why?"

Ahsoka immediately buries her face in her hands.

"Why… what?" the instructor asks, warily.

"Why are we learning this?" I spread my arms. "I mean, if I wanted to know how to fill out tax forms, I'd just get a job in the Senate. No offense to the fine people keeping the Republic fiscally solvent, but I joined the Jedi Order to move stuff with my mind, not memorize Section VII, Subparagraph Nine."

Maris snorts audibly. Ahsoka kicks me under the desk.

The instructor's eye twitches. "Because, Initiate, understanding governance is essential to understanding the Republic we serve."

"Couldn't we just… visit the Republic we serve?" I counter. "Field trip style. You know — experiential learning."

"That is not how the curriculum is structured."

"Then the curriculum's wrong."

There's a low ripple of laughter through the class. Somewhere behind me, a Nautolan whispers, "He said it!"

The instructor inhales through her teeth. "If you're so eager for a 'field trip,' perhaps you'd enjoy spending the rest of this session in silent meditation."

"Sounds great," I say cheerfully, standing up. "Best learning happens in the field, after all."

Ahsoka groans. "He's doing the thing again."

Maris grins. "He's definitely doing the thing again."

...​

Fast forward twenty minutes, and "the thing" is in full swing.

The lecture hall is a memory. The corridors hum with the Temple's soft, ever-present energy — tranquil, dignified, boring. Perfect for covert operations.

"All right," I whisper, pressing myself against a wall as a group of younglings shuffle past. "Phase One: Evade detection."

Ahsoka sighs. "Phase One was supposed to be: don't get expelled."

"Semantics," I whisper.

Maris disables a nearby security cam with a flick of her fingers, the Force shorting its lens with a satisfying bzzt. "Phase One complete."

I grin. "Phase Two: Acquire snacks and transportation."

"You mean we're actually doing this?" Ahsoka asks, crossing her arms.

"Of course. Think of it as… civic engagement. Hands-on learning. Expanding our awareness of the galaxy."

Maris's grin widens. "Or, in plain Basic—playing hooky."

"Exactly."

Ahsoka gives me that look — half amusement, half exasperation — that says she's already decided she'll regret this but is too loyal to say no. "You know the last time you said 'trust me,' we ended up in a restricted hangar bay?"

"Yes," I say solemnly. "And did we, or did we not, learn something valuable that day?"

"That the hangar guards don't have a sense of humor."

"Exactly!"

She rubs her temples. "Force help me."

"Already does. It introduced us, didn't it?" I ask with a grin, peeking around the corridor corner. "Come on. The Temple's practically begging us to explore. You can't just teach Jedi kids to use telekinesis and expect us not to use it."

"Master Yoda says discipline is the foundation of wisdom," Ahsoka says primly.

"Master Yoda also said that about not eating dessert before dinner," I counter.

"That's not—wait, did he?"

"Probably. He's like, what, nine hundred? I assume he's said everything by now."

Maris snorts. "This is the best class I've ever taken."

I motion them forward. "Then congratulations, you've just enrolled in Advanced Civic Studies, Jedi Edition."

We slip through a maintenance door leading toward the outer corridors. I've been through these halls enough to look confident, which is ninety percent of leadership anyway. Never mind that I have no idea where this particular passage leads.

It's fine. The Force provides. Or, failing that, I improvise.

The air grows cooler as we descend, the Temple's serenity fading into the hum of Coruscant's infrastructure — faint echoes of repulsorlifts, muffled voices, the thrum of the city below.

Ahsoka glances back over her shoulder. "You're sure this isn't going to get us in trouble?"

"Of course not," I say confidently, even as I'm pretty sure that's exactly what's going to happen. "It's educational. Cultural. Enlightening."

Maris grins. "And illegal."

"Only if we get caught."

Ahsoka exhales. "You're impossible."

"Thanks," I say. "It's my best quality."

We reach a side exit — one of the smaller ones used by maintenance crews and temple droids. Maris waves a hand, and the lock clicks open with a faint hiss. Beyond it, a narrow bridge leads out into the open air of Coruscant's endless skyline — speeder traffic flowing in gleaming rivers below.

The galaxy sprawls before us.

Ahsoka shakes her head, fighting a smile. "You're really serious about this."

"Completely," I say. "Come on. How often do Jedi Initiates get to see real people?"

Maris smirks, stepping past me onto the bridge. "Where to, fearless leader?"

"Oh, I have something very special in mind."

...​

I had absolutely nothing in mind.

Zero. Nada. Not a single neuron firing in the strategic part of my brain.

But did I let Ahsoka or Maris know that? Of course not. Leadership, as I've learned, is ninety percent confidence and ten percent pretending you know where you're going.

We wove through Coruscant's mid-level walkways, surrounded by a steady stream of repulsorcraft and the ever-present scent of fried oil and ozone. The Temple was long behind us now—both physically and morally. I told myself this was all part of the plan. A "practical civic excursion." Experiential learning. A lesson in… urban navigation.

Mostly it was a lesson in not admitting we were completely lost.

"Are you sure we're going the right way?" Ahsoka asked, glancing up at another neon sign written in some dialect I definitely didn't recognize.

"Absolutely," I said confidently. "We're just… taking the scenic route."

"Scenic," Maris repeated, kicking at a loose piece of scrap metal. "This level smells like it lost a bet with a sewage plant."

"Smells like adventure," I corrected.

"Smells like burnt copper and fried oil," Maris countered.

She wasn't wrong. The lower we went, the thicker the air got—speeder exhaust, food stands, the metallic tang of moisture vaporators. Holoads flickered on the sides of towers, half of them advertising things I was pretty sure the Jedi Code forbade. Ahsoka's eyes were wide, darting everywhere—like a kid seeing a carnival for the first time.

"This is amazing," she murmured. "All these people, all these lights…"

"Yeah," I said softly, watching her expression. "Whole galaxy out here, huh?"

She nodded, her montrals twitching as if picking up the hum of the crowds. "We spend so much time in the Temple, sometimes I forget how alive the city is."

"Alive and probably contagious," Maris muttered.

I was about to reply when Maris's stomach growled loud enough to startle a passing droid. She glared down at it. "Don't you dare."

"Hungry?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"I could eat," she said.

"You always could eat," Ahsoka teased.

"Well, excuse me for having a high metabolism," Maris shot back. "Zabraks are carnivores, you know? You should know, Togruta are too, technically. So, if we don't find food soon, one of you is going on the menu."

I stopped dead. "Noted. Field trip ends at the nearest diner."

Scanning the street, my gaze landed on a very familiar sign.

Bright neon letters blinked through the haze.

DEX'S DINER.

My heart skipped a beat. I knew that sign. I knew that sign.

"Oh. Oh, this is perfect," I said, grinning like an idiot.

Ahsoka raised a brow. "You know this place?"

"Uh… I've heard of it," I said quickly. Internally, I was screaming. I watched Attack of the Clones. I know this diner. This is where Obi-Wan gets his plot delivered in sandwich form!

Maris eyed me. "You're smiling. That's never a good sign."

"It's fine," I said, already leading the way across the street. "It's wholesome. Iconic. Delicious. Totally not an integral story location in another life."

"Another what?" Ahsoka asked.

"Another… uh, layer of Coruscant," I said quickly.

The diner was just as I remembered it—or, well, filmed it. Retro booths, chrome counters, and a faint haze of cooking oil that had probably been there since the High Republic. The air smelled like caffeine, grease, and unspoken life choices.

We slid into a booth by the window. A service droid zipped over, its photoreceptors flickering. "Welcome to Dex's Diner. Table for three?"

"Please and thank you," I said, collapsing into the seat.

"Very good, sir," the droid said, clearly unimpressed.

The door jingled behind us, and a booming voice filled the diner.

"By the stars—you're a Kenobi!"

I froze. Oh no.

The voice came from behind the counter—a massive Besalisk with four arms, a grease-stained apron, and a grin big enough to eclipse a pod racer. Dexter Jettster himself.

Every neuron in my brain screamed: deny, deny, deny.

"I don't know who that is!" I blurted. "I'm… Ben… uh… Keno B!"

What the hell is wrong with me? My last name isn't even Kenobi! It's Kryze. Ugh. Where's an assassin to put you out of your misery when you need one.

Ahsoka choked on her own breath. Maris slammed a hand over her mouth to muffle a laugh.

Dex squinted, one of his four hands adjusting his goggles. "Keno B, huh? You sure 'bout that? You got the same nose, same eyes—just smaller."

"No relation!" I said quickly. "Totally unrelated! Probably a coincidence of the Force!"

Maris lost it. Ahsoka joined her a second later, laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink when the droid brought it over.

Dex chuckled. "Heh. Don't worry, kid. If you say you're not a Kenobi, that's fine by me. You look like you could use a burger."

"Several," Maris said.

"Coming right up!" Dex disappeared into the kitchen.

Ahsoka was still giggling when she turned back to me. "Ben Keno B, huh?"

"I panicked," I hissed. "It just came out."

Maris smirked. "That's what she said."

I gave her a flat look. "Really?"

She sipped from her water. "What? It's a valid observation."

Dex lumbered over with three enormous nerf-burgers and a tray of milkshakes so blue they practically glowed. "On the house. Don't tell the Council."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I said, already half in love with the burger.

Ahsoka poked at hers skeptically. "What's in this?"

"Courage," I said through a mouthful. "And sodium."

Maris took a bite and let out a small, feral growl of satisfaction. "Okay, this was a good idea."

I raised a finger. "See? I told you—field learning. Civic studies through gastronomy."

Ahsoka rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

...​

As we ate, Dex leaned against the counter, watching us with an amused grin. "Haven't seen Temple kids down here in a long while. Usually you lot stay up there in the clouds."

"Research trip," I said quickly.

He snorted. "Sure. And I'm a Jedi Master."

He looked us over, eyes softer now. "You kids got it good up there, don't get me wrong. But down here? Real folks don't need Jedi telling them to be calm or 'find the Light.' They need someone to listen."

That landed harder than I expected.

I fiddled with my straw. "I listen great," I said lightly. "Selectively."

Dex chuckled. "Yeah, you look the type."

But behind the humor, there was something real. The diner noise faded a bit as I watched him move back behind the counter, chatting with a customer, wiping down a table. A big, greasy, good-hearted man keeping this little corner of the galaxy turning while the rest of it spun apart.

Ahsoka noticed too. "He's right, you know," she said softly. "Most people just want someone to care."

"Yeah," I murmured. "But I'm still ordering dessert."

Maris grinned. "That's the spirit."

...​

By the time we finished, the glow outside had dimmed to Coruscant's version of twilight — which meant the lights were slightly less blinding. The city pulsed with movement, ships streaking overhead like comets, people hurrying through the haze.

Dex waved us off with a wink. "Come back anytime, Jedi or no. And tell your dad he still owes me twenty credits."

"I don't have a dad!" I called back, dragging Ahsoka and Maris toward the door before he asked which Master.

The night air hit us, heavy and buzzing with energy.

Ahsoka exhaled, looking around. "That… was kind of amazing."

"See? Best bad idea ever," I said.

Maris adjusted her robe. "I don't know what's more surprising — the food, or that we haven't been arrested yet."

"Yet," I repeated. "Keyword."

She smirked. "What's Phase Three?"

"Get back to the Temple without anyone noticing."

Ahsoka sighed. "So… impossible."

"Exactly," I said, smiling as I looked out at the city below.

For a moment, we stood there — three Jedi kids, surrounded by a galaxy too vast to understand, lights gleaming like stars we could almost touch.

And maybe Dex was right. Maybe the galaxy didn't need heroes or warriors all the time. Maybe it just needed someone to listen.

But that sounded dangerously close to introspection.

So instead, I said, "First one back pays for the next field trip."

And before Ahsoka could protest, I vaulted off the bridge rail and dove into the night.

...​

For someone supposedly "trained in patience," Ahsoka Tano's first instinct was to scream.

Ben had jumped. Just—jumped. Off the bridge. Into Coruscant traffic.

"Is he insane?" she shouted.

"Undiagnosed!" Maris replied, already leaning over the railing. "He's falling!"

"No—he's enjoying this!"

Ahsoka could feel it through the Force—Ben's reckless thrill, the giddy spin of his thoughts, the utter lack of survival strategy. His version of peace was free-falling through death traps. Hers was not.

She and Maris exchanged a look, and then—simultaneously—they reached out through the Force.

Ben's fall stopped halfway down. He hung there, flailing midair.

"Hey! No fair!" he shouted up. "That was going to be a symbolic exit!"

Maris rolled her eyes. "Symbolic of what? Your bad decisions?"

"Freedom!" he yelled back.

Ahsoka sighed. "Get back up here, genius."

They lifted him effortlessly, setting him back on the platform with a thud. He brushed off his robes, clearly offended. "You two are ruining my heroic arc."

"Your heroic arc can wait until after we don't get arrested," Ahsoka muttered.

As if summoned by irony, a mechanical chirp cut through the air.

A patrol droid floated up beside them, its photoreceptors glowing red. "IDENTITY CONFIRMED. JEDI INITIATES DETECTED BEYOND AUTHORIZED BOUNDARY. PLEASE REMAIN STATIONARY FOR ESCORT TO TEMPLE."

Ahsoka groaned. "Ben."

He blinked innocently. "What?"

"This is your fault."

"That's harsh," he said, stepping subtly between them and the droid. "I'd call it… an unforeseen opportunity."

"For what?" Maris asked.

"For learning!"

Then he turned and sprinted toward a nearby line of parked speeders.

"BEN!" Ahsoka shouted.

He didn't look back. "Trust me!"

"Never again!"

But by the time she caught up, he was crouched over the control panel of a small two-seat rental speeder, muttering something about "primitive security design." Sparks flew, a wire popped loose—and somehow, impossibly, the speeder roared to life.

The patrol droid advanced. "ILLEGAL VEHICLE TAMPERING DETECTED—"

"Get in!" Ben yelled.

"I am not—"

Maris was already climbing aboard. "Shotgun!"

Ahsoka hesitated for half a second—long enough for the droid's stun blaster to whine to life.

"Fine!" she shouted, vaulting into the passenger seat. "But if we die, I'm haunting you!"

"Deal!" Ben grinned, slammed the throttle—and the world blurred.

The speeder shot off the platform like a blaster bolt.

...​

They plunged into Coruscant's chaotic traffic lanes, weaving between streams of speeders that stretched into glowing rivers of light. The wind howled in her montrals, filling her senses with a chorus of noise—repulsors, horns, droids shouting warnings.

"Left!" Ahsoka cried.

"Right!" Ben yelled.

They went straight.

"BEN!"

"Improvising!"

Ahsoka gripped the side rail until her fingers ached. The Temple's meditative teachings had not prepared her for this. "You're going to crash!"

"I prefer the term 'unintended landing!'"

A transport barge loomed ahead. Ben yanked the controls, swerving beneath it just as a flock of droids zipped past above. The barge's exhaust nearly cooked Ahsoka's lekku.

Maris whooped from the back seat. "This is amazing!"

"This is criminal!" Ahsoka shot back.

"Semantics!" Ben shouted.

Behind them, the patrol droid was still in pursuit, its siren blaring across the skyway. "UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLE DETECTED. STANDBY FOR INTERCEPTION."

Ahsoka turned around in time to see a pair of smaller droids joining the chase. "They called backup!"

"Good! I was starting to get bored!" Maris yelled, crouching like a predator.

"Don't—!" Ahsoka started. Too late.

Maris jumped.

Ahsoka's heart lurched as the Zabrak flipped through open air, landing perfectly on the back of a passing cargo hauler. She sprinted along its spine, ducked under a vent, and yanked loose a stack of unsecured crates.

The crates tumbled backward, smashing into the pursuing droids in an explosion of sparks.

Maris landed back in the speeder a heartbeat later, smirking. "You're welcome."

Ahsoka could barely breathe. "You're insane."

Ben grinned. "She's my favorite."

The speeder banked sharply around a tower. A delivery droid screamed as they missed it by inches. Somewhere below, a civilian shouted something very rude.

"This is not what Master Yoda meant by 'expand your horizons!'" Ahsoka yelled over the wind.

Ben only laughed, eyes alight with pure, reckless joy. For a moment, she almost admired it—the way he threw himself into life like it was an adventure game with unlimited respawns.

Almost.

"Watch out!" she cried, pointing ahead.

A massive airbus blocked their lane. Ben didn't slow down. He angled the speeder downward, shooting between its landing struts, sparks flying as the undercarriage scraped the durasteel.

Ahsoka's heart pounded. "You're not even licensed!"

"I'm not even legally old enough to be licensed!"

"That's worse!"

The chase wove lower, deeper into the orange-glow mid-levels. Signs and skybridges whipped past in a neon blur. The last of the police droids tried to close in—but Ben dove sharply, spinning through an intersection so tight Ahsoka was sure they'd die.

They didn't. Somehow.

Maris threw her arms up. "Ten out of ten! Would flee law enforcement again!"

Ahsoka's montrals rang with laughter—hers or theirs, she couldn't tell anymore. The speeder roared through a final stretch of skyway—and then the Temple spires came into view.

"Oh no," she groaned. "We can see it. That means we're going to crash into it."

"Relax," Ben said, grinning. "I've got this."

He did not, in fact, have this.

The speeder clipped a traffic tower, spun sideways, and plowed into a maintenance yard in a spectacular shower of sparks and dust.

Silence.

Smoke drifted from the crumpled speeder. A single hubcap spun lazily across the floor before clattering to a stop.

Maris coughed, brushing soot from her sleeve. "Ten out of ten," she said weakly. "Would flee law enforcement again."

Ahsoka blinked through the haze. "We are so expelled."

Ben sat up, hair sticking out in every direction, and grinned. "Worth it."

Through the smoke and noise and chaos, Ahsoka couldn't help but laugh. Because somehow, against all odds, they were still alive. And somehow—she knew—they'd probably do it again.

...​

The neon glow of Coruscant's lower levels always made Obi-Wan feel faintly sticky.

It wasn't the heat or the noise — though there was plenty of both — but the sheer messiness of it all. It offended his sense of order. The traffic was chaotic, the air hummed with the constant thrum of repulsors, and somewhere nearby, a vendor was selling something that hissed audibly when it moved.

Anakin, naturally, loved it.

"Come on, Master, lighten up! You've been brooding ever since we got back."

"I told you Padawan, I do not brood," Obi-Wan said, adjusting his cloak as they stepped into the familiar warmth of Dex's Diner. The bell chimed, and the smell of frying nerf-burgers hit them like a freight speeder. "I reflect. There's a difference."

"Sure there is," Anakin said cheerfully. "Brooding just sounds cooler."

Obi-Wan gave him a look. The kind of look that could slice through durasteel. Anakin ignored it and slid into their usual booth with the ease of someone who had absolutely no shame.

A waitress droid rolled over with two menus and a friendly beep-boop. Obi-Wan waved it away. "The usual tea for me, thank you."

"Bantha steak melt," Anakin said. "Extra cheese. Extra everything."

When the droid left, he leaned forward, grinning far too widely for Obi-Wan's liking.

"So," he said. "Did you two—"

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. "Anakin."

"What? I'm asking as your friend, not your Padawan!"

"I fail to see how that distinction makes this conversation any less inappropriate."

"Hey, I'm just curious! You and the Duchess of Mandalore, all that history, the way she looked at you—"

"She looked at me with disdain, Anakin."

"Uh-huh. And you looked back like a man reconsidering his vows."

Obi-Wan sipped his tea with painful restraint. "You're insufferable."

"Thank you."

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments — or as companionable as it could be with Anakin smirking like a Loth-cat who'd stolen a datapad.

Then Obi-Wan said, without looking up, "You've been staring at Senator Amidala since Naboo."

Anakin nearly dropped his cup. "I— that's— completely different!"

"Of course," Obi-Wan said mildly. "Because the Jedi Code explicitly states that attachment is only forbidden if it's my emotional entanglement."

Anakin folded his arms, muttering something about "hypocrisy in robes."

The banter might have continued indefinitely if not for the booming laugh that filled the diner.

"Well, I'll be! If it isn't the galaxy's most proper Jedi — and his not-so-proper apprentice!"

Obi-Wan turned, smiling despite himself. "Dex."

The Besalisk lumbered over, wiping his hands on a stained apron that had seen more battles than most soldiers. His grin was as wide as ever.

"Been too long, old buddy! Heard you were off playing peacekeeper with Mandalore again. How's the Duchess?"

"She's… well," Obi-Wan said carefully.

"Still gorgeous, huh?" Dex winked. "You lucky scoundrel."

Anakin choked on his drink. Obi-Wan set his tea down with a very deliberate motion. "Dex, we've discussed this."

"Sure, sure," Dex said. "All business with you Jedi. You know, you'd live longer if you let a little love in."

Anakin grinned. "See? Even Dex agrees with me."

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Force preserve me."

Their food arrived — or, in Anakin's case, a small mountain of food — and for a blissful few minutes, conversation was replaced with the sound of chewing and occasional groans of culinary satisfaction.

It was Dex who broke the peace.

"Funny thing," he said, refilling Obi-Wan's cup. "Saw your boy earlier today."

Obi-Wan froze, teacup halfway to his lips. "…My what?"

"Your kid!" Dex chuckled, pointing to the booth near the window. "Sat right there. Him and those two little ladies — one Togruta, one Zabrak. Cute group. He's got good taste in nerfburgers, by the way. Polite, too."

Obi-Wan gave Dex a strained smile. "I have no children."

Dex snorted. "Uh-huh. And I'm a Jawa."

"I assure you, Dex, I—wait. Did you say he was here? Outside the Temple? With two friends?"

"Sure did! Looked like they were having the time of their lives. Had that classic Kenobi guilt-smile, too. You know the one."

Anakin laughed so hard he nearly spat out his drink. "To learn about civic culture, I'm sure!"

"Dex's Diner," Obi-Wan said flatly, "is not civic culture." He paused. "…No offense."

"None taken!" Dex said cheerfully. "We're more of a cultural experience."

Obi-Wan sighed deeply. "I'm going to have to speak with the Council about tightening the Temple's perimeter again."

"Oh, come on, Master," Anakin said. "They're kids. Let them explore a little."

"Last time you 'explored,' Anakin, the Jedi Archives suffered minor combustion."

"That was one time."

"Exactly one time too many."

Anakin smirked. "You're just mad your son's following in your footsteps."

"He is not my son."

Dex grinned. "He tried to lie to me like that, too. Same little squint in the eyes. You sure you didn't sneak in a bit of Mandalorian genetics somewhere along the way?"

Obi-Wan set down his utensils with impeccable calm. "Dex, I believe your imagination is running rampant again."

Dex chuckled, wiping the counter. "Whatever you say, pal."

For a few moments, the world returned to normal — laughter, sizzling grease, and the clatter of utensils. Then, almost absently, Dex said something that froze Obi-Wan's blood.

"Oh, and I've had a few Kaminoan seafood traders swing by lately. Let me know if you want to try some. The food's alright, but the people? Not so sure. You know those tall, pale types. Bit odd —especially them, all hush-hush about cloning tech."

The words hung in the air.

Cloning. Kaminoans. Sifo-Dyas.

Obi-Wan's mind began to turn. Rapidly, dangerously. Kamino… that was the name that had been erased from the Archives. Sifo-Dyas had commissioned something from Kamino — Kaminioans were cloners.

Did someone, acting as a Jedi, commission clones for the Republic? Who? Why?

A question answered, and three more take its place.

The laughter faded from the booth. Obi-Wan's thoughts drifted somewhere far from the neon hum of Coruscant's diners and the greasy comfort of bantha melts.

Anakin was still talking — something about ordering dessert, probably — but Obi-Wan barely heard him. His appetite was gone, replaced by that cold, familiar sense that the galaxy was moving just out of sight, the way it always did before a war.

...​

Now be honest.

How many of you seriously thought I was just going to put Kamino back in the bag?

And with that, today's chapter is posted! Hope you all enjoyed! Please stay tuned for tomorrow to find out how Nancy-Drew Kenobi's investigation goes. Or, if you loathe waiting/want to support your favorite author, check out my Patreon, link below:

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[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 14: A Mandalorian In the Archives

You'd think breaking into the most secure part of the Jedi Archives would feel… more dramatic.

Y'know—alarms blaring, laser grids, maybe a hovering droid yelling "Unauthorized access!"

Instead, it's just me. Alone. Standing in front of a locked holo-door that opens with the exact same swipe code as the cafeteria supply closet. This is why you don't re-use passwords, people.

"Wow," I whisper, glancing around the dimly lit corridor. "Centuries of galactic history and enlightenment, protected by… mild inconvenience."

Technically, I'm not breaking in. I'm just… repurposing my "Temple maintenance assistant" credentials from last month's lightsaber safety seminar. The badge still reads Ben K., Apprentice Mechanic, which isn't wrong. It's just not—strictly true.

I tug my borrowed utility vest tighter, push open the door, and step into the restricted stacks.

The air inside feels different—colder, quieter, heavy with the hum of a thousand sleeping holobooks. Thin blue light from the floating data-streams glows off the marble floors, reflecting endless towers of knowledge. It's gorgeous, in a "I definitely shouldn't be here" kind of way.

I hum a low tune under my breath.

Not just any tune. "Duel of the Fates."

Except slower. Jazzier. Spy-movie style.

Da-da-da-da-daaaa… chhh… snaps fingers

The rhythm helps me move quietly between aisles, scanning the glowing glyphs for the Mandalorian section. The ancient histories are near the back — conveniently marked "Cultural Conflicts of the Outer Rim." Subtle, Jedi. Real subtle.

A holo-drone drifts past, scanning for motion. I duck behind a column and nudge it gently with the Force, sending it spinning just far enough to misread its own sensor.

"Shh," I whisper at it, because apparently I'm now scolding robots. "You saw nothing."

Once it's gone, I head for the archive terminal and plug in my access chip. The console flares to life with the old Republic crest, then scrolls through data requests like it's deciding how much trouble I'm worth.

SEARCH QUERY: "Mandalorian Wars"

The results flood in. Old footage, reports, fragments of testimony from Jedi who fought in those wars — all compiled, sterilized, neatly categorized by moral lesson.

I start skimming, half-curious, half-annoyed.

"Right, so, we've got a few centuries of 'war bad, peace good,' followed by an appendix on how to rebuild your planet after near-annihilation. Real inspirational."

A few holos play automatically as I scroll. A Mandalorian fleet under siege. Jedi armadas moving in perfect formation. And then—Satine Kryze.

Her younger self flickers on-screen: calm, composed, addressing the New Mandalorian council.

I slow down.

She looks so much like Korkie it's eerie. Or maybe we look like her. Hard to say.

"Huh. So peace apparently comes with about fifty committee meetings per day," I mutter. "No wonder Mom looks tired."

Mom.

That word still feels weird when I think about her. I mean, I'm not technically supposed to know, but it's also not exactly a well-kept secret. At all. I figured it out before I was five. Honestly, it has to be the most obvious lie of all time.

Satine only has one sister, and was under sixteen when I was born. Trust me, it's not her. But here I am off-track, again.

I keep reading.

Turns out, after the Wars, Satine pushed Mandalore into demilitarization—something called the New Mandalorian Reforms. The archives praise it like a miracle of diplomacy. But the more I read, the more I notice what's missing.

There are entire sections of the record—especially the recent ones—flagged with the Council's sigil.

ACCESS RESTRICTED — LEVEL SEVEN CLEARANCE REQUIRED.

I lean closer. "Level seven? I barely rate level two and a half." And I only had that much because of all the detention work I've had to do in the library.

Out of curiosity, I tap for metadata. The file headers show names I recognize: Kryze, Satine. Kenobi, Obi-Wan. Sundari Political Network.

So yeah—clearly the Jedi are keeping a very close eye on Mandalore.

And that's when the irony hits me.

Here I am, a Jedi Padawan-slash-Mandalorian spy, trying to research my homeworld's peace movement — and it turns out the Jedi are the ones secretly monitoring us.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

I flop down on a nearby hover-step, rubbing my face. "You'd think one of them might mention it. 'Oh, by the way, Ben, your mom's government is on the Council's classified watchlist.' Great dinner conversation."

For the record, yes, I do have a little meta knowledge rattling around in my head. You don't just stop remembering the plot of The Clone Wars when you wake up inside it. Before it. Whatever. It doesn't matter, because it's all fuzzy anyways.

Spotty. I wasn't exactly a walking Wookieepedia before this, you know. I watched the movies, the shows, played a few games. That's it. Half the time I'm winging it.

And really, what's a fan to do when the timeline's already diverging?

Research. Proper, hands-on, archival digging. Jedi-style.

A soft beep breaks the silence. I glance down at my belt—my communicator's flashing.

…oh no.

The display reads: INCOMING HOLO-CALL — KORKIE KRYZE.

"Of course," I hiss under my breath. "The one time I'm breaking twenty-three Temple rules, my brother decides to FaceTime me."

I glance around in panic. No one's nearby, but the holo-projectors around me are still active. If Jocasta Nu catches me taking a personal call in the restricted stacks, I might as well pack my robes and move to Tatooine.

The comm keeps buzzing. Korkie's patience level is approximately zero.

I could ignore it…

…or I could answer.

I sigh.

"Yeah, sure, why not," I mutter, hitting accept before I can overthink it.

A flicker of blue light fills the dark aisle as the holo springs to life — and there he is.

Korkie Kryze, in all his perfectly groomed, annoyingly composed glory. His tunic's pressed, his hair's combed, and behind him stretches one of those marble Mandalorian council chambers that looks like it was designed specifically to make everyone inside it feel underdressed.

He blinks. "Ben? Why does it look like you're calling me from a broom closet?"

"I'm not," I lie immediately, ducking lower behind a holoprojector column. "It's… uh, an active learning environment."

Korkie raises an eyebrow. "You're hiding in the Archives again, aren't you?"

"No," I protest, offended on principle. "I'm researching. Academic research. Jedi stuff. Historical inquiry."

"So you're spying for Auntie Satine."

I groan. "Do not start."

Korkie smirks, leaning back in his chair. "I'm serious. She's always saying, 'I wish I knew what the Jedi thought of Mandalore's politics these days.' And now here you are, sneaking through their archives like a tiny secret agent."

I fold my arms. "First off, I'm average height for my age. Maybe even above average. Second, this isn't spying, it's—"

"Espionage," he finishes helpfully.

"—homework," I correct. "That I'm definitely authorized to be doing." By which, I mean it's better to ask forgiveness than permission. Jedi will grant forgiveness. They will not grant permission.

He just laughs, that irritatingly diplomatic chuckle that sounds like he's about to host a press conference. "You know, if you're going to lie, at least sound confident about it. You sound like a guilty protocol droid."

I roll my eyes. "Glad to see Mandalorian politics haven't dulled your sense of humor."

"Oh, they have. I just save it for you," he says, leaning forward slightly, tone shifting. "Speaking of which—things are getting bad here, Ben. Really bad."

The words drop heavier than I expect. I glance up from my datapad, pulse steadying. "How bad?"

He sighs. The blue holo flickers, and for a second I catch a glimpse of the view outside his window—Sundari's skyline, all domes and gleaming towers under the glass canopy. Even through the distortion, I can see smoke trails in the distance.

"The Council's voted to withdraw Mandalore from the Republic completely," Korkie says. "Auntie Satine's tried to put a positive spin on it, but her hands were tied. The New Mandalorians have just been getting too much push-back. There are protests in the capital. Some are calling themselves the 'True Mandalorians.' again. Others are just—angry. They want to rearm."

That word hits harder than I want it to.

Rearm.

For a planet that's supposed to be the galaxy's model for peace. The biggest redemption story to date, that's a terrifying step backward.

"She's still holding it together," Korkie adds quickly. "But the Senate's calling her reforms 'fragile,' and the Trade Guilds are starting to pull funding. She's barely sleeping."

I rub my neck, feeling useless across the light-years. "She always did say peace was harder than war."

Korkie nods. "Yeah. She also said you'd probably forget her birthday again."

I blink. "What? No— I— okay, yes, but in my defense, the Temple doesn't celebrate birthdays. It's a very anti-cake environment."

He chuckles softly, but the humor fades fast. "She misses you, you know."

My throat tightens. "She doesn't say that."

"She doesn't have to."

There's silence between us for a long moment — just the faint hum of the holo-feed and the flickering blue light casting weird shadows over the archive shelves.

Then, like he's deliberately changing the subject, Korkie says, "She met with Uncle Obi-Wan last week."

My heart skips.

"Oh?"

He smirks. "Oh, so you knew."

"I may have… seen them. Briefly."

"How was it?"

"Awkward," I admit. "Lots of politics, some reminiscing, the usual. Pretty sure most of it was about me, which was…" I shrug, grinning faintly. "Weirdly nice, actually."

Korkie's grin softens. "She looked happier that day. I think seeing him helped. And I think she'd be even happier if you sent her a message that wasn't about missing laundry tokens."

"That was one time," I protest. "And those were Temple-issue tokens! You can't just replicate them."

He snorts. "You're hopeless."

"Maybe," I admit, smiling despite myself. "But I'm a hopeless student of galactic history. Which is why you, my dear sibling, are interrupting vital academic research."

"Oh sure," he says. "Because nothing screams 'academic research' like whispering in a dark corner surrounded by restricted files."

"I prefer to call it immersive learning."

Korkie's laughter echoes through the holo-feed, bright and easy, and for a second, I forget about the weight of the Archives, the rules, the Jedi code — all of it. It's just us again. Two brothers talking, like nothing's changed.

Then he looks at me — really looks at me — and says softly, "Ner vod."

My stomach twists.

My brother.

It's not that he doesn't call me that sometimes — it's just that when he does, it means something's hit deeper than either of us wants to admit.

He adds, "Don't let the Jedi wash the Mandalorian out of you, okay?"

I laugh, but it comes out awkward. "They can try. I'm more stain-resistant than I look."

He smirks. "Sure. I can already hear it fading. You're starting to sound like them."

"I am not."

"You are! Say 'schedule.'"

"What? No—"

"Say it."

"…Schedule."

Korkie bursts out laughing. "See?! No accent. You've gone full Coruscanti."

"Unbelievable," I grumble. "I risk life and limb for historical accuracy and this is what I get—phonetic betrayal."

He's still laughing when the holo starts to flicker again.

"Connection's dropping," he says. "I'll tell Auntie Satine you're behaving."

"Liar."

"Always," he says with a grin, then: "Stay safe, Ben."

And then he's gone.

The Archives feel too quiet all of a sudden.

The holograms keep spinning their soft blue light, but it feels colder now. Distant.

Maybe Mom was right.

Maybe peace and order really can't coexist.

The Jedi talk about balance, but they don't really live it.

I close my communicator and start to slip it back into my belt—

—and freeze.

Footsteps.

Light, deliberate, approaching from the far end of the aisle.

A voice — sharp, unmistakable — calls out,

"Padawan Kryze? Is someone in the restricted stacks?"

My stomach drops.

Jocasta Nu.

Oh, kriff.

...​

Of course it's her.

Because why wouldn't the literal head librarian of the entire Jedi Order decide to take a midnight stroll through the restricted archives tonight of all nights?

My hand flies to the console, slapping at the shutdown command. The screen sputters, freezing on Satine's face mid-blink. "No, no, no, don't you dare buffer—"

The holo fizzles out. Darkness floods back in.

I stand perfectly still, like that'll somehow make me invisible. It doesn't help that my breathing sounds like a podracer engine in the silence.

Her footsteps echo closer.

Think. Think, think, think!

If I move now, she'll see me. If I don't move, she'll definitely see me in about five seconds. I need a distraction. Something loud. Something—

CLANG.

The Force provides.

Across the aisle, there's a metallic crash so violent I almost duck on instinct.

A thin, tinny voice follows:

"No, no, no! You are holding the hydro-spanner backwards, you blundering bolt pile!"

Another voice — slow, confused, and sounding about as bright as a spent power cell — answers, "Error: define 'backwards.'"

I peek around the column.

Professor Huyang — ancient, stately, and perpetually exasperated — is locked in mortal combat with a repair droid twice his size, both surrounded by scattered datapads and spare wiring.

Huyang's photoreceptors flick my way. I mouth, cover for me.

He stares. Then, with the robotic equivalent of a sigh, straightens up and raises his volume dramatically.

"THIS WAS NOT IN MY MAINTENANCE PROTOCOLS, MASTER B—OH!" He spots Jocasta Nu rounding the corner. "MASTER NU! HOW DELIGHTFUL TO SEE YOU THIS EVENING!"

Jocasta stops dead, robes swishing. "Professor Huyang? What—by the Force—are you doing in the restricted section at this hour?"

"Routine diagnostics!" Huyang declares far too loudly. "My assistant here was attempting to recalibrate the atmospheric filters, but alas—"

The repair droid interrupts with a loud bzzt. "Error. Clarify: was 'alas' a command?"

"NO," Huyang snaps, wings flaring. "It was a lament!"

I duck further behind the column, pressing both hands to my mouth to keep from laughing. Jocasta looks like she's aging in real time.

"Professor," she says, in that tone that could vaporize an entire generation of Padawans, "the filters were recalibrated yesterday. And this—" she gestures at the toppled parts "—is most certainly not standard maintenance."

Huyang tilts his head, as if consulting a data file only he can see. Then, very solemnly, he begins to quote poetry.

"'A machine of metal, given form, yet forged with care and soul—'"

"Oh, not this again," Jocasta groans.

"'—Knows not the silence of the forge, nor rest within the whole—'"

The repair droid whirrs. "Processing… statement illogical. Recommend memory wipe."

"Blasphemy!" Huyang cries, clutching his chest plate. "You see, Master Nu, this is why I must continue these lessons! Without culture, our droids are doomed to barbarism!"

She pinches the bridge of her nose. "You are not teaching droids poetry again."

"I am preserving the arts," Huyang counters, hands on hips. "Would you have them all reduced to soulless code?"

"I would have them quiet after curfew!" Jocasta snaps, then whirls around. "And I expect the restricted section secured when you're done, Professor."

"As always, Master Nu!" he says, voice pure sunshine and deceit.

Her footsteps fade, each one echoing like a judgmental metronome.

Only when the door hisses shut does Huyang turn, his entire frame rotating toward my hiding place.

I step out, sheepish. "So, uh… thanks for that."

"You are welcome," he says dryly. "Though I should like to know why I was drafted into a covert operation without consent."

"I wouldn't call it covert so much as…" I gesture vaguely. "Unauthorized academic enthusiasm."

His optic sensors narrow. "You were in the restricted Mandalorian archives, were you not?"

"…Maybe."

"Ah." His tone softens, metallic but somehow warm. "Your curiosity does you credit, young Kryze. Though your methods, perhaps less so."

I rub the back of my neck. "Yeah, I figured."

He studies me for a moment. "Your people are craftsmen, warriors, philosophers—now, pacifists. An unusual evolution. Perhaps your curiosity honors them more than your secrecy shames you."

I blink. "Wait, was that… a compliment?"

"Do not grow accustomed to them," he replies immediately.

"Right, because that'd be too healthy for my self-esteem."

He makes a whirring sound that might be amusement. "Ben, there are rules for a reason. Archives hold more than history; they hold power. And power, in untrained hands—"

"—leads to the Dark Side, yeah, I know." I raise both hands. "I wasn't trying to, like, uncover Sith holocrons or rewrite galactic history. I just wanted to understand my family's part in it. The stuff no one tells me."

He hums thoughtfully. "Understanding one's lineage is no small thing. Even Jedi cannot wholly separate from where they began."

I glance down at the pile of datapads. "Yeah, well, try telling that to everyone else in this building."

For a while, the hum of the archives fills the silence. Soft, rhythmic, like breathing.

Finally, Huyang says, "You are not wrong to seek truth, Padawan Kryze. But next time, do so during daylight hours. With supervision."

"So I'm not grounded?"

"You are absolutely grounded," he says without hesitation.

"Yeah, thought so."

He gestures toward the fallen parts from his earlier "battle." "Now help me clean this up. I cannot, in good conscience, allow the archives to suffer disorder—even if it saved you."

I crouch beside him, stacking datapads in neat piles. "For the record, Professor, your dramatic poetry routine? Brilliant."

"I improvised," he admits, modestly. "Though I suspect Master Nu will schedule another evaluation for my 'operational stability.'"

"Worth it," I say.

A quiet chuckle — or something like it — hums through his vocoder. "Indeed. And, Ben?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you require a distraction," he says, his tone suddenly conspiratorial, "do remember: I am quite adept at stagecraft."

I grin. "Noted."

As we finish tidying, he powers down the terminal with a smooth wave of his clawed hand. The last flicker of blue light fades, leaving only the soft glow of Coruscant's skyline through the window slits.

It's peaceful.

Almost enough to make me forget I just committed light treason by Jedi standards.

Almost.

...​

Kamino never grew less strange with familiarity.

Even now—standing once more beneath its bleached corridors and endless rain—Obi-Wan felt the same quiet unease prickling beneath his skin. The city floated upon the sea like a pearl carved from bone, gleaming under flashes of lightning. Every sound echoed: the soft patter of rainfall against the transparisteel windows, the gentle hum of sterile machinery, the muted rhythm of his and Anakin's boots.

It was the sound of perfection. The sort that felt wrong.

"Welcome back, Master Jedi," Taun We said with her serene, almost musical tone. Her expression was unreadable, though her narrow features managed a flicker of warmth. "We received your transmission and were most… gratified. We trust this time your return with your Order's authorization?"

Obi-Wan inclined his head politely, concealing the faintest twitch at the word authorization. "Indeed. The Council was most eager to verify the progress firsthand."

A partial truth, if one squinted. The kind that tended to pass in diplomacy—and espionage.

Anakin walked beside him, his robe damp at the hem from the landing platform. His expression was a mix of curiosity and irritation, eyes constantly flicking toward the towering Kaminoans and their endless white hallways. "Do they all look like this?" he muttered under his breath.

"They are cloners, Anakin," Obi-Wan replied softly. "Uniformity is… thematic."

Anakin gave a quiet snort. "Creepy is what it is."

Obi-Wan didn't disagree.

Taun We's elongated stride guided them through the corridor to a turbolift, its walls smooth and white as eggshell. "Prime Minister Lama Su regrets he cannot join you today, but he has authorized a complete inspection of our facilities. It is rare that our clients wish to view the process so… comprehensively."

Clients.

The word sat poorly with Obi-Wan. "Yes, well, the Jedi Order prefers to understand the… scope of such undertakings."

The lift opened to a vast observation deck, and for a long, silent moment even Anakin had no words.

Rows upon rows of figures stood below, tiered like the amphitheaters of the Republic Senate—except instead of seats, there were growth pods. Hundreds. Thousands. Tens of thousands.

Each pod glowed with faint blue light, liquid-filled capsules where embryonic shapes floated—some humanoid, some nearly formed. Beyond them, further levels descended into mist, their depths lost to the ocean's reflection.

The air hummed with temperature regulators and heartbeat monitors, the sound overlapping into an eerie, mechanical lullaby.

Taun We's voice was a whisper beside him. "The first generation are already entering advanced training. By the time production stabilizes, we expect full deployment capacity within a standard cycle."

Anakin stepped forward, eyes wide. "That's… an army," he said, voice small against the glass.

Obi-Wan's reflection looked back at him in the transparisteel—rain streaking across both their faces, as if the storm outside had seeped in.

"Yes," he murmured. "An army for the Republic."

He'd meant it to sound factual. It came out like a confession.

Taun We gestured gracefully. "If you would follow me, Master Jedi, we can proceed to the training levels."

The next chamber was a cathedral of motion. Clones—hundreds of them—moved in formation across polished floors, blaster rifles raised in synchronized drills. Others ran obstacle courses while Kaminoan overseers adjusted data readouts. From above, it resembled an intricate dance: every breath measured, every movement mirrored.

"They learn quickly," Taun We said, clearly proud. "Conditioned for loyalty, obedience, and efficiency. They will perform their duty without hesitation."

Obi-Wan's eyes tracked one squad that faltered mid-step. The instructor barked a correction; the troopers resumed in perfect rhythm, faces expressionless beneath close-cropped hair.

"Without hesitation," Obi-Wan echoed quietly.

Anakin, beside him, crossed his arms. "So we're… making soldiers now?"

Obi-Wan's gaze lingered on the endless rows of faces—each identical, each alive. "Someone has," he said softly. "In our name, no less."

Taun We's long fingers brushed across a console, summoning a holographic display of genetic readouts. "All troopers are based on a single donor: the bounty hunter Jango Fett. His physical and mental attributes proved ideal. He requested no genetic tampering beyond the acceleration process."

"Fett," Obi-Wan repeated, the name rolling in his mind like a pebble in a river. "A Mandalorian name."

"Indeed. Though he claims no allegiance to the clans. His genetic code serves as the foundation of our project."

"Mandalorian," Obi-Wan said again, quieter this time. The word carried a weight that stirred memories he preferred untouched—of helmets, jetpacks, and the scent of iron in the red sands of Concordia. Of a woman's voice, measured and steady, declaring peace while surrounded by ghosts of war.

Satine would have hated this place.

"Master?" Anakin asked softly.

Obi-Wan blinked, realizing he'd drifted. "Hmm?"

"You went quiet," Anakin said. "That's… usually a bad sign."

"I'm thinking," he said.

"Also a bad sign," Anakin muttered.

Obi-Wan gave a faint, distracted smile. "Noted."

As they walked, Anakin's frown deepened. "So this whole army—someone ordered it from the Kaminoans years ago? Without telling the Senate?"

"Apparently so," Obi-Wan said.

"And we're sure, it's not Sifo-Dyas." Anakin pressed.

"In as much as we can be." Obi-Wan sighed. "There's still a great deal of mystery surrounding what happened to him after his disappearance. He was prone to visions, and often led by them. It's not impossible that he saw something so dangerous he felt the best course of action was to build an army. But I find it unlikely that under any circumstances, he wouldn't inform the Council of it."

"Then who—?"

"That," Obi-Wan cut in, "is precisely what we're here to find out."

They passed another training yard—this one filled with clone cadets sparring hand-to-hand under artificial rain. The water sluiced off their armor in rivulets, indistinguishable from the storm outside. One cadet stumbled and fell; his partner helped him up instantly, without a word. No hesitation. No complaint.

Anakin watched them. "They're like… droids. But human."

Obi-Wan's brow furrowed. "No, not droids. They can think, adapt. They have potential."

"Potential for what?"

He didn't answer.

Because he didn't know.

The path curved upward toward a command center that overlooked the ocean — an endless, glassy void broken only by lightning and the faint pulse of stormlight beneath the clouds. Kamino's rain pressed against the transparisteel walls in constant rhythm, a ceaseless, liquid applause that reminded Obi-Wan of blood rushing through veins.

He paused at the window, hands folded neatly behind his back. From here, Tipoca City's towers looked like the bones of some colossal creature rising out of the sea — vertebrae of white alloy and light. The Kaminoans built as though they believed themselves immune to nature, to decay.

Yet everything here, even the light, felt artificial.

Behind him, Taun We and Anakin spoke in low tones about accelerated aging protocols and cognitive imprinting. Obi-Wan only half-listened. His focus was elsewhere — on the faint reflection of himself in the glass. The image of a Jedi Master in rain-dark robes, face calm, eyes tired.

The Order had once prided itself on peacekeeping. Now they were walking through the blueprint of a war.

"Master?" Anakin's voice brought him back. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," Obi-Wan said. It was automatic. Reflexive. The lie of every Jedi who didn't have the energy to explain the truth.

Anakin's gaze flicked toward the cadets below, the ones running synchronized drills. "They don't even look… real," he said. "Just copies."

"All life begins as a copy of something else," Taun We interjected, in her serene way. "A cell divides. A pattern repeats. What is individuality, if not variance within a sequence?"

"That's a creepy way to say 'people,'" Anakin muttered.

"Perhaps," Taun We said, unfazed. "But an accurate one."

Obi-Wan watched as a young clone paused at the end of his drill. The boy couldn't have been older than twelve, and yet there was a quiet, mechanical maturity to his movement — as if he'd been taught not to exist between actions.

Their eyes met through the glass. For a moment, Obi-Wan thought he saw something — curiosity, faint and questioning. Then the instructor barked a command, and the boy turned, vanishing back into formation.

There was no defiance. No individuality. Only obedience.

He exhaled slowly. "They've been alive only a few years, and already they march like veterans."

Taun We's tone carried unmistakable pride. "We ensure each unit matures with optimal conditioning. Their loyalty is absolute."

"To whom?" Obi-Wan asked.

She blinked, long and deliberate. "To the Republic, of course."

And yet the Kaminoans hadn't even been in contact with the Republic in regards to their commission. That was the part that disturbed him most. If no one had questioned the identity of their "client," then obedience wasn't a virtue here — it was a design flaw.

Anakin leaned close. "I don't like this place," he whispered.

"Nor do I," Obi-Wan admitted softly.

For a long moment, they stood in silence, listening to the storm batter the city.

Then Taun We gestured toward a side corridor. "Would you care to see the combat testing floor? Our newest batch has begun live simulations."

They followed her down a spiraling walkway that opened into an enormous chamber — half training ground, half battlefield diorama. The lighting dimmed as blaster fire illuminated the arena below, streaks of red and blue cutting through artificial mist.

The clones moved with frightening precision. Each gesture, each motion, was part of a seamless collective effort. There was no hesitation between orders and execution.

"Observe," Taun We said, gesturing gracefully. "They have been bred for adaptability and instinct. The perfect soldiers."

The words chilled him.

Anakin spoke before he could. "And they'll just… obey anyone who tells them what to do?"

"They will obey the Jedi," she said, with complete confidence.

Obi-Wan almost asked her what would happen if that changed — if someone else gave the orders. But he didn't. Some truths were too dangerous to voice aloud.

Instead, he said quietly, "You've accomplished something extraordinary here."

"Thank you, Master Jedi," Taun We said, bowing slightly. "Your Order's commission has been our honor."

Obi-Wan caught Anakin's glance — that subtle mix of confusion and discomfort. He understood it well. Neither of them could admit how little they actually knew about the Order's involvement.

"This Jango Fett," Obi-Wan said, steering the conversation back, "you said he was a bounty hunter?"

"Yes. A most skilled specimen," she replied. "Prime Minister Lama Su arranged for his continued residence here, that we might preserve the integrity of the genetic source. His son, Boba, has proven quite the curiosity as well."

"Son?"

"A pure genetic duplicate — unaltered. Mr. Fett requested him as part of his compensation."

The thought unsettled him further. A man raising his own clone — his own child, in some sense. A mirror nurturing its reflection.

Mandalorians, Obi-Wan thought, had always lived in contradiction. Warriors preaching honor through war. Builders who worshipped destruction. But this — this was new. Mandalorian blood bred into uniform servitude.

If Satine ever saw this place, she'd tear it down brick by brick.

Lightning flashed, bleaching the world white for a heartbeat.

"Fett," Obi-Wan murmured again. The name pulled old memories from the dust — Vizsla, Death Watch, Concordia. The smell of fuel and fire, Satine's voice sharp as glass:

We must rebuild, not repeat.

He turned back to Taun We. "I'd like to meet him."

"Of course. Mr. Fett is currently on a contract off-world, but he maintains quarters here for his return. Shall I provide his contact information?"

"That would be appreciated."

Taun We inclined her head and moved toward a console.

Anakin lowered his voice. "You really think he knows who commissioned this?"

"I think," Obi-Wan said, "that anyone paid to be the face of an entire army knows more than they're willing to admit."

She returned with a small holocard — elegant and precise, Kaminoan craftsmanship at its most minimalist. "You may reach him through this frequency when he returns."

"Thank you," Obi-Wan said, tucking it into his belt.

They followed her back toward the main corridor. The air felt heavier now — thicker with questions. The hum of the clone nursery below carried through the walls, a heartbeat magnified a thousandfold.

When they reached the exit, Taun We bowed again. "The Prime Minister will be pleased to know of your satisfaction, Master Kenobi. I trust the inspection was illuminating."

"Oh," Obi-Wan said, allowing himself a small, polite smile. "Illuminating indeed."

As they stepped back into the storm, the Kaminoan architecture blurred into pale outlines against the endless rain. The drops soaked into his robe instantly, but he hardly noticed.

Anakin did, though. "So what now?"

"Now," Obi-Wan said, glancing toward the Starfighter docked nearby, "we contact Coruscant. The Council needs to know what we've found."

Anakin frowned. "You think they'll take it well?"

Obi-Wan didn't answer right away. He stared at the holocard in his hand — the one bearing Jango Fett's contact frequency — and felt the weight of the storm pressing around them.

Lightning struck somewhere across the waves, lighting the entire horizon.

"I think," he said at last, "that there are more secrets in this galaxy than even the Jedi realize. Better to be forewarned, and forearmed. Then to be taken by surprise."

They walked together toward the waiting ship, boots splashing through shallow pools on the landing platform. The roar of the ocean below swallowed everything — words, thoughts, and the quiet tremor of unease that followed them into the cockpit.

As the Starfighter lifted from the platform, the storm swallowed Tipoca City in white mist. The lightning faded behind them, leaving only a reflection of the endless sea.

An ocean of clones.

Identical faces. Identical destinies.

And somewhere among them — one man with a Mandalorian name, whose shadow stretched from Concordia to Kamino.

...​

And that's a wrap! Clone reveal two years ahead of schedule! What does this mean?! What does this change?!

Well, I know. And so do the people who read ahead on my Patreon. Check the link below, if you'd like to know, too!

My Patreon

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 15: The Clone Conundrum

Council conspiracy. 1900 hours.

Suspects: every single Jedi with a chair.

Also: every single vent shaft on this floor, because none of them are designed for twelve-year-olds with investigative spirit and the upper body strength of a tired womp rat.

"Kriff," I muttered, trying to shift an elbow without rattling the durasteel. "These vents are uncomfortable. I wish I could take a seat."

The air was warm, stale, and humming faintly from the Temple's environmental systems. A bead of sweat rolled down my temple. Beneath me, the Jedi Council's voices echoed through the metal — calm, disciplined, suspiciously coordinated. I angled the tiny commlink closer to the vent grille and tapped it on.

"Council Conspiracy," I whispered into it, lowering my voice to a gravelly tone that I thought sounded appropriately noir. "Investigator Kryze on scene. The hour is late. The suspects are discussing a mysterious army no one ordered. I suspect—"

A crackle interrupted me.

"Ben," Ahsoka's voice came through, exasperated. "Why are you whispering like that?"

"Atmosphere," I hissed back. "This is an operation, Fulcrum. You don't just talk. You narrate."

Maris's voice joined in, softer and delighted. "Is this the part where he does the accent again? I like the accent."

"It's not an accent," I said. "It's investigative texture." First Korkie, now Maris. Am I actually starting to lose my accent? Say it ain't so.

"It's weird," Ahsoka countered.

I grinned despite myself, twisting the commlink back toward the Council chamber. The voices below grew sharper, echoing faintly through the vent like ripples in a pond.

"…a clone army, commissioned by the Jedi Order," Mace Windu was saying, his tone clipped. "For the Republic."

There was a beat of silence so heavy I could feel it through the metal.

Oh no.

Right. That's not supposed to happen yet. Cool, cool, cool, everything's fine, I'm not hyperventilating, you're hyperventilating.

I bit my lip hard enough to sting.

The war wasn't supposed to start for another few years. No Geonosis, no droid army mobilization, no Separatist conflict breaking open yet. And here we were—already knee-deep in Kaminoan paperwork and genetic soldiers.

I must've done something. Or changed something.

Butterfly Effect. Space Edition.

Ahsoka's voice cut through my spiral. "Ben? You still alive up there?"

"Define alive," I whispered. "If you mean 'breathing rapidly and questioning my entire understanding of causality,' then yes."

"What?"

"Never mind. Nothing. Totally fine. All good in the morally ambiguous neighborhood."

Maris hummed thoughtfully. "You sound pale."

"I'm in a vent, Maris. Of course I'm pale."

Below me, Master Yoda's voice echoed—low, measured, carrying that weight of someone who already knows too much.

"See into this, I cannot. Clouded, the future is. Disturbing, these revelations are."

"No kriffing kidding," I whispered before I could stop myself. The only good news was that the word "kriff" was really growing on me. It was like fuck, but I could use kriff in polite company.

Ahsoka immediately whispered, "Ben, don't—"

But it was too late.

The grille creaked.

Every muscle in my body froze. I tilted my head an inch—just enough to see through the slats.

Yoda was looking directly at me.

Not vaguely in my direction. Not suspiciously at the ceiling. At me.

Those big green eyes locked onto the vent like he'd been expecting me to monologue up there this whole time.

"He knows," I breathed.

Ahsoka hissed back at me. "Of course he knows! He's Yoda!"

Yoda doesn't know everything, Ahsoka. If he did, he never would have trusted Darth Palps, and he would've been way more productive about this whole, clone army thing.

Maris was the voice of reason. "What if he's just staring at the vent because he hears something?"

"Obviously he hears something," I hissed. "Have you seen the size of those pointy, green ears? They're like the biggest part of his body! He's old, not deaf!"

I pressed myself flat against the duct, holding my breath.

For a terrifying moment, no one said anything below. Just quiet murmuring and the faint hum of the Temple's atmospheric systems.

Then Yoda spoke again, slowly.

"Watchful eyes, the Temple has. Curious, its students are."

Mace Windu frowned. "Something you'd like to share, Master?"

Yoda's ears twitched. "Nothing. Yet."

I did not breathe for the next thirty seconds.

I kept quiet, frozen. Letting my mind wander through the very real possibility that I completely, and utterly screwed something up. And not even having the faintest idea of what that something was.

By the time the Council session adjourned, my entire spine hurt from staying still. The Masters filed out one by one, their robes trailing like stormclouds below. I waited a full minute after the doors hissed shut before whispering into the comm again.

"Situation update," I rasped dramatically. "Council dismissed. Secrets abound. Investigator Kryze remains undiscovered, though shaken. Morale: medium. Knees: low."

"Are you done being weird?" Ahsoka asked.

"Unlikely."

I inched backward, elbows scraping against the narrow walls. The vent was tighter than I remembered on the way in. Or maybe panic was expanding me. Either way, I was halfway to freedom when my boot hit something metallic.

Clunk.

The sound reverberated like a temple bell.

"Ben," Ahsoka said, voice sharp. "What was that?"

"I don't know. Could've been… air pressure. Or fate punishing me for hubris."

"Get out of there before someone—"

The vent panel beneath me shifted.

It wasn't a full drop, thank the Force, but it opened just enough for a rectangle of light to spill through. Below, a maintenance droid was rolling by, humming to itself.

"—before someone finds you," Ahsoka finished dryly.

"Too late for that!" I whispered, flattening myself against the top of the duct as the droid paused. Its sensor light swept upward, scanning.

I waved a hand instinctively. "You saw nothing."

The droid beeped once, rotated, and continued on its way.

"Force persuasion," I whispered proudly. "Still got it."

"Pretty sure that was just a coincidence," Maris said.

"Pretty sure you're just jealous of my espionage skills."

"I'm pretty sure you're going to fall out of the ceiling one of these days."

"That's a tomorrow problem."

...​

Or a today problem. You see, after I crawled to the maintenance hatch, I was sweating and possibly allergic to recycled air. The vent spat me out into one of the upper corridors, just outside the meditation wing. I rolled onto the marble floor, gasping.

"Mission accomplished," I said between breaths. "No witnesses, no injuries, no—"

"Initiate Kryze."

I froze. Slowly, I turned my head.

Plo Koon stood at the end of the hall, arms crossed, amber goggles reflecting the corridor lights.

"Hi, Master Koon," I said weakly. "Fancy seeing you here. I was, uh, doing… maintenance."

He tilted his head. "Maintenance."

"Yep. Temple security sweep. Very important. Authorized by…" I squinted like I could read the nearest wall. "Uh. Me."

There was a long silence. Then, mercifully, his mask made that soft, amused hiss. "Your enthusiasm for Temple security is admirable. Though I suggest you leave the vents to the droids next time."

"Yes, Master," I said quickly.

He nodded once and continued down the hall. Only when he turned the corner did I whisper into the comm again: "And that concludes today's episode of Jedi-Cop. Tune in next time for more thrilling near-death ventilation adventures."

Ahsoka laughed. "You're going to get grounded forever."

"Probably," I said, brushing dust off my tunic. "But at least I'll have the moral high ground."

Maris groaned. "Don't—"

"—try it?" I said.

"Ugh."

...​

If there's one thing I've learned about the Jedi Archives, it's that they don't forgive and they never forget.

Well — Jocasta Nu doesn't, anyway.

So when I got dragged out of the Council Tower vents and reassigned to "research duty," I figured this was it. My punishment. My exile. My eternal reward: filing dust reports for a librarian who could probably kill me with a footnote.

But when I arrived, she was… smiling. That was new.

"Ah, Initiate Kryze," she said in that deceptively gentle tone that made 'Initiate' sound like 'repeat offender.' "Since you seem so curious about Council matters, perhaps you can assist me in compiling the historical ethics records concerning Kamino."

"Kamino?" I repeated, like an idiot who'd just been asked to summarize his crimes out loud.

"Yes," she said sweetly, guiding me toward a terminal that looked older than Yoda. "A fascinating case study in moral ambiguity. You'll find the archives under 'Clone Development: Societal Impact.'"

I sat down. The terminal hummed to life. Jocasta folded her arms.

"Consider this," she said. "A constructive outlet for your curiosity."

Translation: You're on thin ice, young man. Research your way out of it.

...​

An hour later, I had a datapad full of notes that read like the ramblings of a particularly anxious philosophy student.

Clone = people? Question mark.

Born soldiers — literal army babies?

Growth acceleration = child labor, but with extra steps.

"Programmed loyalty." Yikes.

I scrolled further. Kaminoan methodology, genetic reinforcement, behavioral imprinting — it was all so… clinical. No compassion, no pause. Just endless reports written like they were describing a line of appliances instead of people.

"So they're born soldiers," I muttered under my breath. "Like, literally bred to die for us. That's… fine. Totally fine. Nothing dystopian about that. It's not like I'm reading the origin story of a galactic tragedy or anything."

From the next terminal, Jocasta's voice drifted over. "Muttering to oneself is often a sign of deep reflection, Initiate. Or guilt. Which is it in your case?"

"Yes," I said automatically.

She actually chuckled at that — soft, surprised, the sound of a librarian caught briefly off-guard. "You're an unusual student, Kryze."

"I've heard that before," I said. "Usually right before I get detention."

"Then let's ensure this research remains purely academic."

"Right," I said. "Academic. Sure."

But it wasn't. Not really.

Because I'd seen these soldiers — in another lifetime, another medium. I'd seen them laugh, joke, disobey orders. I'd seen Rex risk everything for his friends, Fives uncover a conspiracy, Cody shoot Obi-Wan in the back. They were heroes and victims at the same time. Living proof that being good doesn't save you from being used.

I scrolled to another entry — Behavioral Conditioning and Obedience Training, Kaminoan Doctrine. The first line made my skin crawl:

"Compliance is the foundation of survival."

Yeah. That sounded healthy.

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "You know," I said out loud, "if I ever start a list called 'Bad Things the Jedi Accidentally Approve Of,' this would be item one."

Jocasta didn't even look up. "The Jedi did not commission the army," she said smoothly. "No matter what some might claim. The Kaminoans were approached by one man — Master Sifo-Dyas. And even that account is… disputed."

"So the Order's off the hook," I said.

Her eyes flicked up, sharp. "We are never 'off the hook' when lives are involved, Initiate. But facts matter."

"Sure," I said. "But… we're still gonna use it, right?"

She froze. Just slightly — like she hadn't expected that question from a twelve-year-old. "That's… a difficult question to answer."

"That's what people say when the answer's bad," I said quietly.

Her gaze softened, but her voice stayed firm. "The army belongs to the Republic, not the Jedi. We serve as peacekeepers, not generals. Naturally, we detest the subjugation of sentients. But cloning is… not a simple matter. What we will do, Initiate Kryze, is our best."

I nodded — because that's what a good Jedi-in-training would do.

But deep down, the words "our best" felt like a Band-Aid on a sinking ship.

"'It's complicated,'" I said, mostly to myself. "That's what they always say right before the ominous music starts."

Jocasta looked amused again. "I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing," I said quickly, tapping the datapad. "Just making a note for tone."

...​

We worked in silence for a while. I skimmed through Kaminoan ethics dissertations — which, by the way, are the worst bedtime reading in the galaxy. All formulas and detachment. I'd expected at least one moral crisis, but apparently, the Kaminoans had outsourced empathy to their spreadsheets.

There was a line buried in one report that stuck with me:

"Ethics are inefficient. Perfection requires singular purpose."

I stared at it for a long moment.

That's what they thought perfection was — obedience without conscience. A species that worshipped control so completely that they'd bred an entire generation to die for it.

I wondered if any of the clones ever felt that. If any of them ever looked around Kamino's endless white corridors and realized they weren't supposed to dream.

Then I realized — they did.

That's what made them human.

"Initiate Kryze," Jocasta said, pulling me back. "You're frowning."

"I was just thinking," I said. "The Kaminoans… they designed the clones to be loyal. To follow orders without question."

"Yes," she said carefully. "As all soldiers are expected to."

"But they didn't give them a choice," I said. "That's not loyalty. That's programming."

"An interesting distinction," Jocasta mused. "And yet, many beings act from conditioning — cultural, religious, even Jedi discipline. Are we, then, programmed too?"

I blinked. "…Okay, that's unsettling."

She smiled faintly. "Ethics usually are."

There was something oddly comforting in that. Maybe because it meant she had thought about all this. That someone here, buried under the layers of doctrine and politics, cared.

"So what happens next?" I asked. "With the army, I mean."

"That depends on the Council," she said. "And the Senate. You may yet have a front-row seat to history."

Great. Just what every time-traveling preteen wants: front-row seats to an ethical disaster.

Jocasta closed her terminal, then gestured toward mine. "You have a thoughtful mind, Ben. I'm assigning you to assist the Senate delegation reviewing the issue. Since you're so… interested in ethical collapse."

"Wait—really?" I blinked. "That's a thing you can just—assign?"

Her smile widened. "In the Archives, Initiate Kryze, everything is an assignment."

I sighed, collecting my datapad. "I'm starting to understand why people turn to the Dark Side. Less paperwork."

"Then perhaps," she said lightly, "you should reflect on why so many of them start as students."

That one landed. Hard.

I gave a small, awkward bow. "Thanks for the existential crisis, Master Nu."

"You're welcome," she said serenely.

...​

If there's one thing worse than a moral crisis, it's a moral crisis with homework.

Jocasta Nu didn't just hand me a datapad full of Kaminoan ethics reports. She handed me a mission: deliver them to the Temple's Senate liaison office "for consideration by the Republic Committee on Defense and Armament."

Which was a fancy way of saying: Take this folder to the grown-ups before they accidentally start a galactic war.

So there I was, clutching a glowing datapad like a bomb made of bureaucracy, wandering the Temple's upper corridors and praying I didn't run into anyone with more authority than a cafeteria droid.

The Force, naturally, has a sense of humor.

"—and I assure you, Senator Organa, the situation is being handled delicately," said a familiar voice up ahead.

I froze.

There, standing outside the liaison chamber, were two of the most famous people in galactic history — one future rebel hero, one doomed queen.

Bail Organa was every bit as composed as the holo-feeds suggested: tall, elegant, diplomatic posture set to medium concern. Next to him, Padmé Amidala looked like the personification of "politely unimpressed." Her senatorial robes shimmered under the Temple's soft light, perfectly pressed, perfectly regal, perfectly terrifying.

And she looked so much like my childhood crush, Natalie Portman.

My brain chose that exact moment to forget how to walk normally.

She turned, noticed me hovering nearby, and smiled with professional warmth. "Oh! Hello there. Are you the messenger from the Archives?"

Okay. Deep breath. Don't panic. Don't say anything stupid.

"Excuse you," I said immediately, "I'm an unpaid intern in moral philosophy… also a Jedi, I guess. But that part should be obvious, considering I'm twelve and live here."

Smooth. Nailed it. Definitely not panicking.

Padmé blinked, then laughed — softly, but genuinely. "My apologies, Initiate…?"

"Kryze," I said, straightening my tunic with as much dignity as a dusty twelve-year-old could muster. "Ben Kryze."

"Senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo," she said, extending a hand. I stared at it a second too long — half because she was being nice, half because holy kriff it's Padmé Amidala in 4K reality.

I shook her hand. Probably too long. Definitely too awkward.

Bail smiled kindly, stepping in. "And I'm Senator Organa. Pleasure to meet you, young man. I take it you're assisting Master Nu?"

"That's one word for it," I said. "Another would be 'indentured servitude.' She calls it 'educational.' Tomato, tomahto."

Padmé hid a grin behind her hand. "And what kind of education is Master Nu assigning you these days?"

"The ethics of mass-producing soldiers," I said, maybe too fast. "Light reading."

That got their attention.

Padmé's brow furrowed. "You mean the Kamino situation?"

"Yep." I lifted the datapad. "Clone army. Mystery commission. Possible intergalactic identity theft. The usual."

Bail chuckled under his breath. "You certainly don't mince words, Initiate."

"I try not to," I said. "Words are expensive, and I'm unpaid."

Padmé's expression softened — intrigued now, not amused. "And what do you think of the clone matter, Ben?"

Oh no. She was asking me for an opinion. This was a trap. Politicians love asking children questions that turn into headlines.

But my mouth apparently didn't care about self-preservation.

"Well," I started slowly, "it's complicated. Clones are people — or at least, they should be. But they're made to fight a war they didn't choose, by people who won't have to fight it themselves. That's… kind of messed up, right?"

Padmé's eyes widened slightly. "You're very well-informed for a Padawan."

"Initiate," I corrected automatically. "Still working my way up to hypocrisy."

Bail laughed — an actual, proper laugh. "You remind me of someone I met, you know. It was Initiate Kryze, yes? Would there happen to be any relation to a Satine Kryze?"

"As a Jedi, I can neither confirm nor deny the possibility that may have relatives." I answered, diplomatically.

"I'm sure." Bail's eyes twinkled in amusement. "Well, regardless, I certainly hope you're relatives are proud of you. I can only hope to one day have a child as academically inclined as you are."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," I said. "I think she turns out okay… if a little racist against Wookiees for no apparent reason."

Leia Organa, on the off-chance you heard about this somehow, like, maybe through the World Between Worlds or something, I just want you to know: I stand by what I said. Give Chewbacca a medal, damn you!

Padmé tilted her head, studying me. "You have a rather unique perspective, Ben."

"Yeah," I said. "I get that a lot."

What I didn't say: I also happen to know you're about to fall for a guy who hates sand and will one day massacre a village, choke you, and enable a galaxy-wide fascist regime, so maybe steer clear of moody Jedi with mommy issues.

…But sure, keep it light, Ben. Keep it casual.

That's when I felt a familiar ripple in the Force — bright, overconfident, and radiating the energy of someone who once crash-landed a starfighter just to make an entrance.

Oh no.

"Senator!" Anakin Skywalker's voice carried down the hall, boyish and cheerful. He rounded the corner, cloak billowing dramatically — because of course it did. "I'm sorry for the delay, Master Kenobi was—"

He stopped mid-sentence when he saw me standing next to Padmé.

"Ben?"

"Anakin," I said, as neutrally as possible. "Fancy seeing you here. You know the Senator?"

Padmé blinked. "We've met."

I nodded sagely. "Sure. Met. Right. Definitely nothing galaxy-changing about that."

Anakin frowned. "What?"

"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just… moral philosophy."

Padmé looked amused again. "Well, perhaps your moral philosopher can join us for the Temple tour, Master Skywalker."

"Actually," Anakin said — and was that a tiny blush? — "he has assignments."

"Right!" I said, clutching my datapad like a shield. "Assignments! Research! Very important stuff about… ethics and… consequences and… destiny."

Bail arched an eyebrow. "Destiny, hm?"

"Yeah," I said weakly. "Trying to avoid it."

Padmé smiled kindly. "You're a curious one, Ben Kryze."

"You have no idea," I muttered.

An awkward silence lingered — the kind that comes right before someone says something history-defining — and I decided it was time to leave before I accidentally spoiled the entire prequel trilogy.

I bowed quickly. "Well, this has been enlightening! Nice meeting you both. Good luck with the whole 'governing a galaxy' thing. No pressure."

Padmé actually laughed. "Thank you, Initiate Kryze."

As I turned to leave, Anakin leaned in just enough to whisper, "You're acting strange, even for you."

"Thanks," I said. "It's a gift."

And I walked away before I could make things worse.

...​

The corridor was blessedly empty again. I exhaled hard, pressing my back to the wall.

Okay. Survived a conversation with Padmé Amidala without blurting out "you die in childbirth but don't worry, your kids are fine, they're going to kiss each other, one day." That's progress.

My commlink crackled suddenly.

"Ahsoka to Ben," came the urgent voice. "You're gonna want to see this."

I straightened. "What happened?"

"The clones," she said, her tone sharp with disbelief. "They're here. In person."

For a second, I thought I misheard.

Then my stomach dropped.

"What do you mean here?"

"In the Temple hangar," she said. "The Council's meeting them right now."

I looked down at the datapad in my hands — Kaminoan ethics glowing back at me in cold blue light.

Of course they were here. Of course it was starting already.

"Copy that," I said, voice tight. "On my way."

I took one last look down the corridor — where Padmé and Anakin were walking side by side now, talking quietly. The future was already unfolding, and all I could do was watch it happen.

Butterfly Effect, Episode II. Attack of the Dominos

...​

It started with the sound of boots.

Dozens of them. Perfectly synchronized.

You'd think the echo of identical footsteps wouldn't be unsettling, but it is. It really, really is.

Ahsoka stood beside me, leaning over the balcony rail with her elbows propped like we were watching some parade. Maris had her hood up, the picture of quiet judgment. I was doing my best to pretend like I wasn't seconds away from morally combusting.

Below us, the Republic's newest military acquisition was marching in formation. Rows of identical men in identical armor — white plastoid, blue-accented pauldrons, blaster rifles at their sides. Every movement landed with mechanical precision. If you didn't look too close, you could almost believe they were machines.

Almost.

"So…" I started, because silence was unbearable. "Moral greyness looks good in armor."

Ahsoka snorted. Maris did not.

One of the clones glanced up — not at us specifically, but in our direction. His visor caught the sunset and flared gold. For a second, I saw my reflection in it: a scrawny Initiate, hands stuffed into too-long sleeves, trying not to feel small.

The clones turned another corner. Another perfect pivot.

And then they were gone, swallowed by the next platform level, off to wherever the Senate's shiny new army gets its paperwork processed.

"I still don't get it," Ahsoka said. "Who made them? Why Kamino? Why now?"

"Because the galaxy's running out of good ideas," I muttered.

She looked at me. "That's not helpful."

"Wasn't trying to be."

We fell into silence again, the three of us leaning over the durasteel rail. Airspeeders streamed past below — thousands of them, golden trails weaving through the neon haze. Somewhere down there, people were buying dinner, arguing about holonews, kissing someone goodbye. Completely unaware that a secret army had just been delivered to their doorstep.

It should've felt triumphant — like, hooray, the Republic finally has a defense force! But instead it just felt… wrong.

Manufactured.

Maris finally broke the quiet. "They didn't feel like droids."

I blinked at her. "What?"

"When they walked by," she said, still staring at the spot they'd disappeared. "I could feel them. In the Force. Not faintly, either. Like a chorus — too precise, but alive."

I hesitated, then reached out too. Just a touch, like dipping a hand into a current you're not sure is safe.

There they were.

Bright. Sharp. Patterned, almost. A thousand ripples of life, identical and distinct all at once. It was like hearing the same note played perfectly by a hundred voices — beautiful, but unnatural.

I pulled back. "Yeah," I said quietly. "They're real."

"Of course they're real," Ahsoka said. "They're people."

"Yeah," I echoed. "That's the problem."

I don't know what I expected from seeing them up close. Some kind of clarity, maybe. Instead, my brain just kept spinning.

Because I knew them — the idea of them, at least. I'd seen what they'd become: soldiers with names, jokes, friendships. Heroes who'd fight and die for people who didn't even know their serial numbers. Rex, Cody, Fives, Echo… all just waiting to be born into a war no one had started yet.

Except now the timeline was off. The army was here early.

And I had no idea what that meant.

What if Palpatine pushed sooner? What if the Separatists rose faster? What if Order Si— Nope. Not saying it. Not thinking it. Not even alphabetically approaching it.

Still. The thought stuck. Because even if I didn't say it, it existed.

"So what happens to them?" Maris asked.

"Huh?"

"The clones," she said. "The Senate commissioned them for… what? Defense? Peacekeeping?"

I shrugged, helpless. "You're asking the wrong existentially terrified twelve-year-old."

"Ben."

I sighed. "Okay, fine. They'll probably get stationed in garrisons, patrolling spaceports, looking impressive. Until someone gives them a reason to shoot."

Ahsoka frowned. "That's not fair."

"Neither is creating life in a lab and calling it patriotism," I said before I could stop myself.

She gave me a look. "You sound like Master Yoda."

"Yeah, except when he says stuff like that, it sounds wise. When I do it, it sounds like sarcasm with trauma."

Ahsoka elbowed me, smiling faintly. "That's your brand."

I didn't argue. She wasn't wrong.

A transport rumbled overhead, casting long shadows across the platform. The light caught on my hands — pale against the durasteel, trembling just a little.

"I keep thinking about what Jocasta said," I murmured.

Ahsoka tilted her head. "About what?"

"That the Jedi didn't commission them. That we didn't ask for this. But we're still going to use them. Pretend it's for peace, for balance, whatever helps us sleep."

Maris' voice was soft. "Maybe they'll want to fight."

"Maybe," I said. "But what if they don't know they can choose?"

That shut everyone up.

For a while, the only sound was the city — speeders, air currents, a chorus of distant engines. Then, faintly, from somewhere deeper in the Temple, a training saber activated and someone yelped. Probably Gungi again. The kid never remembered to duck.

It was such a stupidly normal sound that it almost broke me.

I turned away from the edge, suddenly exhausted. "I'm gonna go have an existential crisis somewhere with snacks."

Ahsoka grinned. "Cafeteria?"

"Obviously. Philosophy burns calories."

...​

And that's why I always ate during my philosophy classes.

My professor hated it, but he was a dick. Seriously. He only had four assignments that he graded over the entire semester, and they were all tests, with True/False only questions, and even then, they were obscure, or used double negatives. Have I mentioned that I don't like philosophy? This is why.

Anyways! I hope you all enjoyed!

As always, stay tuned for more chapters, or read ahead on my Patreon, link below:

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[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 16: Jedi Time Out

If hell exists in the Star Wars galaxy, I'm convinced it looks exactly like the Jedi Council Chamber: twelve chairs, twelve Masters, twelve synchronized Disappointment Faces aimed squarely at me.

I stand in the center of the room like a kid called to the principal's office—except instead of doodling on walls or sneaking snacks, my crime is… sending family updates. To my aunt. And my brother. A little treason-flavored if you squint, apparently.

The High Council does not squint. The High Council glares.

Mace Windu stares down from his floating chair like I'm some particularly offensive traffic infraction he's been forced to adjudicate. He clears his throat with the solemnity of a man preparing to sentence me to death by paperwork.

"Ben Kryze," he begins, and I swear I can hear capital letters in his voice. "Communication breaches. Unauthorized holo-exchanges. Deception." He pauses exactly long enough for dramatic effect. "You are hereby placed on probation."

There it is. The guillotine drops.

I resist the urge to salute ironically. Barely. I always knew this day would come. Frankly, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. Must be the will of the Force. Still, maybe I can get some mitigation here.

But before I can even open my mouth to defend myself, Master Yoda leans forward, ears angling like twin judge's gavels. He squints at me—squints, hard—like I personally keyed his starfighter and then blamed it on a Wookiee.

"Warned, you were," he says, cane tapping the floor once, twice. "Attachment… dangerous it is."

I bite the inside of my cheek to avoid blurting, Attachment is literally why half this Council exists, including me, because that feels like an argument best saved for when Master Windu is not in the room.

Also because Obi-Wan is sitting right behind Yoda, being aggressively neutral.

I mean aggressively. My dear maybe-probably-father is sitting in his seat like a statue sculpted out of polite British denial. Hands folded. Back straight. Expression serene. Except for one tiny muscle twitching at the edge of his jaw that screams:

I am going to pretend I know nothing about your crimes, son, please for the love of the Force do not drag me into this.

And honestly? Fair.

But that doesn't mean I'm wrong, either. You know how many Jedi were born without fucking being involved? One. Anakin Skywalker. And the Council didn't even want the little Tatooine slave boy!

Bunch of hypocrites.

Knight Quinlan Vos has had more lovers than General Grevious had arms. Master Mundi married a whole harem. And it's not like Baby Yoda sprouted from a hydroponic vat.

Meanwhile, I'm just standing here thinking: I didn't commit treason! I sent family updates! You know—normal, harmless things like:

"Hey Aunt Bo, I'm alive! Also, the Temple food still sucks."

But apparently this violates the sacred Jedi protocols of Not Having People You Care About.

Windu continues reading from his invisible script. "Your probation will include the following restrictions." He checks something on a datapad, though I suspect he memorized the list hours ago purely so he could recite it with maximum gravitas.

"One: No off-world missions."

Cool. Wasn't going anywhere anyway.

"Two: No external communications."

Rude.

"Three: Daily reflection hours."

Ah, supervised brooding.

"Four: Assigned community service tasks, at the discretion of Temple staff."

I blink. "So… chores," I say. Out loud. It slips out before I can stop it. "Ah yes. The ancient Jedi punishment."

Half the Council sighs in unison.

Literally in unison.

It's like they rehearsed it.

Even Plo Koon, who is usually the nice one, shakes his head in a way that feels vaguely parental. Ki-Adi-Mundi leans back like this is giving him a stress migraine. Shaak Ti pinches the bridge of her nose. Depa Billaba closes her eyes and maybe prays for strength. Even Kit Fisto's smile dims by two degrees, which is basically a tragedy.

And Yoda? He thwacks his cane again, muttering something in Yodish that I'm pretty sure translates to "Disaster child, he is."

Obi-Wan finally speaks, his voice calm and annoyingly reasonable. "Ben… perhaps a period of structured discipline will help you reflect on the consequences of your choices."

Translation: Son. Stop talking.

Mace continues, voice flat as Tatooine. "Your behavior jeopardized the Order's neutrality."

"Neutrality?" I blurt. "How am I—" I chop my own sentence in half when Windu raises one eyebrow in a way that triggers my survival instincts. "Right. Yes. I jeopardized. Very jeopardous. Mega-jeopardous. Continue."

Fantastic. Now I'm inventing words in front of the people who could legally ban me from touching a lightsaber until I'm twenty.

Saesee Tiin clears his throat. "Knight Kenobi, you were aware your padawan—"

"I am not his Padawan," I say reflexively, because I will die before acknowledging the Order's unofficial assumption that Obi-Wan is my dad. It's completely valid, but he has to admit it first. That way, we can all go "no shit!"

Oh, and also his Padawan is Space Jesus.

"—your initiate," Saesee amends, "was engaging in illicit correspondence?"

Obi-Wan's eye twitches again.

"No," he says, sounding exactly like a man who is very aware but has decided pretending otherwise is healthier for everyone. "I was not."

Yoda hums. Windu's expression remains granite. Plo Koon murmurs something about "troubling patterns."

My brain starts screaming because I recognize the energy in the room—this is the same vibe as when adults decide They Are Disappointed In You but also they're too Jedi to yell.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Much worse.

Windu leans back. "Do you have anything you wish to say before sentencing concludes?"

I absolutely do. I have so many things to say. None of them are wise, but when has that ever stopped me?

I raise my hand like I'm answering a school question. "So, hypothetical scenario—"

"No," Windu says instantly.

"But you didn't even hear it!"

"I do not need to." He gestures to the doors. Damn Shatterpoint, OP space power bullshit.. "Your probation begins immediately."

Well. That's that.

I bow, because I like living, and because everyone expects it, and because bending at the waist gives me a few seconds to swallow the huge wave of irritation boiling up behind my ribs. When I straighten, twelve pairs of eyes are still boring holes into me.

"I understand, Masters," I say in the most respectful tone I can manage.

Which is… passable. Probably.

Then I turn on my heel, the doors hiss open, and as I step into the hallway I mutter under my breath:

"This is fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine."

The doors slide shut behind me with the softest, most judgmental fwip I've ever heard in my life.

...​

Everything is not fine.

This is outrageous.

It's unfair.

I storm down the hallway like an angry mop. I don't even mean to stomp, but the Temple floors are too damn polished, so each step makes this loud slap that echoes off the walls like I'm throwing a toddler tantrum. Which I guess I am. Except I'm twelve, so it's more respectable. Probably.

Probation. Actual probation.

I didn't duel a senator, I didn't steal a transport, I didn't even blow anything up this time. I sent messages.

Messages! To family! You know, those people the Council pretends Jedi don't have but absolutely do, because otherwise how is the Temple not extinct already?

Nope. No thinking about them. Not after Windu's "we will be monitoring your reflection hours" like he wasn't secretly enjoying telling a child they're grounded.

Fine. Whatever. First task: go to the meditation hall like a good little near-Padawan and sit there for an hour.

I march in like I'm entering a battlefield.

...​

The Meditation Hall smells like incense and smug authority. It's dim and quiet—the sort of quiet that feels judgmental. A dozen initiates sit peacefully in their little circles of serenity.

I flop down onto my mat cross-legged, arms stiff at my sides. My back pops. My soul pops. I close my eyes because that's what you do here. Be calm. Be centered. Be mindful. Blah blah blah.

Thirty seconds pass.

Forty.

A full minute.

My brain: hey what if we think about everything we're NOT supposed to think about?

Me: NO.

Brain: okay but what if we do?

I exhale way too loudly, earning a shhh from some kid who looks seven. Seven! I have been shushed by a toddler with a braid longer than his attention span.

I inhale again. Slow. Deep. Even.

And then, without meaning to—

I start humming.

Very softly.

Dun… dun dun-dun… dun dun-dun…

The Imperial March.

Yes, I know it hasn't technically been written yet. Doesn't matter. It lives in my soul.

Another initiate cracks open one eye at me. I smile serenely, like the angel I obviously am.

He scoots away.

Within five minutes, I've mentally ranked every Council member by how quickly they'd die in a horror movie. (Yoda survives. Obviously. Windu dies because he refuses to run.)

Within ten minutes, I've come up with a new lightsaber kata that involves aggressively pointing at people.

Within fifteen minutes, I'm lying flat on my back staring at the ceiling like I'm manifesting a Force storm out of spite.

The attendant watches me the way one watches a malfunctioning toaster.

"Ben," she whispers, "try to empty your mind."

"Oh trust me," I whisper back, "I've been trying to empty it for years. This is as good as it gets."

She gives me a look that screams I'm writing this down in your file.

Mercifully, the hour ends.

I spring up like a freed prisoner and salute the room.

"Namaste," I say, and leave before anyone can throw a cushion at me.

...​

Next stop: the training hall.

A stack of janitorial supplies waits for me. A bucket. A rag. Cleaning fluid. A droid that chirps unpleasantly like it also hates its job.

An instructor hands me a datapad labeled: DROID MAINTENANCE — BASIC CLEANING

I nod as though I'm going to follow instructions.

I am not.

I pick up the rag and begin wiping down a scuffed training droid. It's one of those spherical ones that zaps people for fun. I mutter to myself, because talking to machines counts as meditation in my book:

"You know, I wonder if binary has swear words."

The droid whirs.

I tap it once. Twice. "Come on, buddy. You can tell me."

It lights up. Emits a curious trill. My curiosity turns into a scientific urge. I poke a diagnostic port with the rag handle.

Suddenly the droid jolts awake like I dared it to.

And then—

It beeps something.

The supervising Knight gasps.

One of the other droids gasps.

I gasp.

"Oh," I whisper. "Binary has a lot of swear words."

The droid rolls forward and starts absolutely shredding every other droid in the hall. Not physically—verbally. Through beeps. Which somehow sounds even worse.

Another droid sputters like it's offended. A third whirls away in disgust. A fourth pretends it didn't hear the insult.

"Shut it down!" the supervisor cries, sprinting toward it.

I take this moment to decide that technically nothing that happened is my fault.

Which means I may quietly back away. Very quietly.

I slip out the side door just as the rogue droid starts dishing out insults about somebody's motherboard.

Not my problem. Probably.

...​

"Ben!" calls a voice as soon as I enter the childcare wing.

The caretaker is a sweet old Mirialan who always smells like cookies. She waves me in with the kind of cheer only someone who's never been attacked by children can possess.

"We're short staffed. Please assist the initiates during playtime."

I look around.

There are at least fifteen toddlers.

Fifteen.

And every single one looks at me like I'm fresh prey.

"Uh," I say. "I don't think—"

It's too late.

I am swarmed.

They latch onto my legs. My arms. One jumps onto my back like a feral Tooka. One brandishes a foam lightsaber that's been sharpened on… something? It gleams. Gleams.

The caretaker claps her hands.

"Children! Today we're playing 'Capture the Sith'!"

They all turn and grin at me.

I die inside.

Before I can protest, someone shrieks, "GET HIM!" and suddenly I'm running for my life.

Foam sabers thunk into my thighs. My ribs. My pride.

A tiny Zabrak tackles me behind the knees. I go down like a sack of womp rats.

They pile on. Six of them. Maybe seven. Hard to count when your face is mashed into a carpet stained with juice boxes.

"I surrender!" I wheeze. "I SURRENDER!"

A toddler sits triumphantly on my chest and pokes my forehead. "Sith defeated."

I lift one hand toward the heavens.

"This is why Sith Lords happen!"

The caretaker gives me a gentle, approving thumbs-up like I did something noble.

I lie there for a moment longer, debating the merits of joining the dark side.

They don't make you do childcare on the dark side. Probably.

...​

My final task of the day: help in the Archives.

I step inside and instantly feel watched by ancient knowledge. And also Jocasta Nu, who has eyes like a hawk and the soul of a standardized test.

"Ben," she says. "You will assist with scroll restoration. Handle everything with extreme care."

"Absolutely," I say.

Ten minutes later I'm reorganizing the entire scroll section by color.

Not age.

Not subject.

Not species origin.

Color.

It looks gorgeous.

The scrolls go from deep umber gold pale buff cream snowy white. It's soothing. It's perfect. It's symmetrical.

Then I hear the sharp inhale of someone discovering a crime.

"Stop that immediately."

I turn around. Jocasta Nu stands there with a look of horror usually reserved for Sith alchemy.

"It's aesthetically superior," I say helpfully.

Her face tightens in a way that suggests she's debating igniting a lightsaber regardless of her rank.

"I will exile you," she says flatly.

I believe her. Wholeheartedly.

She confiscates the scrolls from my hands and points to the door like she's banishing a demon.

I bow.

I flee.

I do not look back.

...​

By the time I reach the hallway, my robes are wrinkled, my brain is fried, someone's toddler spit is drying on my sleeve, and my soul has left my body for greener pastures.

I lean against the wall and drag a hand down my face.

Day one of probation.

One.

I have thirty more.

I groan into my palms.

"…This is going to kill me."

And somewhere, deep in the bowels of the Jedi Temple, a training droid screams an insult in binary that I'm ninety percent sure translates to:

YEAH, THAT'S WHAT YOU GET.

...​

Ahsoka balanced the paper-wrapped bundle of snacks in one hand as she crossed the courtyard, weaving between meditating initiates and a pair of Knights arguing over whether a lightsaber could be used to sauté vegetables. She didn't slow; she was on a mission. A very important, very compassionate mission.

Delivery of emotional support carbs.

Ben had survived his first day of probation, but from what she'd heard through the grapevine — specifically the "excited gossip" grapevine, which was always the fastest — he'd been attacked by toddlers, disgraced by scrolls, and may or may not have caused a profanity-laced uprising among the cleaning droids.

Which meant he needed snacks. Immediately.

She rounded the corner into the service wing, and there he was: sitting in the middle of his tiny assigned workroom, surrounded by tools and loose wires, brow furrowed with exaggerated concentration as he tinkered with a dust sweeper.

Except "tinkering" was too innocent a word. This was… surgery. Chaotic surgery.

The little cleaning droid whirred, beeped, and suddenly blasted a heroic orchestral DA-DA-DAAAA fanfare before sputtering into static.

Ahsoka blinked once. Twice.

Ben pumped his fist. "Yes! That's the sound I want when it detects dirt. Dramatic. Motivational. Like: behold, filth, your reckoning approaches!"

She sighed, amused despite herself. There was no part of him that understood the concept of "lying low."

"I brought emotional support carbs," she said.

Ben's head snapped up. His eyes lit like she'd just offered salvation itself.

"You saint."

He scrambled over, tripped on a wire, caught himself, and plucked a sweet bun from the bag with the reverence of a man receiving a holy artifact. He took a large, slow bite — so slow she could see the exact moment dopamine entered his bloodstream — and then slumped back against the wall with a groan.

Ahsoka set the rest of the snacks on a crate. "Rough day?"

He pointed at nothing in particular in a gesture of full-body exasperation. "They weaponized toddlers. TODDLERS."

She tried not to laugh. She failed.

"I'm serious," he insisted. "They work in packs. Packs, Ahsoka. They planned my downfall."

She offered him a protein puff. He accepted it like medicine and swallowed with the theatrics of a martyr.

Before she could tease him again, another presence slipped into the doorway — silent, sharp, and slightly rumpled.

Maris.

Her arms were folded. Her hair was doing that thing where half of it obeyed gravity and the other half defied it purely out of spite. Her expression was focused, intense — the kind of look that usually preceded something either incredibly wise or deeply illegal.

She took in the room. The snacks. The dismantled droid. Ben chewing tragically.

"The Jedi are hypocrites," Maris declared.

Ahsoka pinched the bridge of her lekku. "Maris…"

"No, I mean it." Maris stepped fully inside, boots tapping sharply on the stone floor. "If they can't handle a kid talking to his family, what good is this whole 'peacekeeper' thing? Peacekeepers don't cut people off from the people who give them peace."

Ahsoka felt the words hit, hard and uncomfortably true. She tried not to show it. Jedi philosophy was… layered. Complicated. Contradictory. Even she didn't fully understand it, and she'd grown up in the Order.

Ben snorted. "Stop tempting me into quitting."

Maris didn't flinch. "I am tempting."

"Please stop tempting," Ahsoka said, because she could already feel her heart rate climbing at the idea of explaining this to Master Yoda.

Maris adjusted her sleeves with all the authority of someone preparing a closing argument. "I'm just saying—maybe the Jedi wouldn't lose so many people to the dark side if they stopped forbidding anything that makes existence tolerable."

Ahsoka flinched again. Ouch. Accurate. Too accurate.

Ben raised a hand. "Hey, I fully support whatever speech you're giving. But right now? I support snacks more." He reached blindly toward the bag until Ahsoka nudged it closer.

He popped another protein puff into his mouth. "Okay. So. Long story short: I'm on chore duty for the foreseeable future. And I'd like to not die."

Maris crouched beside him. "Then don't follow the schedule."

Ahsoka's montrals buzzed with alarm. "Maris."

"What? It's a stupid schedule. Whoever wrote it hates him."

Ben pointed at himself with both hands. "Yes! Thank you!"

Ahsoka groaned. She hated how easily these two could drag her into trouble. Or maybe she just hated how she rarely resisted.

Maris nudged aside a screwdriver, sat cross-legged, and pulled the datapad containing Ben's assignments closer. "Let's see what we're working with."

Ahsoka sat too, because if she was going to stop them, she needed proximity. Also snacks.

The schedule was… dense. Unreasonable. A masterpiece of passive-aggressive bureaucracy.

Meditation hours. Cleaning rotations. Nursery duty. Archive work. Hallway sweeping. Meal distribution assistance. Laundry. Then back to meditation.

"It's a wonder they didn't add 'renovate the Senate Building by hand,'" Ben muttered.

Ahsoka scanned the list, her montrals tingling with secondhand stress. "I mean… it's structured. The Order likes structure. It's how we teach discipline."

Ben looked at her like she'd said, the Council would never lie to you.

"Ahsoka. They made me reorganize moldy scrolls for two hours."

She opened her mouth to defend the Archives and immediately failed to think of a single positive thing about the Archives besides "quiet."

"Okay," she conceded. "Maybe it's a little much."

Maris smirked. "So we change it."

Ahsoka rubbed her forehead. "We—Maris, we can't just rewrite a probation schedule. That's— that's—"

"Crime?" Ben offered hopefully.

"Punishable?" she countered.

"Revolutionary," Maris said.

Ahsoka stared at her for a long moment. Very long. Her heartbeat thudded like she'd sprinted the length of the Temple.

And then she sighed, shoulders dropping.

She wasn't blind. Ben wasn't hurt because he'd done something evil. He was hurt because the Order had punished kindness. Family. Connection. Whether it was technically "in the rules" didn't make it feel any less wrong.

"Fine," she muttered. "Show me what you want to change."

Maris grinned like someone who had just successfully corrupted a Padawan.

Ben scooted between them, brushing crumbs off his tunic. "Okay, okay. First of all: I'm not doing toddler duty again. Not unless I get hazard pay."

Maris flicked her fingers dismissively. "Delete it."

Ahsoka snatched the datapad back. "We can't delete it. They'll notice."

Maris leaned in. "Then move it. Swap it with something easier."

Ahsoka bit her lip. "…like laundry?"

Ben recoiled. "Laundry is not easier."

Maris took the pad from her. "It is compared to children with weapons."

"Fair point," Ben murmured.

Ahsoka hesitated, then tapped the screen and dragged the "Nursery Assistance" block into a later day. She felt a rush of adrenaline she absolutely should not have been feeling. "Okay. Fine. One change."

Ben cheered silently, arms raised.

"Next," Maris said. "Meditation hours."

Ahsoka stiffened. "We cannot change meditation hours. The Council monitors them."

Ben groaned. "Of course they do. They want to make sure I'm spiritually suffering."

Maris tilted her head. "Do they monitor where you meditate?"

Ahsoka blinked. Oh no. She could see where this was going. "You are not going to meditate on the roof."

Ben's eyes sparked. "I am absolutely meditating on the roof."

Maris changed the location on the schedule.

Ahsoka buried her face in her hands. "We are going to die."

"No," Maris corrected, tapping another block. "Ben will die. You and I will get stern looks."

Ben nodded solemnly. "Sounds about right."

The three of them worked in a huddle, elbows bumping, snacks disappearing steadily, as they rearranged his entire punishment roster into something survivable. The more they did it, the lighter Ben looked. Less weighed down. Less alone.

Ahsoka felt a small warmth unfurl in her chest. Yes, the Order was home. But home wasn't just rules and meditation. It was people. It was support. It was friendship.

Even if that friendship currently involved technically-sort-of-definitely modifying probation documents.

When they finally leaned back, the schedule looked… chaotic. Improper. Brilliant.

Ben whistled. "Wow. I'm going to get arrested."

"Not on my watch," Ahsoka said, surprising herself with how much she meant it.

Maris smirked. "Welcome to the rebellion."

Ahsoka rolled her eyes — but she didn't disagree.

The three of them stared at their handiwork with the satisfaction of conspirators who knew, deep down, they'd regret this later.

For now, though?

It was perfect.

...​

The Temple balcony was quiet at sunset, which should've been Obi-Wan's first warning. Ben Kryze never gravitated to quiet unless he was making the trouble rather than discovering it.

Sure enough, when Obi-Wan stepped outside, the orange light of the lowering Coruscant sun revealed a pair of booted feet sticking out of an access panel under the railing.

A muffled voice drifted out:

"—okay, if I reroute the fail-safes and the ambient light sensors, the whole courtyard will play the Duel of the Fates theme when someone walks by—"

Obi-Wan inhaled. Counted to three. It did not help.

"Ben," he said, with the softness of someone desperately trying not to sound like a parent despite absolutely being one.

Ben jolted so hard he smacked his head on the inside of the panel. "Ow— kriff—"

A moment later he wriggled out like an irritated Tooka, hair sticking up, face smudged with something suspiciously greasy. And, of course, he beamed.

"Master Obi-Dad. Fancy meeting you here."

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. "That title is not— I never— Ben, what are you doing?"

Ben held up a screwdriver with the pride of a child offering a dead lizard. "Improving morale."

"I see," Obi-Wan said, though he did not.

Ben scooted aside to show off the gutted maintenance panel, wires everywhere. Obi-Wan was almost impressed. Almost. It took talent to commit this level of unsanctioned engineering.

"You are," Obi-Wan said carefully, "very much not allowed to be touching that."

Ben shrugged. "In fairness, I am technically touching it less than earlier."

Force help him, the boy delivered nonsense with the confidence of a seasoned politician. Obi-Wan flashed back to Anakin telling him, 'Relax, Master, the fire wouldn't have spread if the sprinklers hadn't malfunctioned.'

He was too tired for this.

"Ben," he said, straightening his shoulders into his best-possible Jedi authority posture. "We need to talk."

Ben whipped upright as if bracing for impact. "If this is about snacks in the dorms, Ahsoka started it."

"It is not about snacks."

"Oh. Then I'm definitely innocent."

Obi-Wan exhaled. The sunset cast gold on the Temple stones, painting the scene warm and gentle—completely inappropriate for the conversation he was trying to have.

He began the familiar script. The script he was required to give. The script every Jedi Master had to deliver at least once per month, especially around Skywalkers and Skywalker-adjacent entities.

"Attachment leads to—"

"Disappointment, existential dread, and three-hour lectures," Ben cut in. "Yes, I know."

Obi-Wan blinked. "That is… not quite how the Jedi phrased it."

Ben leaned against the railing, arms folded, posture obnoxiously relaxed. "But accurate."

The worst part was that the boy wasn't entirely wrong.

Obi-Wan rubbed his temples. "Ben, the Council's concern—"

"—is that I care too much, think too much, breathe too much, talk too much, blink weird, and sneeze with agenda. Yes, yes, I've heard the gossip."

"That is not— Ben, please let me speak."

Ben's mouth snapped shut with theatrical innocence.

Thank the Force.

"Your communications with your family…" Obi-Wan began slowly, choosing each word with surgical precision, "were unexpected."

Ben raised an eyebrow. "Harmful? Dangerous? Treason-adjacent?"

"No." Obi-Wan dropped his arms, letting the honesty settle between them. "They scared them."

Ben stopped.

It was small—just a subtle shift of weight, a brief stillness—but Obi-Wan caught it. The humor didn't vanish. It never did with Ben. But it flickered, as if someone had cupped a hand around the flame.

Obi-Wan softened. "They thought your connections could compromise you."

"Maybe," Ben said quietly, "say that instead of treating me like a toddler who licked a power socket?"

"I have never treated you—"

Ben just looked at him.

Obi-Wan paused. "Well. Not intentionally."

A corner of Ben's mouth twitched upward.

Obi-Wan sighed, feeling some tension dissolve, replaced by weary affection. "Ben… it isn't wrong to care for people outside the Order. But the Council must ensure you can make decisions even when your emotions are involved."

Ben shrugged again, but it was looser now. "I know. I just… I don't like being punished for giving a damn."

"That," Obi-Wan allowed, "is fair."

They stood there a moment—the boy pretending he wasn't emotionally affected, and the Jedi Master pretending he wasn't warmed by the boy's stubborn loyalty.

It was Ahsoka in miniature. It was Anakin in miniature. It was Satine.

It was… everyone he'd ever failed to keep in the neat, tidy boxes the Jedi preferred.

He cleared his throat before the moment got too soft.

"Well then," he said briskly, "let us return to the topic of—"

Ben perked up mischievously. "How the Jedi should unionize?"

"What? No—"

"Form a labor board?"

"Ben—"

"A secret underground support group for emotionally constipated Knights?"

Obi-Wan made a strangled noise. "That is quite enough."

Ben grinned wildly. "You know you love me."

"I—" Obi-Wan blinked, tripped on his own dignity, and started over. "I tolerate you."

"Affectionately."

"Occasionally."

Ben looked far too pleased.

Their banter slid back into place as naturally as breathing, like they'd both been holding it back to maintain the tension quota.

Obi-Wan gestured at the maintenance panel. "Now. Regarding this disaster. Why, exactly, were you tampering with it?"

Ben hesitated.

And that alone told Obi-Wan everything.

The boy was bored. Lonely. Restless. Probation had cut away large chunks of his world, and he was filling the gaps with chaos because empty space felt worse.

It wasn't deep reflection. Just an instinctive understanding. The kind a tired mentor developed after too many young troublemakers drifted through his training room.

Obi-Wan crouched, inspecting the mess of wires with a face full of resignation. "Did you at least turn off the power before—"

A spark shot out, nearly singeing his beard.

"…Ben."

Ben winced. "In my defense, I forgot."

Obi-Wan closed the panel firmly, decisively, heroically.

He held out his hand.

"Give me the screwdriver."

Ben tucked it behind his back like a rodent hoarding food. "No."

"Ben."

"What if I need it later?"

"For what?"

"Emergency morale improvement."

"Ben."

Ben sighed dramatically and slapped the screwdriver into Obi-Wan's palm as if surrendering a cherished heirloom.

Obi-Wan confiscated it with all the gravitas of a war general. "This stays with me."

Ben muttered, "Authoritarian."

"I heard that."

"You were meant to."

The sun dipped lower, bathing them in deep gold. For the first time all day, Obi-Wan felt the tension in his shoulders lighten. Ben did that. In the most aggravating way imaginable.

Obi-Wan straightened. "Come along. You're assisting me with evening duties."

Ben groaned. "Slave labor."

"Character development."

"Ugh."

Ben trudged after him with the enthusiasm of someone being marched to their doom. Obi-Wan ignored every exaggerated sigh.

...​

I was supposed to be reorganizing the Temple's emergency ration storage.

Which, in Jedi terms, meant moving boxes while being supervised by a droid whose vocabulary had recently expanded to include very not safe for work phrases in binary. Through no fault of my own!

Naturally, I was not reorganizing anything.

Instead, I was crouched behind a stack of Temple-issued supply crates with a datapad and two accomplices who were absolutely going to get blamed for this later.

Ahsoka peeked over the top of the crates like a morally conflicted meerkat. "Ben… why are we hiding? Again?"

"Correction," I whispered. "I am hiding. You and Maris are my security detail."

"Great," Ahsoka muttered. "So I'm complicit."

Maris crouched on my other side, arms folded, eyes glinting with the eager menace of someone ready to start a small, polite insurgency. "What's the objective?"

I grinned. "Behold."

I turned the datapad around with a flourish. On the screen, in bold lettering, was:

THE ORDER OF REASONABLE ATTACHMENTS

(name pending review)

Ahsoka inhaled sharply. "Ben."

Maris leaned in. "Oh, I already love this."

I scrolled down proudly.

MOTTO:

At least we talk about our feelings.

Ahsoka pressed her hand to her face. "No. No. Absolutely not. Ben—"

But I wasn't done.

CORE FEATURES

— Sabacc Nights

— Snack Breaks

— No Lectures from Mace Windu

— Occasional Twi'lek dancers

Maris cleared her throat pointedly. "Respectfully, that's objectifying."

I blinked. "Oh. Fair point. Uh—"

I edited it with a few taps.

— Occasional acrobatics

Ahsoka stared at me like she was trying to telekinetically slap me. "This is a terrible idea."

"This," I said, "is the BEST idea."

Maris nodded solemnly, as if approving a war plan. "I support the schism."

"It's not a schism," I whispered, offended. "It's a micro-schism. A snack-funded micro-schism."

Then I heard footsteps.

Heavy ones.

Not good.

Ahsoka shoved the datapad into my hands. "Turn it off!"

"I'm trying!" I hissed, mashing random buttons.

Maris grabbed my arm. "Hide it!"

Ahsoka grabbed my other one. "Hide yourself!"

This resulted in all three of us flinging ourselves sideways behind the crates in total panic. In the chaos, I dropped the datapad, Ahsoka tripped over it, Maris tripped over her, I tripped over both, and suddenly we were a three-person disaster sandwich.

Ahsoka's knee hit my shoulder.

Maris's elbow dug into my ribs.

Someone's foot — Ahsoka's, probably — pressed directly against my cheek.

"Ben," Ahsoka whispered urgently, breathless and furious. "This is NOT helping your probation."

"No," I whispered back, "but it's GREAT for morale. Also, get your foot out of my face."

Ahsoka jerked it back. "Sorry."

Maris shifted, accidentally kneeing me again. "Also sorry."

"I am going to die under a pile of Force users," I hissed. "And not even heroically."

The approaching footsteps stopped at the entrance of the storage room.

I held my breath.

Ahsoka held hers.

Maris held hers and tightened her grip on two of my belt loops like she was prepared to drag me straight into the Shadow Realm if necessary.

The droid supervisor's grumpy voice echoed:

"BLEEEP WHIIIR—"

The three of us froze so hard we might as well have been carbonite.

The droid scanned the room with the loud, judgmental beep of someone who'd seen too much teenage stupidity for one lifetime.

Then:

"BoodOoo."

Its footsteps moved away.

The moment the droid vanished, we collapsed into whispered groans.

"Okay," Ahsoka hissed, sitting up. "That was awful. I'm getting too old for this."

"You're twelve," I said.

"And yet here I am," she replied, "participating in a cult behind the storage crates."

"It's not a cult," I said. "It's a very sane alternative support network."

Maris raised an eyebrow. "With acrobatics."

I nodded. "Obviously."

Ahsoka slapped the datapad back into my hands. "Ben. You cannot form a breakaway Jedi order while on probation."

"Sure I can," I said. "I'm already halfway through the bylaws."

Maris leaned against the crates like the world's most supportive gremlin. "He has a point."

"No, he does not have a point," Ahsoka snapped. "He has a problem."

"Actually," I corrected, "I have twelve problems. They're called the Council."

Ahsoka groaned.

Maris fist-bumped me.

"Okay okay okay," I said, waving them both down. "New idea. We launch quietly. Underground. Subtle. Exclusive membership. Initiation ritual pending."

Ahsoka stared at me. "Tell me the ritual doesn't involve snacks."

I stared back.

She sighed. "Ben."

Maris shrugged. "Snacks build loyalty."

"SEE?!" I whispered loud enough to not be a whisper at all.

Ahsoka silenced us both with a glare. "No more cult."

"It's—"

"No more micro-schism."

"Fine," I said. "Then it's a club."

Maris nodded. "A dubious club."

"Still counts," I said.

"But," Ahsoka added sharply, "whatever this is? It stops tonight. No more planning. No more meetings. No more—"

The door slammed open.

All three of us jolted.

The droid rolled in at full speed, shouting:

"WhhhhhIIIIIRRRRRRR!!"

I would like to clarify that this was not my fault, but everyone believed it was. Including me.

"RUN!" I yelled.

Ahsoka didn't need to be told twice. She bolted.

Maris followed, snatching the datapad out of my hand on the way.

I scrambled after them as the droid accelerated, swearing loudly in Binary:

"BRRRRRrrrrBBBB—

CCCCLLLLI—

BBBBBEEEEDDDD—"

We tore down the corridor, sliding around corners, dodging startled Padawans.

Ahsoka screamed, "Ben, why is that droid cussing us out?!"

Huh. Didn't know she spoke binary.

"Character development?! How should I know!"

Maris grabbed my arm. "LEFT TURN! LEFT TURN!"

Ahsoka grabbed my other arm. "STOP GIVING DIRECTIONS, YOU'RE TERRIBLE AT THEM!"

We skidded into the main hall, nearly crashed into a Mon Calamari Knight, ricocheted off a pillar, and kept running, the enraged droid clattering behind us yelling:

"WHHHHEEEeeeeEEE!"

We vanished around the corner.

The droid did not.

But its furious, disappointed screech echoed beautifully through the entire Temple.

Honestly?

Worth it.

...​

Someone asked me, very reasonably, why Ben tried crawling through the vents, given that they're so much smaller than people may realize. To that person, and all of you, I say this:

I played the Arkham games growing up. If I can suspend my believe that a decades old Asylum had vents large enough to fit AND support a fully grown, armored man, than we can all suspend our disbelief that a child with the Force as his guide, could use the temple vents the same way.

Oh.

Right.

Support me on Patreon, if you want to read ahead. Or just generally support my work. I'm broke. Check the link below!

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[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 17: It's a Conspiracy!

I'm not saying my plan is flawless, but if you squint hard enough and believe in me the way my original mother used to believe the tax collectors would "just forget" about her late payments, it looks pretty airtight.

The Force is my plan.

And yes — that's exactly how the Force works.

Yoda would agree with me if he weren't so committed to being wrong in front of children.

The trick to sneaking into the Restricted Archives is simple: move with confidence, walk fast enough that people assume you're supposed to be there, and radiate the general aura of someone who's either on a mission or about to cry. Jedi never stop people who look like they're about to cry. Too messy. Too many emotions. Too much paperwork.

I, thankfully, have perfected the face that suggests both "extremely important errand" and "internal crisis." It's one of my many talents.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Maris whispers beside me, or rather slightly behind me, using me as a meat shield against the possibility of authority. "Because this feels like a bad idea. A really bad idea."

I'm pretty sure she was putting most of her concern on. Either that, or she's using Force Gaslighting, because she's been egging me on. Which is why if we get caught, I'm naturally blaming her.

"It's a great idea," I say, confidently, like someone who absolutely did not get this idea fifteen minutes ago while staring at my ceiling and wondering if I could start my own Force sect. "And you're going to be the lookout. Which is extremely easy. Even fun."

"I don't have the right kind of fun," she mutters. "My fun is quiet. Safe. Legal… usually."

"Tonight," I say, sweeping around a corner with the dramatic flourish of someone who definitely practices dramatic flourishes alone, "we broaden your horizons."

"I don't want broader horizons."

"Too late. Horizons: broadened."

She lets out the tiniest, most offended choke of a noise, like a cat who's just discovered someone moved its bowl two inches left. Maris processes change poorly. Maris processes responsibility worse. Which is why she's the perfect lookout — nobody is more alert than a person who desperately wishes not to be involved.

Which I'm mostly sure she is. But, yeah. I have been deceived, before.

We approach the Archive rotunda just as a Knight in tired-looking obi-robes comes down the opposite hall. His hair is uneven, his eyes are red, and his gait is the shuffle of someone who has not slept a full night since the Stark Hyperspace War. Perfect. Exhaustion: the Jedi's natural weakness.

He blinks at us. "The Archive closes in ten minutes."

"It does," I say, nodding gravely, "but Archivist Nu asked me to perform a late-night cross-referencing audit on the comparative cataloging system for niche Force traditions."

The Knight stares at me. I stare back with serene academic authority.

Maris stares at the floor like she's trying to merge with it.

"…That sounds," the Knight says, rubbing his forehead, "like a real thing?"

"It is," I assure him. "Very real. Very necessary. Records have fallen behind on… phrasing conventions. And, ah… cross-indexed cultural context."

What I've just said means absolutely nothing. Absolutely. Nothing.

But this man is exhausted enough that if I told him I was reorganizing the Archives alphabetically by philosophical mood, he would probably thank me.

He nods, gives a vague hand wave that says not my problem, and continues shuffling down the hall. I swear he yawns mid-turn.

Maris watches him leave, then turns to me with the look of a person who cannot believe the universe lets me live without supervision. "Ben."

"Yes?"

"That was nonsense."

"You're welcome."

She doesn't speak again.

I call that victory.

We reach the Archive entrance. The gates are in "polite lockdown" — still open, but glowing faintly with the blue shimmer that says "we will absolutely narc on you." I flash my best "I'm definitely authorized" smile at the first security droid standing by the threshold.

The droid whirs awake.

"STATE YOUR CLEARANCE LEVEL."

"Historical," I tell it, without missing a beat.

The droid pauses. Its eye-sensor flickers. "THAT IS NOT A LEVEL."

"It should be," I say, hands on my hips. "Frankly, I'm surprised it isn't. I'll send in a suggestion form."

"YOU WILL— WAIT. ARE YOU AUTHORIZED TO SUBMIT FORMS?"

"No one's authorized to submit forms," I say. "That's how they get you."

The droid processes this. It clearly shouldn't. But it does. Archive droids have two modes: "impeccably strict" and "deeply confused by human behavior." You want the second one.

"PROCEED," it finally says, stepping aside.

Maris gives me a whisper that was half horrified, and half impressed. "That actually worked?"

"Of course it worked," I whisper back, tapping a panel on the gate so it logs "Skywalker, A." as the user. I've had access to Anakin's account for months. I didn't even have to hack it. I just guessed the password.

It was "Padmé."

No numbers. Only the first letter was capital.

Padmé.

I am living in a galaxy ruled by toddlers.

Once we're inside, the Archive's cool air wraps around me like someone dunked my soul in a glass of ice water. The room hums with soft blue light, holofiles drifting like lazy fireflies between the towering stacks. And somewhere above, Jocasta Nu is probably meditating in her personal quarters, dreaming about catching future generations of Jedi breaking rules.

My plan is to grab what I need before she wakes up and comes downstairs to enforce "learning." The most dangerous discipline of them all.

Maris hovers by the entrance like she's waiting for a trap door to open. "Okay. So. Lookout. Right. What do I do?"

"You look out," I say, already moving toward the turbolift leading to the upper tiers, "and if you see anyone coming, you make a noise."

"What kind of noise?"

"Any noise."

"What if I panic?"

"That's also a noise."

She opens her mouth to argue, but I'm already stepping into the lift. The doors swish shut before she can unload her anxiety onto me like a malfunctioning cargo droid.

As the lift ascends, I give myself a quick mental prep talk.

Okay, Ben. This is fine. This is normal. This is absolutely something responsible people do. The Force wants you to do this. Probably. The Force has been known to want strange things. It wanted Qui-Gon to adopt a nine-year-old bomb-building gremlin from the desert, after all.

The lift opens with a soft chime, and I step into the Restricted Section.

Technically, I have clearance for the outer tiers. I earned it by spending so many detentions in here that the droids started greeting me by name. But the inner tiers — the ones holding anything not approved for general Jedi consumption — those are locked behind ID signatures.

Which is why I'm using Anakin's.

I slide his identi-code into the holoterminal. It blips, scanning.

A beat passes.

ACCESS GRANTED.

WELCOME, KNIGHT SKYWALKER.

The fact that the system recognizes Anakin as a Knight when he is definitely, very clearly, still a Padawan, tells me everything I need to know about his… extracurricular activities.

"Force help us all," I mutter.

I step into the stacks. The lighting dims automatically, recognizing a "sensitive access session." Thin strips of blue glow tangle between shelves of ancient holotomes and crystalline datacylinders. Every sound in here echoes like the room is judging me.

Good. I judge it back.

I take three steps in.

Then hear:

"INTRUDER DETECTED."

I freeze.

The droid rolls toward me, lights flashing.

I raise a hand. "I'm not an intruder. I'm a curious historian. Big difference."

The droid processes this. Literally.

"PROCESSING… PROCESSING… HISTORICAL INTEREST CONFIRMED. STATUS: NOT INTRUDER."

I grin.

"Thank you."

"HOWEVER—"

My grin dies.

"YOUR BIOMETRIC SIGNATURE IS NOT ASSOCIATED WITH CURRENT ACCESS IDENTITY."

Ah. Right. The Anakin problem.

Totally forgot the droids got an update last week.

"Explanation," it demands.

I clear my throat, smile, and say, "I am Knight Skywalker's intern."

Kriff! I meant Padawan, not intern!

There is no such position in the Jedi Order.

There is no universe in which that should work.

There is no version of reality where—

"INTERNSHIP STATUS VERIFIED," the droid says. "PROCEED."

I blink.

Then blink again.

"…That worked?" I whisper.

The droid tilts its head. "ARE YOU QUESTIONING THE EFFICIENCY OF ARCHIVE SECURITY?"

"Never," I say, stepping past it as fast as possible. "This is the most professional institution I've ever seen."

The droid hums smugly.

And I dive deeper into the forbidden stacks, grinning like the gremlin I absolutely am, ready to commit academic crimes in the name of building my own Force sect.

Tonight's going to be perfect.

Probably.

Hopefully.

Assuming the Force continues being very, very stupid.

...​

The Restricted Stacks smell like dust, cold metal, and the subtle, lingering shame of an Order that keeps insisting it has nothing to hide while hiding everything. The lights are dimmer here, probably on purpose — intimidation via ambiance. Classic Jedi strategy. If someone ever taught a class on "How to Discourage Curiosity," it was definitely designed in this room. Probably by a committee.

I slip between two towering shelves as the security droid's footsteps fade behind me, clutching Anakin's login credentials like a stolen credit chit. The archives hum to life at my approach, projectors blooming with cool-blue light. Rows of holotables illuminate in cascading lines, one by one, like they're bowing to me.

Good. They should.

"I'm in," I whisper to myself, even though I've never had to say it out loud in my life. But every illegal data search deserves a dramatic one-liner.

The console flickers. Access accepted. The Force is with me. Anakin's total obliviousness to cybersecurity is with me even more.

The holoscreen loads a list of Force traditions from across the galaxy: Baran Do. Zeison Sha. Fallanassi. Sorcerers of Tund. Jal Shey. Half of these sound like yoga studios, the other half like indie rock bands.

I scroll.

BARAN DO SAGES — Origin: Dorin

Air manipulation.

Specialty: predictive meditation, storm shaping.

Storm shaping.

Storm.

Shaping.

"Okay but why don't we get that?" I mutter. "Storm Jedi would solve half the galaxy's problems and all of our dramatic entrance needs."

Next entry.

ZEISON SHA — Origin: Yanibar

Telekinetic combat. Force-disc techniques.

I lean closer.

"Disc techniques," I read out loud. "As in… throwing discs?"

The description helpfully elaborates:

'Force-forged circular weapons capable of remote manipulation, recall, and slicing trajectories.'

I slap the table.

"Are you kidding me? They get laser frisbees? We spend ten years learning how to politely disarm someone with a glowstick when we could just—" I mime a frisbee toss. "—shnk—problem solved."

I swipe the data onto a portable file. Definitely stealing this for later. For training. For study. For the possibility that someday I will absolutely throw one of these at someone's head.

The holodiscs themselves shimmer, a beautiful translucent gold.

Shiny.

Pretty.

Mine.

I pocket three before I can even pretend to justify it.

Jedi are supposed to reject attachment. Yet here I am, emotionally bonding with contraband educational materials. This Order creates its own problems.

I scroll deeper. More traditions. Secret histories. Names I've never heard, techniques I absolutely want.

Then the holo-pane shifts, almost glitching — a data pathway locked behind a half-corrupted tag.

ACCESS LEVEL: MASTER

CONTENT: FRAGMENTED HISTORICAL ARCHIVE — UNKNOWN HOLOCRON

REFERENCE PHRASE: "THE EMPEROR'S WRATH."

My stomach drops.

Oh, no.

Oh, absolutely not.

No way.

No—

I open it.

Because I'm stupid.

A faint projection forms: a red-lit figure in archaic armor, silhouette jagged and imposing, the kind of ominous posture you only get from someone professionally dedicated to dramatic entrances. The file is too corrupted to identify details, but the title flashes bright and bold:

THE EMPEROR'S WRATH

I physically recoil.

"Oh come on," I hiss. "I can't escape this franchise."

I know that name.

I played that name.

Back in my old universe — mouse in hand, lights off, Mom yelling at me about screen time — I was that guy in the game. The Sith Warrior class story. The one who absolutely body-slammed half the galaxy a few centuries ago.

A Sith enforcer so powerful they made Jedi Masters cry on cutscenes.

The holo-text flickers:

'A being of unparalleled destructive potential… feared by both Empire and Republic… vassal yet executioner… unstoppable…'

"Darth Vader without the asthma suit," I mutter. "An unstoppable force… literally, when you think about it.."

The archive lists theorized historical sightings, none confirmed. Legends passed between Master historians, noting how every mention vanishes from the record ten seconds later.

Because why not make him spooky and meta?

This is ridiculous.

I cross my arms.

Plant my feet.

Declare, to no one:

"There is absolutely no universe where this becomes relevant to my future career path."

The holocron projection flickers, dimming, as if the Force itself is rolling its eyes.

I shut it off. Hard.

Nope. Not dealing with that. If destiny wants me, it can send an appointment request like everyone else.

I turn to leave—

—and nearly collide with a hooded figure.

I yell.

She yells.

A holodisc falls out of my pocket and hits the floor with a very obvious plink.

"MARIS?!"

Maris Brood blinks at me from five inches away, looking like she materialized out of thin air, her hood half-twisted, trying to pretend she didn't just scare ten years off my lifespan.

"Oh good," she says, completely unbothered. "You're alive."

"You were supposed to be the lookout!"

"I was," she says confidently.

"You're literally in the room with me."

"I relocated," she says.

"To inside the restricted zone?!"

She shrugs. "I got bored."

I run both hands over my face.

She studies me with a small frown, like I'm the one being strange.

"The door was taking a long time," she explains, as if this clarifies anything. "So I thought, 'Maybe I'm supposed to go in.' Also, I found snacks."

She pulls a ration bar from inside her sleeve.

It is definitely not from the Archives.

It is definitely stolen.

It is definitely partially eaten.

"I'm losing my mind," I whisper.

She leans in, peering over my shoulder at the holographic terminal. "Ooh. Forbidden history?"

"For learning purposes," I correct, putting my body between her and the Emperor's Wrath file like a shield.

"You're sweating."

"No, I'm being responsible."

She tilts her head. "You're vibrating like the floor during a turbolift malfunction."

"That's just my natural state."

Maris squints at the screen again. "Did something in here freak you out? Is it a ghost? I hope it's a ghost. That would be fun. Unless it's the bad kind."

"There are no Force ghosts in the Archives."

"You say that, but the way the old Masters talk sometimes—"

"Maris."

She waits.

I wait.

She raises a brow.

I groan.

"Okay, yes," I admit. "Maybe there was one thing. A weird thing. An irrelevant thing."

Her eyes sparkle with interest. A terrible sign.

"What kind of irrelevant thing?"

"The kind that definitely won't affect me, the plot, the galaxy, or anything else ever," I say firmly. "So naturally, we're ignoring it."

"Is this like when you said you definitely weren't going to break curfew and then we wound up repelling down the side of the west tower because the elevators were 'being rude'?"

"That was one time."

"It was three times."

I wave my hands. "Point is: the less anyone knows about this, the better. Especially Ahsoka. Especially the Masters. Especially literally everyone."

Maris considers this.

And nods.

"Okay," she says. "Then we should leave before you do something stupid."

I blink.

"…I do something stupid?"

She casually munches her ration bar. "Statistically speaking."

I open my mouth to argue — loudly, passionately, dramatically — and that's exactly when the archive lights flicker in warning, and the distant sound of a security droid echoes down the hall.

Maris freezes.

I freeze.

We look at each other.

"We're leaving," I whisper.

"We should leave faster," she whispers back.

"We're already leaving fast."

"We should elevate that."

"Oh my god, Maris, RUN!"

And we bolt — because nothing motivates two Jedi preteens quite like the sound of impending consequences.

...​

Ahsoka had known something was wrong the moment Maris Brood slinked past her in the hallway with the same guilty, too-casual gait of someone who absolutely wasn't supposed to be out after hours. The girl didn't even try to hide the ration bar in her sleeve. She just nodded at Ahsoka, said "Evening," and then proceeded to walk directly into a restricted wing of the Archives.

Ahsoka stared after her.

That was suspicious.

Even for Maris.

She followed quietly — not sneaky, she wasn't Anakin — but with a purposeful stride that said, "I'm not doing anything wrong, but you probably are." Down the mezzanine staircase, around the corner, past a row of quietly judging statues of long-dead Masters.

She kept expecting to hear the faint hum of Maris's sabers or the sharp clatter of something breaking, but instead she heard—

Running.

Very fast running.

Then shouting.

Then—

Two bodies came careening into view around the corner: Maris first, looking like she'd simply chosen to sprint for fun, and Ben right behind her in a full panic, arms flailing, boots skidding wildly on the polished Archive floors.

Ahsoka's brain took a moment to process the incoming disaster.

Oh no.

Oh no no no—

They were not going to—

"STOP!" she yelped.

To their credit, both of them tried.

To their less credit, the Temple had very smooth flooring and Ben had the traction of a speeder on ice. He kept sliding forward in a straight line toward her, eyes wide, hands windmilling.

And then — at the last second — she felt the Force surge through him, a frantic, chaotic shove outward that snapped his momentum like a leash. Ben jerked to a stop inches from her, hair disheveled, expression guilty in a way that suggested he had absolutely done at least twelve things wrong.

Ahsoka folded her arms.

Ben attempted a smile that was technically a smile only because it involved teeth.

"Hi," he squeaked.

Behind him, Maris waved lazily. "We're not in trouble."

Ahsoka stared at them both.

Then at the datapads spilling out of Ben's sleeves.

Then at the glowing holodiscs clipped haphazardly to his belt.

Then at the little blinking light on a console panel behind them that she knew was an after-hours alarm indicator.

Stars help her.

"What," she asked, voice flat, "did you two do?"

Ben immediately began juggling the datapads — horribly. One slipped. He caught it. Another slipped. He lifted it with the Force… and then began doing that with all of them. This did not inspire confidence.

"Nothing," he said.

Ahsoka raised a brow.

"Something academic," Maris offered.

"Research!" Ben blurted. "Historical research! Super normal. Very boring. Would put you right to sleep, I promise."

Ahsoka stared him down.

He lasted three seconds.

"Okay," he said, hands dropping. "We broke into the Restricted stacks… again."

Ahsoka closed her eyes.

Why.

Why did she hang out with the two most chaos-coded individuals in the entire Order?

"Oh Force," she muttered.

Ben brightened. "Not the whole stacks! Just… most of them. Half. A third. Honestly, it's a blur. Things were shiny."

Ahsoka inhaled, steeling herself.

This was fine.

This was salvageable.

This was—

She glanced at the datapads he was still juggling. One was actively labeled Classified: Master Clearance Only.

—this was definitely going to be a problem.

"Ben."

"Yes?"

"Why," she said carefully, "are you holding restricted datachips?"

He looked down at his hands like they had only just now appeared.

"Oh. Those. Souvenirs."

"Souvenirs," she repeated, monotone.

"Well, more like educational tools. Helpful references. Shhh, don't put them back, the droids will feel smug."

She pinched the bridge of her nose, which was becoming a habit ever since she befriended him. "Ben, Master Jocasta is going to kill you."

He winced. "Not if we fix the logs first."

"YOU TOOK THE LOGS?" she cried.

Maris held up a finger. "Borrowed."

Ahsoka glared.

Maris smiled.

Ahsoka did not smile back.

She took a deep breath. "Okay. We're fixing this. Now. Before anyone notices."

Ben perked up instantly.

That alone was proof he needed adult supervision at all times.

"Great!" he said. "Because… um… they might have noticed already."

A mechanical whir echoed from below.

Ahsoka peered over the mezzanine railing and spotted a pair of security droids beginning their sweep, optical sensors glowing bright yellow.

Her stomach dropped.

"Ben."

"Yes?"

"They're coming this way."

"Yes."

"And you have a plan."

He froze.

She watched him think.

This was always a dangerous sight.

"…Yes?"

"No, you don't," she said.

"No," he admitted.

Ahsoka grabbed him by the sleeve. "Okay. Here's what we're going to do. I'll reroute the terminal logs to one of the unused Archivist IDs. Maris, you go stall the droids."

Maris saluted. "On it."

Without hesitation — and without any indication she understood what "stall" meant — Maris hopped the railing, dropped two meters, and landed silently between the droids.

"Explain your presence," one droned.

"Contemplating," she said.

Ahsoka buried her face in her hands. "Why is that her answer to everything?"

Ben grinned, proud. "She's improving! Last week she said 'existing'."

"Ben," Ahsoka snapped, "focus."

She turned to the terminal, fingers flying across the controls. She wasn't exactly slicing—just "aggressively re-categorizing." Archivist Kano was on sabbatical. He would never know one extra after-hours login appeared under his ID. Would she feel guilty later? Yes. But also, she was friends with Ben, and friendship came with ethical gray zones.

Behind her, she heard Ben approach a second droid that had rolled in from the opposite corridor.

"Intruder detected," it said.

Ben placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "Me? An intruder? Please. Would an intruder wear robes this stylish?"

The droid paused.

Then turned its head.

Then back.

Then back again.

"…Query: is fashion a clearance level?"

Ahsoka almost choked on a laugh, despite everything.

"No," Ben said gravely, "but it should be."

The droid processed this.

Slowly.

Painfully.

Like Ben had just introduced it to the concept of existential crisis.

Ahsoka finished inputting the reroute command, heart pounding. A final string of code flashed across the screen:

LOG ALTERATION: COMPLETE

SOURCE: ARCHIVIST KANO

TIME-STAMP SHIFTED

Done.

Saved.

Contained.

She exhaled.

Then turned around to see Ben holding a glowing holodisc upside-down, Maris dangling from a decorative beam, and both security droids frozen in what she could only describe as "debugging confusion."

Ahsoka planted her hands on her hips.

"All right," she said, "we're leaving. Quietly. No more stealing. No more talking. No more anything."

Ben nodded vigorously. "Agreed. Entirely agreed. Wholeheartedly—"

"Ben."

"I'm shutting up."

They regrouped as the droids finally rebooted their patrol cycle.

Ahsoka grabbed Ben's sleeve again just to make sure he didn't wander off or explode.

He grinned at her — wide, boyish, relieved.

She sighed.

Stars.

She really was the responsible one, wasn't she?

"Let's go," she muttered.

And together — one sensible Initiate dragging two feral ones — they disappeared into the mezzanine shadows just as the security sweep resumed behind them.

...​

The safehouse holoprojector sputtered like it was protesting the very idea of broadcasting Duchess Satine Kryze's voice. Bo-Katan sat on the edge of the long metal table, helmet tucked under one arm, fingers drumming against the paint-scratched surface as her sister's image flickered into clarity.

"…and as such," Satine was saying, every syllable ridiculously calm, "Mandalore formally extends asylum and full rights of citizenship to all clone troopers seeking refuge from wartime service. They are the sons of Jango Fett, a Mandalorian by blood, and we will honor that lineage."

The room went stiff.

Death Watch warriors shifted uncomfortably. A few growled. One cursed loudly enough to make the holoprojector hiccup.

And Bo-Katan —

Bo-Katan didn't move.

She watched Satine with the narrowed, calculating eyes of someone who had been angry for so long she had forgotten what other emotions felt like.

The clones.

Jango's clones.

If fate had twisted just slightly differently — if the Galaxy had offered her just one other path — she would have followed Jango Fett. In another life, she would have worn his crest on her shoulder, his orders in her ear, his respect at her back. The True Mandalorians had been everything she was raised to honor. Courage. Strength. Loyalty. Family.

And then the Jedi wiped them out.

The children of bloody diplomacy and misplaced mercy.

Bo-Katan's jaw clenched.

Satine continued speaking, the holofeed broadcasting her serenity like a challenge.

"And further," Satine said, "Mandalore reaffirms its stance of political neutrality, now paired with the acknowledgement of these clone citizens as individuals under our protection. Their personhood is non-negotiable."

Someone choked behind her.

Possibly on outrage.

Possibly on their own tongue.

Pre Vizsla stormed forward, armored boots slamming against the stone floor as though he wanted the mountain beneath them to know he was furious.

"This is deliberate provocation," he snarled, slicing a hand through the air. "She is baiting the Republic. She's daring them to challenge her. To challenge us."

The safehouse smelled of old metal and hover-exhaust, but Vizsla's rage added something sharper—burnt ozone and restless violence. Half the room bristled in response.

Bo-Katan stayed silent.

Vizsla jabbed a finger at the projector. "A clone army granted sanctuary on Mandalore? The Republic won't stand for it. Not after she already declared independence. This is recklessness."

Bo-Katan almost laughed.

Recklessness.

That was one of the kinder words she had for her sister.

But this… this wasn't recklessness.

This was calculated.

It was political war.

And Satine Kryze had just thrown a thermal detonator under every power in the galaxy and smiled politely while doing it.

"She'll turn the clones against the Republic," Vizsla went on. "Or worse — she'll make it look like Mandalore is arming itself."

A thin, nervous voice piped up near Bo-Katan's elbow.

"Uh — technically, sir, Duchess Satine didn't say anything about weapons," said one of the newer recruits, a surprisingly polite young man named Vevik whose armor still gleamed from lack of battle-scarring. "Just… y'know… providing shelter. And meals. And legal support. And, um… medical care. And—"

Vizsla rounded on him. "Are you defending her?"

Vevik squeaked so hard his helmet beeped. "N-no! Absolutely not! I just— I'm just saying she didn't technically arm anyone, sir!"

Bo-Katan smothered a snort.

Poor kid.

Already halfway to realizing Satine wasn't the demon Death Watch liked pretending she was.

She turned her attention back to the broadcast. Satine was wrapping her speech, posture regal, eyes fierce.

Bo-Katan hated how familiar that fierceness felt.

"We will not turn our backs on those who share our blood," Satine said. "Nor will we surrender our right to self-governance to fear or foreign influence. Mandalore stands independent, united, and unafraid."

The feed cut.

Silence settled over the room like dust.

Bo-Katan exhaled slowly.

Carefully.

As if each breath threatened to fracture something inside her.

Because this changed everything.

Satine had always renounced Mandalore's martial traditions.

Always preached peace.

Always framed warriors as relics.

But now?

Now she was invoking bloodline. Heritage. Jango Fett. Mandalorian sons.

She was claiming the clones.

Claiming an army.

And Mandalore with a clone army — or even a few thousand defectors — would reshape the entire power structure of the galaxy. The Core Worlds, the Outer Rim, everyone would have to recalculate their strategies overnight.

Vizsla paced, rage simmering hot enough to fog the air.

"This will bring Republic eyes down on us," he spat. "On me. On our movement. Satine is tightening the noose. Every trooper searching her borders will eventually turn inward. We'll be surrounded."

Bo-Katan absorbed his words without reacting.

Because he was right.

This was going to put a spotlight on Mandalore the likes of which the sector hadn't seen since the Mandalorian Excision.

Death Watch was used to hiding in the dark.

This would blaze them in galactic daylight.

But…

But it would also put pressure on Satine's image. No one could claim she'd abandoned Mandalorian heritage if she embraced Jango's sons. The people — their people — would question everything Death Watch had told them. It could unravel the movement from within.

Vizsla ranted on, but Bo-Katan's mind had already moved ahead, racing through possibilities, probabilities, consequences.

Satine would gain strength.

Death Watch would lose it.

The Galaxy would shift.

And then there was the other matter — the one no one else in the room dared bring up around her.

The Jedi.

Specifically: the very Jedi who had actually discovered the Clone Army. Was also the very one who knocked up Satine. Which was probably the reason one of her nephews was… what did they call it? Force-sensitive?

Space magic bullshit, in her opinion. Still, the irony was palpabale.

The Force must have a sick sense of humor.

For all Satine's pacifist ideals, she was now in possession of something dangerously close to a ready-made army — a move worthy of any warlord.

This was Satine revealing she still had Mandalorian steel in her bones.

Bo-Katan hated how much respect that stirred in her.

Or was it envy?

Vevik cleared his throat hesitantly beside her. "So, uh… commander? What do we do? About all… that?"

Bo-Katan didn't answer immediately.

Instead she rose, sliding her helmet into place, letting the HUD dim the too-bright room and the too-loud noise of her own thoughts.

What did they do?

Break with Satine completely?

Double down on Death Watch?

Strike now, while Mandalore was in political upheaval?

Wait, and let her sister build something stronger than Death Watch could match?

Her heart twisted sharply — the ache of being torn between two worlds, two loyalties, two pieces of herself that refused to merge.

Bo-Katan stared at the blank projector, seeing her sister's face even after it was gone.

Satine had just declared herself a player in the war.

And the galaxy would answer.

"If Mandalore starts welcoming clone defectors," Bo-Katan said finally, voice a calm blade, "everything changes."

Vevik nodded rapidly. Vizsla scowled. The others leaned in, hanging on her words the way her Warriors always had — even if she tried not to think of why.

Bo-Katan lifted her chin.

"We'll watch," she said. "We'll wait."

And under the armor, beneath the rage, deeper than even she wanted to admit — she wondered:

Is this it?

Is this the moment I choose between my sister… and my cause?

Or is it the moment I realize they were never as far apart as I've made myself believe?

She didn't know.

But she would soon.

The Galaxy was shifting.

And Mandalore would shift with it.

...​

Rex had gotten used to the buzz of aging fluorescent lights. They hummed the same way the Kaminoan nutrient tubes had hummed—endless, low, and just annoying enough to remind you they were there. The barracks were clean, dry, and warmer than Kamino, but they still felt like… holding space. Temporary. Like the whole building was waiting for the Republic to make up its mind about whether clones counted as soldiers, weapons, or some morally awkward combination of both.

Tonight, though, the humming wasn't the only thing keeping anyone awake.

"—I'm telling you, it sounded real," CT-1409 insisted from the top bunk. "Duchess Satine Kryze herself. Broadcast went out on the public Holonet. Offer of asylum. Citizenship if we want it."

CT-9415 sat cross-legged on the floor below him, helmet in his lap like a stress ball. "Citizenship," he repeated, tasting the unfamiliar shape of the word. "Like… actual citizenship? Papers? Benefits? A home? A home that isn't water and lightning storms?"

"There's no lightning on Kamino," Jesse muttered.

"There should be. Would've made sense."

Rex listened from the end of the room, arms folded over his chestplate. He didn't step in to stop the discussion; it wasn't harmful, and it was better than replaying the same questions in silence. Besides, he was thinking the exact same things—they were all just braver about saying them out loud.

"Look, I'm not saying it's bad," CT-1477 said carefully, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just… Mandalore is Mandalore. Mandalorians expect things."

"Yeah. Soldiers," CT-6922 added. "And we're good at that, sure, but I don't think that's the point of 'citizenship.'"

"That is the point of Mandalore," CT-1409 countered. "It's literally a warrior culture."

"It used to be," Jesse corrected. "Now their Duchess is a pacifist. Completely reformed the system."

CT-9415 blinked. "So what does she want with us, then?"

That was the real question. The one they all kept circling around without landing anywhere.

Rex exhaled slowly, pushing away from the wall. The conversation quieted automatically—respect, or ingrained command protocol, or both.

"We don't know what she wants," Rex said. "All we know is what she said publicly. Clones discovered, offer extended. Nothing official from the Senate." He grimaced. "Not even a briefing."

"That part bothers me," CT-1477 said. "Why didn't the Senate tell us first?"

"Maybe they didn't think it mattered," CT-6922 said. Then, quieter: "Maybe we don't matter."

CT-9415 punched him lightly in the shoulder. "You matter to me, vod."

"That's not the same," CT-6922 replied, but there was a faint smile.

Rex glanced toward the end of the room, where Cody stepped in from the hall. His posture was tense, even for Cody. Rex raised a brow. Cody shook his head, signaling no updates from command.

No briefing. No meeting. No explanation.

Just silence filled with secondhand news.

Cody sat beside him. "Still nothing," he murmured. "Knight Kenobi pushed for information, but the Senate's in a holding pattern."

"That's a polite way to say they're panicking," Rex murmured back.

Cody huffed. "That's me. Polite."

The troopers were still talking quietly.

"…we'd finally have a home," CT-9415 whispered. "A real one. Somewhere we choose."

"But then what?" CT-1477 said. "We become Mandalorians? Join the clans? Fight their wars?" There was no judgment in his tone—just a genuine attempt to understand. "Do we get to decide that? Do they?"

Rex felt that one in his ribs. The Kaminoans had never given them choices—not about training, not about life, not about anything. Everything was predetermined. Purpose, deployment, lifespan. Even their childhoods had belonged to someone else.

"Citizenship means expectations," Jesse said. "And obligations. If Mandalore takes us in, they're not doing it for free."

"Better than the Republic," CT-1409 muttered.

Rex caught that, and so did Cody. But neither called him on it. Because CT-1409 wasn't wrong.

The Republic hadn't asked for an army. That was the line they kept hearing—an army built without their authorization, under circumstances no one could confirm. Apparently the Jedi had commissioned them, per the Kaminoans, but no Jedi knew anything about it. The Master responsible, Sifo-Dyas, had disappeared years ago, before any contracts were filed officially.

So the Republic had an army it didn't want.

And the clones had a government that didn't want them.

Assets. Tools. Numbers.

None of the men said it out loud, but Rex could read it in their faces, in the stiff set of their shoulders.

They wondered if they were being traded. If they'd be handed off like equipment between bureaucracies.

Cody leaned closer. "You hear what the Kaminoans said about the Duchess's broadcast?"

Rex shook his head.

"Apparently the facilities are… annoyed. They claim Mandalore is interfering with property." His jaw tightened. "Property."

Rex fought the instinctive clench of his fists. "We're people."

"I know that," Cody said softly. "The question is whether anyone making decisions does."

Across the room, some of the younger troopers turned the conversation lighter, but not less honest.

"What about Jango?" someone asked from a bunk near the door. "He's still here on Coruscant, last I heard. What's he going to do about all this?"

Everyone quieted again.

No one knew. Jango, just by being being alive, put an entire extra layer of complication on everything. Some clones admired him. Some hated him. Most didn't understand him.

He was their source material, not their father.

And yet he was the closest thing they had to one.

"He hasn't said anything," CT-1409 finally offered. "Not to any of us."

"Would he?" CT-1477asked. "He didn't raise us. The Kaminoans did."

CT-9415 frowned. "He trained the ARC troopers."

"Only the first batch," Jesse corrected. "Not the rest of us."

Rex felt that, too—a strange ache. Not painful, exactly. Just empty. Like something he wasn't sure he'd ever had the right to want.

The room fell quiet, resting on that uneasy line between possibility and dread.

Cody nudged him. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That depends," Rex murmured. "Are you thinking we're being shuffled around like supply crates?"

Cody didn't reply.

He didn't have to.

Rex rose, hands behind his back as he addressed the room—not formally, not as a commander giving orders, but as someone who could see his brothers drifting toward spirals.

"Listen up," he said quietly. "We don't know what's coming. Not from the Senate. Not from Mandalore. Not from anyone. But whatever decision gets made…" He looked around at them—different faces, same face. Brothers. "We face it together. No one's getting traded. No one's getting abandoned. If Mandalore wants something from us, we decide what that means. Not them. Not the Senate."

CT-6922 lifted his chin. "You really think they'll let us decide?"

Rex hesitated only a heartbeat. "I think no one knows how to handle us. That means we have more room to stand our ground than they realize."

That actually seemed to ease some tension.

Cody added, "And until we hear otherwise, we're still the Republic's responsibility. Whether they like it or not."

CT-9415 grinned faintly. "Guess we're everyone's problem."

"Always have been," CT-1409 said. "In the best way."

The lights hummed. The brothers settled slowly back into their bunks, conversations softening into murmurs. The uncertainty didn't vanish—it wouldn't—but they weren't facing it alone.

...​

I should've left the slate alone.

In my defense, it was sitting there on the shelf looking mysterious, and I'd already committed several crimes tonight. At a certain point the difference between three and four felonies becomes philosophical. Still, the holoslate was heavier than I expected when I lifted it again, like it knew I was unqualified to be touching it.

"So," I muttered to it, tapping its darkened surface, "you're the one with the cryptic 'Emperor's Wrath' reference. Which—by the way—rude name. Zero context. Zero instructions. Zero consideration for my curiosity."

Ahsoka and Maris were hovering nearby, which meant Ahsoka was anxiously tracking every move I made and Maris was staring at a glowing fungus patch on the wall like she wanted to adopt it.

I closed my eyes and reached out with the Force, hoping for… I don't know. An intuitive sense of how to get past the Master-level lock. Something flowy and mystical. Yoda made this look easy. On the other hand, Yoda wasn't a self-insert from a planet where the microwave sometimes scared him.

Don't judge me! Have you ever tried to microwave a hot pocket?! Half the time it sounds like a bomb went off!

Still—trust the Force, right?

That was the plan.

Mostly because I didn't have a backup plan.

I let my awareness settle into the device, brushing past the surface encryption like running fingers over a stuck seal. It resisted—then, suddenly, it didn't. Something clicked, like a lock tumbling open. Metaphorically, anyways.

The slate hummed to life in my hands.

"Oh kriff," Ahsoka whispered behind me. "He actually did it."

"Of course I did it," I said. "I am a scholar. A visionary. A menace to authority."

A projection blinked into existence above the slate, and I rotated toward the nearest holoterminal with all the dignity of someone pretending they didn't almost drop a priceless artifact. I slotted the slate into the panel.

The terminal lit up.

A stream of high-level access codes flickered across it—Master level. Maybe higher. Something the Jedi definitely didn't want a Padawan, let alone me, poking around in.

The map popped into view. A burning red world.

Korriban.

The name pulsed on the screen like it was trying to menace us.

"Well," I said carefully, "that sounds… totally not evil."

Ahsoka folded her arms. "Ben, it literally starts with 'Kor.' Nothing good starts with 'Kor.'"

"Oh, so we're judging evil based on phonemes now? You are so insensitive. You know Coruscant has the same sound in there! Granted, Coruscant is a hollowed-out, overpopulated, crime-infested planet that's home to the worst beings in the galaxy—politicians—but still. Now. Don't you feel silly?"

She stared at me.

Maris was already halfway down the aisle headed for the exit, doing that silent scooting thing cats do when they know a cup is about to fall off a table.

"Uh… Ben?" she called in the softest possible voice that still conveyed abject panic.

That's when the lights snapped from their usual peaceful library glow into a vivid, siren-red strobe.

A voice boomed overhead:

"UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED. ARCHIVE SECURITY PROTOCOLS ACTIVATING."

See, this is the downside of the Jedi Order's whole "no killing" policy. Their security systems were built around not hurting anyone, which somehow made them more terrifying because the droids put so much effort into subduing you gently. It was unsettling.

A security droid rolled into view from the far end of the stacks, photoreceptors blazing.

"Please remain still for your safety."

A stun bolt sizzled past my ear. I yelped.

"Okay, wow, immediately contradicting yourself—"

Another shot. I raised my saber and reflexively deflected—straight back into the droid's chest.

Nothing happened.

Right. Stun bolts don't affect metal.

I pointed my saber accusingly. "I'll remain still at your funeral!"

"Ben!" Ahsoka grabbed my sleeve and yanked. "Move!"

We sprinted. The droid kept a polite but relentless pace behind us, firing stun bolts in what it probably thought was a helpful pattern.

"Please do not flee. Evading security is unsafe."

"I disagree!" I shouted back.

Maris skidded into a turn ahead of us, almost wiping out on the marble floor. "Why are the Archives this smooth?!"

"Because the Jedi hate friction!" I yelled.

"That doesn't even make sense!"

"It does right now!"

Ahsoka vaulted over a study table; I slid under it and nearly rearranged my entire face on the edge. Another droid clanked into view beside the first.

"Multiple intruders detected. Initiating pacification."

"Pacification?" I squeaked. "We're not even bothering anyone! We are the most non-disruptive criminals ever!"

Ahsoka shot me a look as she ran. "Ben, you hacked a restricted slate, triggered a locked archive terminal, and you're holding contraband in your sleeve."

I thought about that for two seconds.

"Okay, so there were parts to that sentence I didn't love."

We barreled down the central aisle. The main doors loomed ahead like salvation. Or at least like something with fewer robots.

Maris reached them first and slapped the emergency release panel. The lights flickered crimson again. The doors began to grind open at a pace so slow it defied physics.

The droids glided closer.

"Remain still for your saf—"

I shoved my hand out, a burst of Force shove rattling through the aisle. The droids skidded backward, flailing their limbs like indignant metal turtles.

Ahsoka and Maris squeezed through the half-open gap. I dove after them.

We slammed the doors behind us.

Ahsoka braced her hands on her knees, panting. Maris clung to the wall like it was the safest place she'd ever encountered.

I straightened, dusted myself off, and patted my sleeve.

The slate-chip with the Korriban coordinate was tucked safely there.

Ahsoka noticed. Her montrals twitched.

"You're not actually going there."

I considered pretending, for half a second, that I would never, ever be that reckless.

Then I remembered who I am.

I shrugged. "We'll see how tomorrow feels."

Ahsoka groaned. Maris whimpered. The Archive doors beeped angrily behind us.

And that was how we ended the night: sweaty, terrified, and technically still in the library hallway.

Just three kids.

And one very evil-sounding planet now sitting in my pocket.

...​

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IMPORTANT ANNOUCNEMNT:

Tomorrow will be the last daily update for this fic. It will continue! But we are at the point, where we have finally caught up to what's been released to the public. After tomorrow, chapters will still continue to be released, but it will be weekly, every Tuesday.

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 18: The Totally Normal Humanitarian Mission

It started with me doing something extremely responsible: studying.

And not even the fake kind of studying where I stare at a screen until my brain slides out my ear and hope the Force uploads the lesson into my skull. No — I was genuinely, legitimately, enthusiastically analyzing the forbidden holo-chip I had absolutely not stolen from the Restricted Archives the night before.

(There's a difference between "stealing" and "borrowing indefinitely." I don't care what the Temple legal department says.)

The chip buzzed faintly in my hands, projecting a dim red map across my desk. It was the kind of red that screamed ancient curses included and please sign the waiver before opening. Several glyphs pulsed in the corner — jagged, angry characters shaped like someone lost a fight with a chisel — and then, right on cue, the projection blinked and locked onto a set of coordinates.

Coordinates that pointed to a barren desert world.

Coordinates accompanied by a faint, ominous musical sting.

I frowned. "Okay, dramatic, but points for presentation."

The little map rotated slowly, casting the glyphs across my walls like angry fireflies. The accompanying text translated itself into something approximating Basic, though it was clearly trying its best to terrify me: Site of Ancient Trials — Entry Forbidden — Jedi Council Oversight Required — Extremely Evil, Probably.

The word "Probably" was doing a lot of the heavy lifting there.

I leaned back in my chair, steepled my fingers, and said the most academically responsible thing possible:

"…Well. This looks educational enough."

My brain — traitor that it is — immediately started filling in the details: the desert wind, the lost corridors, the curses whispered by long-dead zealots. The awe. The mystery. The fact that I definitely, absolutely should not go there.

And that's when it hit me.

That quiet, tiny, beautiful moment where a bad idea evolves into a full plot.

You know the moment. The exact second where curiosity wins, consequences lose, and you can practically hear the Force whisper, Do it. What are they gonna do, put you on more probation?

I grinned. "This is either going to be genius or catastrophically stupid."

Naturally, that's when Ahsoka walked in — because the universe likes to send me warnings disguised as friends.

The door hissed open, and she poked her head in with a snack in one hand and a datapad in the other. "Hey, Ben, I—"

She froze. Her eyes went wide.

She stared at the projection, then at me.

Then back at the projection.

"Oh no," she breathed. "Ben. No. Not even a little no. A planetary-level no."

Now, Ahsoka is usually pretty expressive, but this was the kind of expression that deserved its own holocomic. I could practically see the internal calculation:

Ancient Sith planet freshly grounded friend forbidden maps me = disaster.

I lifted my hands defensively. "Before you say anything—"

She pointed at the glowing red glyph pulsing on my wall. "That's Korriban. The bad world. Remember?!"

"I know!" I said, as if this helped my case. "Isn't it cool?"

"It is the opposite of cool! It's— it's—" She sputtered. "It's the warning sticker of planets!"

I opened my mouth to reassure her, but before I could summon even one lie shaped like optimism, Maris Brood slid dramatically through the doorway like she'd been eavesdropping the entire time.

Which, knowing her, she had.

She took one look at the map, smirked, and announced, "Field trip."

See, where Ahsoka was the little angel on my shoulder yelling "STOP," Maris was the gremlin on my other shoulder whispering "What if we pushed the big glowing red button?"

"Thank you, Maris," I said, gesturing grandly at her. "Finally, someone who understands academic enthusiasm."

Ahsoka blinked at both of us. "Academic? You think going to Korriban counts as academic?! That's like saying touching a live electrical conduit is a science experiment."

"Well…" I said carefully, "technically it could be—"

"No."

She stabbed a finger in my direction. "Your probation just started. Just started. And your first response is 'Let me go somewhere known for producing mass murderers.'"

"But think about it," I countered, rising from my chair with all the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be confident. "If the Jedi won't tell me things, I'll just go ask their enemies' ghosts. Academic integrity."

Ahsoka stared at me like she was trying to Force-push sense back into my skull. "You are not seriously considering going there."

"Oh, Ahsoka," I said, clapping a hand to my chest. "I'm not just considering it. I'm actively planning it."

Maris placed her hands on her hips. "Do we pack weapons? Concealed blades? Emotional support knives?"

Ahsoka whipped toward her. "Don't encourage him!"

"I'm not," Maris said, deadpan. "I'm encouraging us."

This was exactly why we should not be allowed to hang out unsupervised.

I waved toward the projection again. "Look — desert world, ancient ruins, probably cursed. But educational! Imagine all the lost knowledge. Jedi history. Force philosophy. Maybe even the secret to why the Council thinks everything fun counts as a felony."

Ahsoka dragged both hands down her face.

I continued undeterred, "And realistically—realistically—it can't be that dangerous. We're not going to touch anything. Or awaken anything. Or open any ominous sarcophagi with the words 'DO NOT OPEN' carved into them."

Maris raised a hand. "What if it's already open?"

"Well, then that's a safety hazard," I said. "We'd be morally obligated to check."

Ahsoka pointed at me like she was leveling a blaster. "Ben. Korriban literally eats Jedi."

"I eat a lot too," I said. "We'll get along."

She let out a long, slow exhale. One of those breaths where you can physically see someone reevaluating all their life choices. "This is… this is madness."

"To be fair," Maris said, "it's not his worst idea."

"That is not comforting!" Ahsoka yelped.

I slapped my hands together decisively. "Look, we'll be fine. We'll take a shuttle. We'll fly low. We'll be in and out before anyone knows we're gone. Simple."

Ahsoka blinked once. Twice. "Ben. Please tell me you're not planning to—"

"Steal?" I corrected. "Nooo, Ahsoka. Not steal."

She relaxed a hair.

"We're going to borrow."

She tensed again.

Maris gave a thumbs-up. "Do we bring snacks?"

"Yes," I said immediately. "Absolutely. Good initiative."

Ahsoka made a strangled noise. "No. No! We are not going anywhere! We are not stealing—borrowing—a ship! You are on probation, Ben! PRO-BA-TION!"

"Ahsoka," I said, putting on my most innocent smile, "how hard could stealing a ship be?"

"WE'RE NOT STEALING—"

...​

Obi-Wan Kenobi was having a very long day.

And when his version of a long-day ranged from bailing his erstwhile padawan out of another sky-speeded joyride, or accidentally discovering an entire clone army… well. Suffice it to say, he's come to expect the unexpected.

Which was why when he had just settled into what might have passed for meditation if he squinted hard enough — the kind where the Force felt peaceful, quiet, and very deliberately pretending not to comment on his life choices — it did not come as a surprise to him when his comm chimed with the specific tone used only for Council directives.

Not even a hint of surprise, in fact. Only a very healthy sense of dread.

The holo flickered to life, displaying the Council chamber and several Masters who wore matching expressions of concern. Not annoyance. Concern. That was worse.

"Knight Kenobi," Mace Windu said, voice clipped. "Due to recent political developments surrounding Mandalore's declaration of independence, the Council has reassessed our diplomatic strategy."

Obi-Wan felt his shoulders tense immediately. Mandalore. Satine. Independence. Politics.

The exact things that usually meant his week was about to fall apart.

He listened as they detailed the situation: Satine's declaration had caused ripples throughout the Mid and Outer Rim. The Republic was rattled. The Senate was fracturing.

The newly announced Confederacy had already begun spreading propaganda about Mandalore being "ripe for alignment." Satine was resistant, but isolated. And now that Mandalore had publicly offered sanctuary to the clones — citizenship, even — tensions were rising faster than the Jedi could file diplomatic briefings.

Which meant, naturally, they were sending him.

"Given your familiarity with Mandalore," Ki-Adi-Mundi added delicately, "you are the most… experienced candidate for this advisory role."

Experienced.

That was one word for it.

Emotionally compromised was another.

Romantically entangled if you asked Quinlan Vos.

A disaster waiting to happen if you asked Obi-Wan himself.

He masked the tightness in his chest with a polite nod.

"I understand, Masters."

There was a pause — just long enough for Obi-Wan to sense a second directive waiting in the wings.

"And," Windu added, "regarding Initiate Kryze…"

Ah. There it was.

He braced himself.

"…we understand you requested to bring him."

Obi-Wan startled, though only inwardly. He had asked — quietly, tentatively, knowing full well how it would be received. He had worded it carefully, too: Ben may benefit from witnessing peaceful diplomatic processes on his ancestral world. He'd chosen that phrasing specifically because it sounded responsible, professional, and definitely not because he wanted his son somewhere he could keep an eye on him after the Archives debacle and the Council reprimand.

The Council did not agree.

"It is our decision," Mace said, "that he remain on Coruscant."

"His probation remains in effect," Plo Koon added gently. "Reflection, not adventure, is what he requires now."

Obi-Wan managed not to sigh aloud. He only felt it — that faint, aching tug in his ribs that came from wanting to protect two worlds at once and failing at both.

He bowed. "Of course, Masters."

After the message ended, he stayed seated for a few minutes, staring at the darkened comm.

It was the right decision. Rational. Reasonable. Entirely logical.

And yet it felt wrong.

Ben, for all the chaos orbiting around him like debris caught in a gravity well, wasn't dangerous. He wasn't reckless without cause. He was curious. Passionate. Searching.

And increasingly lonely.

Obi-Wan stood, took a breath, and headed for Ben's quarters.

If he couldn't bring the boy with him, the least he could do was explain it himself.

...​

The door to Ben's room slid open with a soft hiss after he knocked. Ben appeared in the frame looking… alarmingly innocent. Far too innocent. The kind of innocence that Obi-Wan had learned, through hard experience, only appeared when Ben was absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent guilty of something.

His bag was half-packed on the bed behind him — not a normal bag, either, but one of the Temple-approved travel satchels initiates used for off-world training. Inside, Obi-Wan spotted rations, a multipurpose tool, two datapads, and something that looked suspiciously like a pilfered maintenance passcard.

Ben froze when he saw who it was. "Oh — Master Obi-Wan. Hi. Um. I was just… meditating."

Obi-Wan blinked, then glanced meaningfully at the bag.

Ben followed his gaze, then said, "Active meditation. You know. Movement. Packing. Contemplative… organizing."

The lie was terrible.

Spectacularly terrible.

Almost performance art.

Obi-Wan folded his arms. "I see."

Ben smiled with the fully unconvincing charm of someone who had no idea how obvious he truly was. "So… what's up?"

Obi-Wan stepped inside, though he didn't comment on the bag. Not yet. He could feel the tension rolling under Ben's surface like a tide. Whatever the boy was planning, he didn't want to humiliate him by calling it out immediately.

Instead, he said gently, "I've come to tell you that I've been assigned a new mission."

Ben's eyes lit with interest — too quickly. Obi-Wan detected the unmistakable spark of hope.

"Mandalore?" Ben guessed.

Obi-Wan nodded.

Ben's face split into a grin that made Obi-Wan's heart simultaneously warm and ache. "Can I come?"

There it was.

Pure, earnest eagerness.

And Obi-Wan had to extinguish it.

His chest tightened as he spoke. "I asked the Council."

Ben stilled. Just for a moment. But Obi-Wan felt the flicker of emotion — restrained, but sharp.

"And?" Ben asked.

Obi-Wan gave him the softest expression he could manage. "And they declined."

The hope drained from Ben's features in slow motion.

"Oh," he said, voice light, careful. "Right. Because of my probation."

"Yes."

Obi-Wan wished he could offer something gentler, but the truth stood like stone. "They believe reflection will benefit you more at this time."

"They say that," Ben muttered, "like reflection and adventure are different things."

Obi-Wan actually laughed — small, quiet, rueful. "Indeed. Personally, I've had some of my best epiphanies under blaster fire."

Ben blinked. "…I think I'm starting to understand why the healers don't like you."

Obi-Wan smiled faintly. "Yes, well. They rarely appreciate my insights."

He hesitated, watching Ben try — and fail — to mask his disappointment. The boy's shoulders had pulled in slightly, tension ghosting through the Force around him. Not anger. Not even frustration.

Just… confinement.

Obi-Wan's voice softened. "Ben."

The boy looked up.

"I am proud of you," Obi-Wan said. "Truly. Your curiosity, your initiative, the way you care for others — these are not failings. They are strengths. Even when they create… complications."

A faint, surprised laugh escaped Ben. "Complications. Yeah. That's one word for it."

Obi-Wan stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on Ben's shoulder. It was as close as he could allow himself to come to embracing him outright. "I worry," he admitted quietly. "Not because I believe you reckless, but because the galaxy is shifting. Forces are moving faster than even the Council can track. And I don't want to lose you in that chaos."

Ben's throat bobbed in a swallow. He was quiet for a long beat.

Then he nodded. "I'll stay put. I promise."

Obi-Wan let out a relieved breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Thank you."

Ben smiled — small, almost shy. "Have a safe trip. And… tell my aunt—"

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow.

"My actual aunt," Ben amended quickly. "Bo-Katan. Tell her I said hi… unless she joined Death Watch. Then, just tell her to stop it. Threaten her with peace lectures. She hates those."

Obi-Wan chuckled.

They exchanged a mutual, gentle nod — the quiet warmth of an almost-family goodbye they couldn't have in words.

Obi-Wan turned to leave.

He paused at the doorway.

Something tugged faintly at his senses — not danger, exactly, but… misalignment. A thread pulled taut. Something just a little off.

He glanced over his shoulder at Ben, who stood there watching him with the perfect stillness of someone who desperately did not want to draw attention to the duffel bag behind him.

Obi-Wan frowned.

Then — after a second's hesitation — he let it go with a sigh.

He was probably just overthinking it.

He left the room.

In hindsight, he really, really shouldn't have.

...​

The Jedi Temple hangar has a very particular smell—ionized engine coolant, polish, and the unmistakable scent of responsibility. Which is why stepping into it while actively planning a felony feels a bit like walking into the Healer's Ward carrying a flamethrower. I swear the walls know. They judge.

"Act normal," I whisper, which is immediately the least normal thing a person can say.

Ahsoka elbows me. "You saying that makes it worse."

Maris doesn't respond because she's already ten steps ahead, slinking between tool carts and landed starfighters with the grace of someone who alternates between ballet and petty crime. She hops onto a walkway rail, dangles for exactly one dramatic second, and drops behind a parked shuttle like a particularly smug cat.

I inhale deeply. The hangar is busy—busier than last time. Probably because the Council is having some kind of Very Serious Argument about Mandalore, the Separatists, and the Clones, which means all the pilots and mechanics are on high alert.

Speaking of said Clones, I'm still not entirely sure what the Republic's stance on them is, yet. But they have been making themselves very friendly with the Jedi. Ordinarily, that'd be a good thing.

But right now, that was a very bad thing for me.

Security wise.

Clone troopers in orange-striped tech armor made themselves at home loading crates into transports. A pair of Temple Guards stand in very obvious do not commit shenanigans positions by the primary console. A flight officer is barking orders at a pair of Jedi Knights who look like they'd rather be anywhere else. I spot at least three adults who could ruin our entire afternoon with a single stern look.

Perfect. Nothing raises the stakes of a stupid plan like witnesses.

We duck behind a stack of ration crates marked PROPERTY OF REPUBLIC RELIEF DIVISION — which feels like foreshadowing, considering my very logical and not-at-all insane plan to disguise our stolen ship as a food relief shuttle.

"Well," Ahsoka whispers, staring around the corner like she's scouting a battlefield, "this is officially the worst idea you've ever had."

"Incorrect," I whisper back cheerfully. "It's top three, at best. And besides—terrible ideas are the birthplace of legends."

Ahsoka stares at me the way Masters stare at malfunctioning droids. "That's not a saying."

"It is now."

"Ben," she hisses, "we are literally about to steal a shuttle."

"Borrow," I correct. "We're borrowing a shuttle."

"You don't plan to return it today."

"…Future returning is still returning."

Ahsoka opens her mouth—no doubt to deliver a lecture involving phrases like gross misconduct or why does the Force even let you live—but she freezes as a loud clank echoes through the hangar.

We both peek around the crates in time to see Maris climbing the side of our target shuttle like it personally offended her. She wedges her boot in a maintenance seam, pulls herself up, and pries open the cockpit hatch with a level of enthusiasm that suggests she was waiting her entire life for this moment.

Ahsoka pinches the bridge of her nose. "She moves like gravity is just… a suggestion."

"She rejects your mortal physics."

"She rejects everything."

"I admire that in a person."

Ahsoka shoots me a look that could peel paint. "You admire exactly the wrong things."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't—Ben, focus."

Right. The plan. The brilliant, flawless, absolutely airtight plan that I will definitely regret later but also probably brag about for years.

I tap the holopad strapped to my belt, Obi-Wan's ID tag tucked neatly beneath it like a guilty secret. He's being deployed. The Council assumes he's leaving the Temple shortly. That means his clearance is active. All I have to do is slip it through the terminal, file a fake flight plan, and hope I don't get arrested before we even get on the ship.

Easy. Simple. Worst case scenario, we become cautionary tales for future generations. Which would be a legacy, technically.

I take one step toward the central console.

Ahsoka grabs the back of my tunic so hard I choke. "No!"

I wheeze. "Ahsoka—this is—this is obstructing history—"

"You were about to use the Force on a guard!"

"I was going to nudge him! Mentally! Very gently! Like tapping someone on the shoulder. With telekinesis."

"That is still a felony!"

"You don't know that for sure."

"Yes I do! I actually pay attention in class!"

Traitor!

I clear my throat, adjusting my tunic like I meant to almost choke. "Fine. Plan B."

Ahsoka blinks. "There's a Plan B?"

"Of course there is. I always plan ahead." (I absolutely do not always plan ahead.)

Before she can say another negative, energy-killing, future-legend-destroying word, I slip around the crates and stride confidently toward the primary console—because adults can sense fear, and I refuse to give them the satisfaction.

Clone mechanics bustle around me, carrying hydrospanners, calibrating stabilizers, shouting about misaligned thrusters. I try to blend in with the vibe of competence, which is difficult considering I currently radiate the vibe of a kid sneaking into the kitchen at 2 a.m. to steal cake.

I slide Obi-Wan's tag into the terminal.

The console lights up.

A flight officer walks directly toward me.

I smile at him with all the ease of someone absolutely not about to commit grand theft starship.

He squints. "Initiate. Should you be—"

A sudden thoomp echoes behind us.

Everyone turns.

The shuttle's landing ramp has dropped—no, slammed down—like a guillotine, missing a passing Initiates class by approximately one finger-width. A group of five children scatter like startled loth-cats.

Ahsoka screams internally.

I scream internally.

The Temple Guard screams externally.

And Maris leans out of the cockpit hatch with the most unapologetic expression I've ever seen on a humanoid face. "Oops."

The flight officer sprints toward the chaos.

I yank the ID tag out of the terminal and shove it back into my belt like it personally betrayed me.

Ahsoka grabs my arm, dragging me backward so fast my boots squeak. "Do you understand how close that came to flattening three ten-year-olds?!"

"I would never allow harm to come to children," I say, offended. "Intentionally. Besides, the ramp missed. We should congratulate Maris on her precision."

"That wasn't precision. That was entropy wearing boots."

We skid behind the crates again just as two clone mechanics jog over to help the Padawan class regain their footing. A Temple Guard starts lecturing Maris from the floor. Maris, incredibly, appears to be pretending she can't hear him.

Ahsoka rounds on me. "We're so getting arrested."

I glance at the shuttle, engine lights glowing faintly, ramp still halfway extended like a tongue. I glance at the distracted adults. I glance at Maris silently mouthing get in losers, we're committing space crimes from the cockpit.

Then I grin.

"Correction," I announce, hands on hips like someone who absolutely deserves confidence. "We're getting promoted."

Ahsoka blinks. "Promoted?"

"To cautionary tales."

She stares at me like she's weighing whether to strangle me or join me.

The Force swirls through my chest—wild, warm, expectant. I feel a terrible idea crystalize into destiny.

This is happening.

This is so very, very happening.

...​

There are many things a rational person would do when preparing to steal a shuttle from the Jedi Temple hangar. Meditate. Review escape paths. Perhaps reconsider their life choices.

I, however, am proudly slapping a giant REPUBLIC FOOD RELIEF TRANSPORT sticker onto the hull like I'm trying to win a prize for Most Overcompensating Cover Story.

Unfortunately, I forgot Galactic Basic is not spelled exactly like English.

Ahsoka stands behind me with her arms crossed. "Ben… you spelled 'Relief' wrong."

I look at the sticker.

I look at her.

I look back at the sticker, where RELEEF stares back at me like a taunt.

"Shhh," I whisper. "No one reads anymore. We're totally fine."

I am, internally, screaming. Kriffing Basic. Half the letters have different phonetic values and the grammar is a war crime. How am I supposed to remember that ei makes the long vowel sound here when it makes the completely opposite sound in other contexts? I didn't ask to be multilingual in space wizard languages.

I just wanted to move things with my mind, and chop things with lasers. Is that really so wrong?

Ahsoka huffs, "They literally do read, Ben. It's a government hanger."

"Government spelling," I argue, "is famously flexible."

Before she can reply with the kind of judgment only a Togruta pre-teen with moral high ground can wield, Maris strolls by carrying a crate labeled SWEET BANTHA COOKIES — BULK like it weighs nothing. She thunks it into the shuttle's cargo hold with the confidence of someone who has fully embraced the chaos inside her soul.

I gesture at her like she's evidence. "See? Look at that. Authenticity."

Ahsoka raises an eyebrow. "Authenticity?"

"Yes." I count on my fingers. "One: relief shipments often include food. We are helping the needy."

"By bringing cookies to… Korriban."

"We don't judge the nutritional needs of ancient Sith ghosts."

Ahsoka rubs her face.

"Two," I continue cheerfully, "long flight needs snacks."

She points at me. "The second one is the only honest part of this entire operation."

"Honesty is about intention."

"No, it's about truth, Ben."

"Well, that explains a lot of my grades."

She groans.

Maris hops back out of the cargo bay with a datapad under her arm. "We're short six crates. Should I steal more?"

"No!" Ahsoka blurts.

"…But also yes," I add, because what is moral consistency if not a boundary I choose not to recognize?

Maris grins and saunters away.

Ahsoka turns to me like I'm personally responsible for unleashing her. "You can't encourage her. She doesn't need encouragement. She needs supervision."

"Which we are providing!"

"We are not providing supervision, Ben. We are committing a crime."

"Do you ever get tired of being the responsible one?"

"Yes," she says instantly.

We share a moment of mutual understanding: the Force has done us both dirty with our role assignments today.

I slap another sticker on the shuttle. This one I spell correctly. Mostly because it only says FOOD, and thank the stars that's spelled the same in both languages. Some throngs really are universal.

I step back to admire the work: our modest Jedi shuttle now looks like a very enthusiastic third-rate charity project. The decals are slightly crooked and definitely peeling at the edges. The cargo ramp is hanging a bit low because Maris kicked the hydraulics earlier. And the whole thing smells faintly like ration bars.

Perfect. Exactly the kind of ship no one wants to talk to.

I'm halfway through adjusting my robe in what I hope is a "yes, I am a legitimate relief worker" fashion when I notice a clone trooper approaching. He's wearing officer markings—orange stripe on the pauldron, helmet tucked under one arm. He walks with that mix of discipline and mild exasperation that defines clones currently living as temple houseguests.

He stops three feet from me. "Initiates," he says, giving us a polite nod. "Cargo inspection."

Ahsoka stiffens.

Maris whispers from inside the shuttle, "Don't let him see the snacks."

I step forward and channel the full power of fake credibility. "Of course, sir. Absolutely. Happy to help you help us help the galaxy."

The clone blinks slowly. "Right. What's the mission designation?"

I hand him the datapad I forged earlier. "Humanitarian Route 2-Five-Seven, to… uh…" I fake a yawn to cover the pause. "Outer Rim. Food deployment for remote settlements."

He scans the file.

My heart races.

He frowns.

My soul leaves my body.

Then he nods. "Seems in order."

My soul re-enters, slightly crooked.

The clone walks to the cargo hold. Ahsoka and I follow like doomed schoolchildren. Maris attempts to hide behind a crate but fails miserably, since she is very clearly visible and also making direct eye contact.

The clone leans in, checks the first crate.

"Nutrient packs. Good."

He moves to the second.

"More nutrient packs."

He moves to the third.

He stops.

I freeze.

Ahsoka freezes.

Maris does not freeze. She casually picks lint off her sleeve like she isn't the architect of this disaster.

The trooper taps the crate. "Cookies?"

My entire brain short-circuits.

Without thinking—without even the barest consultation of the last three neurons I have functioning—I blurt:

"We're also delivering morale!"

Silence.

Echoing, vast, terrifying silence.

The clone turns his helmet in his hands. I can't read his expression, but I can feel the judgement radiating through the Force like a sunburn.

Then he shrugs.

SHRUGS.

"Well," he says, "settlers in the Outer Rim could use the boost. Carry on."

He signs the clearance.

Hands me the pad.

And walks away.

Ahsoka waits until he's out of earshot.

Then very quietly says:

"I hate that this worked."

I beam at her. "Faith, Ahsoka. Believe in the power of bold stupidity."

Maris hops down from the ramp. "Believing in stupidity is easy. We're surrounded by it."

"That's the spirit," I say proudly.

She smirks. "I meant you."

Before I can retort, a blaring alarm erupts from the far end of the hangar. Red lights strobe across the deck. Clone troopers jog toward the entryway, someone yelling about an equipment breach, and every adult pair of eyes becomes very, very distracted.

Which, of course, is our cue.

I feel the Force buzz through my chest like it's holding up a massive neon sign that reads RUN.

I sprint for the ramp.

Ahsoka sprints too, muttering something that sounds like "I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die."

Maris is already halfway up the ladder to the cockpit, shouting, "Called shotgun!"

The three of us tumble into the shuttle—

—and the hangar falls away behind us as destiny, stupidity, and momentum collide in perfect harmony.

...​

Ahsoka already knew this was a mistake. She knew it back in the hallway, when she first felt Ben's "I have a brilliant idea" aura radiate off him like a space heater left on too long. She knew it while they were sneaking through the hangar, and she definitely knew it when Maris started flipping switches with the gleeful recklessness of someone who wanted to see what would explode first.

But now, strapped into a shuttle that was technically flightworthy, watching her two best friends try to pilot like half-sedated Kowakian lizards… Ahsoka decided the Force had abandoned her.

Or worse — it was laughing.

Ben slammed his hand against a panel. "Shields up!"

The shuttle lurched so violently Ahsoka's montrals rang like tuning forks.

Maris, in the co-pilot seat, stared at the mess of buttons in front of her as though they were written in ancient Sith. "Which one is shields?"

"That—" Ahsoka tried to point, but the shuttle bobbed upward without warning. She grabbed the back of Ben's seat to steady herself. "The one that says shields! You know— the button literally labeled shields!"

"Oh," Maris said. "That seems too obvious."

She pressed it.

The shields came online with a bassy thrum, followed immediately by something sparking behind them. Ahsoka inhaled sharply.

"Did something just break?" she asked.

Ben grinned without turning around. "Not anything we need."

Ahsoka buried her face in her hands and reminded herself that she had, of her own free will, chosen these two as her friends. At this point, she couldn't even blame the Force. The Force had given her at least three opportunities to stop this. She'd ignored all of them. That made her just as guilty.

Maybe more.

The shuttle shot forward, scraping so close to the hangar wall that Ahsoka heard the paint peel.

"Ben!" she yelped.

"Relax! I know exactly what I'm doing!" Ben lied confidently, veering sharply to avoid a refueling tank. A group of clone engineers dove for cover. A few shouted something rude enough that Ahsoka decided she didn't want to know what it meant.

Ahead of them, two clone gunships lifted off the deck — elegant, steady, controlled.

The complete opposite of this.

Ahsoka's heart lurched. "Ben, you're heading straight for them—!"

Ben yanked the controls right as Maris simultaneously yanked other controls, and for one horrible second the shuttle twisted sideways like a drunk bantha attempting ballet. The gunships roared past, one above, one below, missing them by what Ahsoka was pretty sure counted as "legally unacceptable distance."

Her montrals buzzed. Her stomach buzzed. Her future disciplinary hearing buzzed.

If she lived that long.

"That was close," Maris said cheerfully. "We only almost died twice."

"Three times," Ahsoka corrected. "The first one was when you got into the pilot's seat."

Ben flicked a switch and the shuttle shot forward again, faster this time — too fast. Definitely too fast. Ahsoka grabbed her safety harness and braced.

The comm panel crackled to life as hangar control's voice exploded through the cockpit speakers:

"SHUTTLE 4-B, YOU ARE NOT CLEARED FOR TAKEOFF— DO YOU COPY? REPEAT: YOU ARE NOT CLEARED FOR TAKEOFF— WHO IS IN MY SHIP?!"

Maris blinked. "Should I answer it?"

Ben shook his head fiercely. "Absolutely not. If we don't answer, they can't yell at us."

"That's not how it works!" Ahsoka snapped. "Ben— we're stealing a shuttle!"

"Borrowing," Ben corrected. "Stealing implies we won't bring it back."

"Are we bringing it back?"

Ben paused, did the mental math, then shrugged. "We'll see how the day goes."

The comm continued blaring:

"SHUTTLE 4-B, YOU ARE ON A COLLISION TRAJECTORY WITH THE SOUTH TRAFFIC LANE— ADJUST COURSE IMMEDIATELY OR YOU WILL— HEY— HEY, WHO'S TOUCHING MY SHIP?!"

Ahsoka slumped lower in her seat and whispered to the heavens, "Why do I care about these idiots?"

Because she did. Against all logic. Against all self-preservation instincts. Against every warning the Force had ever tried to send her.

She cared about Ben, with his ridiculous optimism and even more ridiculous hair, and his unwavering belief that every terrible plan was one brilliant idea away from becoming legendary. And she cared about Maris, whose default emotional setting was "Chaotic Neutral, leaning toward Gremlin," and who treated danger with the same energy someone might treat a carnival ride.

They were disasters. Walking, Force-sensitive disasters.

But they were her disasters. And if she didn't make sure they didn't die… no one would.

Ben jerked the shuttle up and they shot through the hangar mouth, wobbling into open sky. Coruscant's air lanes unfolded before them — a bright, endless maze of traffic streams like glowing arteries.

The shuttle surged forward, narrowly avoiding a passing speeder with a furious honk. Ahsoka felt her lekku curl tight against her skull. "Ben, slow down!"

"Can't! Not until we're clear of the Temple airspace." Ben leaned forward over the controls, fully committed to the chaos he had created. "Almost there!"

A stern, clipped voice came through the comm: "Unidentified shuttle, this is Coruscant Traffic Control. Adjust course immediately— you are violating civilian lanes—"

Maris reached toward the comm switch. "Should I—?"

"No!" Ahsoka and Ben yelled at the same time.

Maris pulled her hand back with a pout. "Why do you two get to have all the fun?"

"We are trying to not die!" Ahsoka shouted.

"Speak for yourself," Ben said. "Maris and I are doing amazing."

Ahsoka stared at him. "…Ben, we nearly hit four things in the last thirty seconds."

"Which means we didn't hit them. That's skill, Ahsoka."

"That's luck!"

Ben smirked. "Skillfully applied luck."

Ahsoka thumped her forehead against the viewport and wondered if she could apply for asylum with the clones. They seemed nice. Orderly. Sane. She could live in their barracks. Learn their card games. Never fly with Ben and Maris again.

The shuttle jolted sideways as Ben executed what he confidently referred to as a "slight maneuver" and what Ahsoka referred to as "a cry for help."

Traffic lanes blurred around them, streams of speeders splitting like water around a rock — except the rock was on fire and making wrong decisions.

A speeder driver shouted something obscene through the window as they passed. Maris waved cheerfully.

Ahsoka pressed both hands over her eyes. She could already feel the punishment stacking up. The scolding. The formal reprimands. The "deeply disappointed" look from Master Yoda that made her feel like she'd kicked a tooka. The look from Master Plo, which would be worse because he'd still love her while she suffered.

She'd joined the criminals.

She was one of the criminals.

She was going to get a criminal record before she even became a Padawan.

Ben, because the universe refused to stop indulging him, let out a whoop of triumph as the shuttle burst free from the densest lanes and shot upward toward open sky.

"We did it!" he shouted. "We're officially fugitives!"

Ahsoka groaned long and loud, sinking so far into her seat she considered never emerging again.

Maris grinned back at her. "Hey, at least the view's nice."

Ahsoka stared at the ceiling.

"I hate both of you."

Ben whooped again, steering them toward the clouds.

...​

The moment the shuttle stopped rattling like it was being piloted by two children with brain damage—because it was—my eyes locked on the navscreen lighting up with our destination coordinates.

KORRIBAN.

The word glowed in this deep, brooding red, pulsing like it wanted to warn me, Hey, kid, this is where Jedi go to die, get haunted, or make very poor life choices. The whole thing felt ominous. Dramatic. Heavy.

Then I realized the color setting was just set to "Alert Scarlet."

"Okay," I muttered, leaning forward and poking at the controls. "But what if we don't do 'blood of a thousand Sith' red? What if we did…"

I flipped a toggle.

The text turned bright green.

The ominous vibe died instantly, replaced with something that reminded me of Master Yoda. Or my trusty lightsaber. Or a salad. Granted, I hate salads, but at least I know I could annihilate them if I wanted to.

Much better.

I sat back, visibly pleased with myself. "Now that is a much friendlier ancient Dark Side planet."

Ahsoka leaned forward between the seats, staring like she expected the navscreen to burst into flames just for witnessing my existence. "Ben, why would you—why green?"

"Because it's less 'You will die horribly' and more 'Please enjoy your visit,'" I said. "Also it reminds me of Master Yoda."

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure he'd be… thrilled."

Actually, I wondered what Master Yoda would say if he could see me right now, sitting in a stolen shuttle with two of the Temple's biggest agents of chaos, heading to the Sith homeworld. He'd probably sigh. Maybe do the disappointed slow blink. Or tilt his head and say something like:

Failed, I have.

I snorted. Out loud. Ahsoka gave me a look like he's finally snapped.

The starfield ahead of us stretched, elongated, and then—

FLASH.

Hyperspace swallowed everything.

I felt my heart lift, like it always did when the blue tunnel of light wrapped around the ship. Hyperspace was freedom. Adventure. Possibility. Consequence-free velocity.

…In theory.

Ahsoka settled into the copilot's seat with the energy of someone resigning themselves to a fate they had been warned about repeatedly and yet still walked into. She crossed her arms. Her montrals tilted slightly toward me — the Togruta equivalent of a raised eyebrow.

"You know we're making a huge mistake," she said quietly.

She didn't sound angry. Or scared. More like someone narrating the doomed choices of her own documentary.

I should probably feel a little guilt about that.

Instead, I grinned.

"Yeah," I said. "But imagine how cool it'll be if it works."

Her face did that thing where she wanted to be annoyed but couldn't quite get there because part of her also wanted to laugh. She looked away, muttering something under her breath about "idiots" and "terrible ideas" and "why do I like you people."

Behind us, Maris made a content little noise. I turned just in time to see her perched cross-legged on the emergency supply crate like some kind of smug gremlin queen, chewing a cookie with the serenity of a monk contemplating enlightenment.

"We're so dead," she said happily. "I love it."

"Wait—are you eating the cookies we brought for food relief?!" I leaned back over the seat, scandalized. I didn't even get to open the first pack!

Maris shoved another one in her mouth without breaking eye contact. "Maybe."

"Hey! Don't eat all of them! I want one!"

Ahsoka lifted her head, eyes narrowing like a predator hearing prey rustle in the grass damn her sharp, flawless instincts. "Cookies?"

"No," I said quickly. "No, these are mine. I called dibs. I'm the captain. I get a cookie."

"You're not the captain," Ahsoka said, already unbuckling. "And I want a cookie."

I clutched the crate reflexively. "These are my cookies. You left me alone for two minutes in the hangar and I almost died; I deserve these."

"You almost died because you're you," Ahsoka countered. "Gimme."

"No!"

"Ben." Her voice dropped an octave. Jedi Youngling Training Voice. The one that sounded like she was ready to swing a training sabers at my head. "Give me one."

"They are the last happy thing on this ship and I earned them!"

Maris, in the background, whispered like she was watching gladiatorial combat. "Good… fight."

"Maris, stop encouraging her!" I snapped.

"I'm not encouraging— I'm enjoying," she said, taking another slow bite. She was doing it on purpose. She wanted us to see the dramatics of the nibble. Sith behavior.

Ahsoka lunged for the crate. I yanked it away, scrambling backward across the floor, narrowly avoiding hitting my head on the bunk frame.

"Hey!" I shouted. "Personal space! These cookies are sacred!"

Ahsoka pounced again. I rolled.

"Ben, just give me one!" she shot back.

"No! The last time I shared snacks with you, you ate the entire pack and said it was 'accidentally on purpose!'"

"That was one time!"

"That was last week!"

"Children," Maris said, licking crumbs off her fingers, "please. There are more cookies in the box. I packed a lot."

We both froze.

Slowly, we turned.

She was sitting on the other half of the crate. The unopened half. The larger half.

Ahsoka blinked. "…Maris."

"Yes?" she said sweetly.

"If you had more cookies," Ahsoka said, "why did you—?"

Maris shrugged. "Drama."

There was a moment of silence.

I whispered reverently, "You are… terrifying."

Ahsoka nodded. "Yeah. I actually respect that."

Maris grinned like she'd just been handed an award.

I cracked open the untouched half of the crate and passed Ahsoka a cookie. She took it with the kind of gravitas usually reserved for treaties or small, fragile animals.

We sat there for a second, nibbling in relative peace. Hyperspace hummed around us. The cabin lights buzzed. A broken panel somewhere near the refresher made a sad little rattling noise.

And for a moment — just long enough for the Force to settle quietly around us — it hit me:

We were actually doing this.

We were on our way to Korriban.

The Sith homeworld.

Alone.

No Masters. No supervision. No permission. No plan.

Just three half-trained lunatics and a shuttle that handled like a half-melted datapad.

I felt a ridiculous, wild thrill spark in my chest. The kind that said, This is either the best idea I've ever had or the beginning of a disaster ballad future Padawans will sing while sweeping the Temple.

Ahsoka leaned her head back against the seat. "When we get arrested," she said, "I'm blaming you first."

"That's fair," I said.

"I'm blaming both of you," Maris added. "Equally."

"That's less fair," I said.

Ahsoka gave me this sideways smile — tired, stressed, fond in the way only a best friend can be while contemplating the legal consequences of your joint stupidity.

"You know," she said softly, "if somehow… somehow… we don't die?"

"Yeah?"

"This is going to be the coolest thing we ever do."

I felt my grin stretch.

"Oh," I said, leaning back and letting hyperspace blur into a blue river beyond the viewport, "I'm counting on it."

...​

It has taken me eighteen chapters to come full circle like this, but now that we have, let me ask you...

Have you tried the cookies?

...

...

...

...

As a general reminder, this will be the last daily uploaded chapter to this fic. Updates will resume weekly on Tuesdays. If you'd still like to read ahead, feel free to check out my Patreon, link below:

My Patreon

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 19: The Dark Side Has Cookies

There are many sounds a shuttle should never make.

Rattling is one.

Grinding is another.

The shrieking metal-on-metal banshee wail currently echoing through the cockpit is, in my professional opinion, at least five sounds too many.

"I swear," Maris shouts over the alarms, wrestling the controls like they personally offended her, "this is not my fault!"

Ahsoka, braced against the copilot station with both feet planted and both montrals vibrating like tuning forks, shouts back, "Maris, you're flying it like it wronged your ancestors!"

"It did wrong my ancestors!" Maris says, yanking the lever again. "It's a Jedi shuttle. I'm morally obligated to bully it."

I'm strapped in behind them, which feels like the safest place until the entire ship lurches sideways so violently that my soul briefly attempts to secede from my body.

Okay.

Okay.

Deep breath.

In through the nose, out through the—

The shuttle drops twenty meters in one second.

Nope. Breathing is cancelled.

"You're panicking," Maris says, without looking at me. Somehow she still hears it.

"I'm not panicking!" My voice cracks like a twelve-year-old in saber class. Speaking from experience, that's exactly when my voice does that. "…You're panicking!"

"I'm the pilot," she replies, flicking switches with the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be this confident. "Pilots don't panic."

Ahsoka grabs the stabilizer control. "Then why—why—why are you flying with your eyes half-closed?!"

"That's how I focus!"

"That's how you die!"

Outside, through the viewport, Korriban rises like a rotting god: red dunes sharp as knives, cliffs carved into fanged silhouettes, and the sky boiling with that sickly sunset-orange that screams ancient bad decisions were made here.

I try to mentally categorize the fear: not immediate-death fear, more… academic fear.

The kind you could footnote.

Fear, Type IV: Cosmically Concerning But Not Yet Fatal.

We bounce again. Hard. Something explodes. Somewhere. Maybe behind us. Maybe inside us. Maybe both.

"I can fix that," Ahsoka mutters. "Probably."

"See?" Maris says. "Totally under control."

We immediately spin.

Hard enough that my entire life flashes before my eyes, then rewinds and plays again at double speed.

"I'm going to kill you," Ahsoka says.

"You're welcome to try," Maris replies cheerfully.

The shuttle slams into the sand with the grace of a brick in freefall. We skid a good fifty meters before burying the nose in a dune. Every alarm lights up at once, then promptly gives up and dies.

Smoke trickles from the console.

Silence rings like a bell.

Maris stands, hair frizzed from static, dusted head to toe in sand, and announces:

"I meant to do that."

I cough, unstrap myself, and stagger forward. "Yeah, no, you absolutely didn't."

She shrugs, offended by my accuracy. "I got us here, didn't I?"

"Technically," I concede. "But I think three separate laws of physics have issued restraining orders."

Ahsoka is already crouched under the console, swearing in a very dignified, very Jedi-but-not-really-Jedi way. Sparks pop around her and she brushes them aside with the calm resignation of someone who has lived a long, painful life in the ten minutes Maris was flying.

"Kark," she mutters. "Okay, the good news is the hyperdrive is intact."

"And the bad news?" I ask.

"The other hyperdrive is not."

"We have two hyperdrives?" Maris asks.

Ahsoka sighs. "We had two hyperdrives."

I look out the cracked viewport.

Korriban greets us like a haunted museum exhibit. Wind whips across the dunes with a sound like a thousand whispering ghosts using a hairdryer on low power. Far off, enormous stone structures jut from the sand: temples with mouths like crocodiles, statues long-buried but still scowling.

It's objectively terrifying.

But also… thrilling.

Okay, yes, it's spooky, but like, academically spooky. The kind of spooky you can put in a thesis. Or a therapy session. Or both, depending on how committed you are to self-improvement. I'm not sure yet.

Ahsoka crawls back out, dusts her hands, and wipes sweat from her brow. "Here's the situation: I can fix this, but it'll take hours. And we need someone at the Temple to create the illusion that the three of us are… you know. Present. And alive."

Maris narrows her eyes. "Not it."

I raise a hand immediately. "Also not it."

Ahsoka stares at us. Long. Deeply. Like a teacher trying to decide if homework is punishment enough or if she should also assign soul searching.

"…Fine," she says. "I'll go."

Maris gasps dramatically. "Traitor."

"She's a hero," I counter.

"I'm a realist," Ahsoka says, slapping the ramp controls. "If I don't go now, someone is going to check our quarters and see that you two left a trail of snacks, datapads, and half a game of dejarik like a pair of Force-sensitive raccoons."

"…Okay but that's rude," Maris says.

"But true," I add.

Ahsoka ignores us, marching up the ramp. She pauses at the top, hands on her hips, the wind tugging her montrals like a dramatic holoposter shot.

"You two are not allowed to die," she declares. "Or join a cult. Or start one."

I salute. "No promises."

She points at me. "Ben."

"…One promise."

She smirks, satisfied, and the ramp begins to close.

The shuttle lifts. Wobbly at first, then steadier as Ahsoka works her mechanical magic mid-flight. It rises into the roiling sky until it's a speck, then gone.

Dust swirls around us.

Silence stretches.

Maris stands with hands on her hips and squints after the shuttle like it personally betrayed her.

"…Hey, Ben?"

"Yeah?"

"…Was that our only means of transportation?"

I blink. Do a quick mental inventory. Glance at the dead second hyperdrive. Feel a sudden, sinking dread.

"Huh," I say. "You know what? I think it was, yes."

Maris's face goes slack. "So we're stranded."

"We might have a bit of a predicament on our hands."

"A bit."

"A smidge."

"A sprinkle."

"A full-course buffet of problems," I finish.

She nods grimly.

Then brightens, because Maris's moral compass has the unique talent of only knowing one direction.

"…You wanna go grave robbing?"

I grin.

"Please."

Maris grabs my sleeve and drags me toward the nearest ominous Sith structure without another word.

And that is how, within ten minutes of crash-landing on possibly the most cursed rock in the galaxy, I find myself hiking into the Valley of the Dark Lords with my best friend, no plan, no ride home, and a moral support cookie wrapper still stuck in my boot.

Just another normal Thursday.

...​

Korriban does not believe in welcoming committees.

Korriban believes in sand. And wind. And the kind of oppressive, ancient atmosphere that makes you wonder if the planet itself would like to file a formal complaint about your presence.

Maris and I start down the rocky path into the valley, and the air instantly shifts from "dry desert" to "museum that eats people." The sand between the cliffs is red in that very healthy, definitely-not-stained-by-centuries-of-dark-side-shenanigans way, and every gust of wind whistles through the ravine like something whispering, Leave. Or maybe, Stay. Hard to tell with Korriban. It probably wants both.

Maris throws her hood up, eyes gleaming like this entire place was built specifically to cater to her extremely niche interests.

"This is so cool," she says, practically vibrating.

"You say that," I reply, "but I'm ninety percent sure that boulder right there has committed at least one murder."

She beams proudly. "History!"

I swear, I'm traveling through a cursed tomb world with the spiritual lovechild of Lara Croft and an alley cat. Meanwhile I'm trying my best to pretend I'm not existentially thrilled by all this. Because I am. And I know I'm supposed to feel guilty about that. But… come on. It's Korriban. The dark side's home turf. The birthplace of roughly fifty percent of galactic problems. This is like the forbidden library of Force history, and someone left the back door open.

The Force thickens the deeper we go—chewy, almost. I can feel it clinging to my skin, like static, like silk, like danger. Every breath tastes metallic, and the air hums around us, vibrating faintly in my lungs. It's not like the gentle flow of the Temple, or the comforting buzz around Ahsoka and Maris. This is raw, unfiltered, unpasteurized Force energy. Straight from the source.

I should be terrified.

Instead, I'm two steps short of giddy.

There's a pulse under my feet—like the ground remembers battles so violent they left echoes.

Maris nudges me, smirking. "You're smiling."

"I am not," I lie, immediately betrayed by my own face.

She snorts. "Look at you. Jedi Wonderboy, thrilled to be breaking every rule."

"I'm not thrilled," I say. "I'm… academically stimulated."

"Oh yeah, that's what we're calling it."

We stop at a massive mural carved into the cliff wall. Hooded figures loom over a battlefield—limbs, lightning, the whole "we commit war crimes for fun" aesthetic. It's beautiful, in a terrifying "this would be the last thing you see before a Sith Lord stabs you with a lightsaber made of regret" way.

Maris tilts her head at the mural. "You ever feel like the Jedi were hiding the fun half of Force history?"

I want to disagree. Really, I do.

But, let's be honest? The Light Side might be noble, peaceful, even heroic. But the Dark Side is exhilarating. I swear, the more I stare at those carvings, the more I think… she might be onto something.

I fold my arms. "Okay, but to be clear, when you say 'fun'—"

"I mean epic. Dramatic. Slightly unhinged."

"So, you."

She elbows me lightly. "Oh please, like you're not loving all this. You showed up on a forbidden planet with a shovel in your heart."

"I don't even have a shovel," I protest.

"You would if we'd had room in the food transport."

Fair point.

The path narrows as we descend farther, the rock walls rising like jagged teeth on either side. I can't shake the feeling the valley is watching us, waiting, almost amused. The Force here feels like a held-in laughter—dangerous, knowing, patient.

I should turn around. I should meditate. I should go back to the Temple and pretend none of this happened.

Instead I speed up, rounding a bend in the cliff.

And there it is.

The entrance.

A monumental stone archway carved into the rock, flanked by toppled guardian statues, both missing their heads. The door itself is an enormous slab of carved metal, covered in etchings glowing faintly red—lines like veins, or circuitry, or maybe just angry scribbles from a Sith toddler. The air around it is colder, heavy enough that my breath fogs for a second.

Guess it's true what they say about the Dark Side being cooler… I'll show myself out.

Maris lets out a low whistle. "Now that is a door."

"It is indeed a door," I nodded, hands on my hips, pretending to be calm. "A big, mysterious, definitely-trapping-all-sorts-of-generational-trauma door."

Maris looks at me sidelong. "You wanna touch it, don't you?"

"No," I say.

She raises an eyebrow.

"…Maybe," I admit.

She crosses her arms. "If you don't touch it, I will."

See, this is how we both get killed.

I step forward, the Force humming like a live wire. My fingertips tingle before I even make contact. There's a pressure in the air—like the moment before a thunderstorm hits.

"This is such a bad idea," I mutter.

"That's why it's fun."

She's got the confidence of a woman who fully intends to haunt the living if something goes wrong.

I hover my hand over the door. It's warm. Not metal warm. Not sunlight warm.

Alive warm.

I swallow. "You know, there's a ninety percent chance this activates a trap."

"Ten percent chance it activates treasure," Maris counters.

I can't argue with that math. It's terrible math. I love that math.

So I touch it.

Just a fingertip. A tiny, experimental tap.

The entire door shudders under my hand. A blast of dusty air rushes past us, and ancient gears begin turning somewhere deep in the stone. The glowing markings flare, bright and pulsing. Maris grabs my sleeve—not in fear, but excitement, which is significantly worse.

With a grinding roar, the slab splits horizontally, then vertically, unfolding like a mechanical flower that absolutely wants to eat us.

Maris cackles. "I knew it!"

I blink at the suddenly open doorway. "I was joking—"

"You opened it!"

"I touched it! Lightly!"

"Ben, you cannot complain. You are literally Sith-bait."

"That feels rude."

"It feels accurate."

Fair.

A rush of cool, stale air spills from the chamber beyond. It smells like dust, old stone, forgotten stories, and something metallic underneath—like lightning etched into the walls.

Maris steps forward, peering inside, absolutely unfazed by the fact that we just opened a crypt that has almost certainly killed people.

"You know," she says, voice dripping with delight, "if this was a bad idea, the door wouldn't have opened."

"That," I say, "is the worst logic I've ever heard."

"And yet," she gestures at the open passage, "here we are."

I stare into the darkness ahead.

My pulse is too fast. My palms too warm.

The Force shifts again—like an exhale, like a greeting.

There's something in there waiting.

Something old.

Something powerful.

Something that feels like it's been tapping its foot for several centuries going, 'Finally.'

I swallow once, hard. "Okay. Hypothetically—if we go in, and something horrible happens—"

Maris grins. "Then we blame Ahsoka. Obviously."

I nod. "Obviously."

And together, we step into the cursed, definitely-haunted, life-ruining tomb.

With the enthusiasm of idiots.

Perfect idiots.

...​

The chamber opens around us like the inside of a titan's ribcage.

Red crystal veins pulse through the vaulted stone ribs above—dim glows running in jagged lines, casting the whole room in a soft crimson heartbeat. The air smells of dust and metal and something sharper underneath. Every breath feels like inhaling old battlefields.

And in the center of it all, on a narrow stone dais:

A Sith holocron.

Perfect. Sharp. Floating a few centimeters above the pedestal, humming like it's whispering to itself.

My brain completely stops functioning for a moment. All I can do is stare at it and attempt not to look like a child seeing a fireworks display for the first time. (I fail. Immediately.)

"This is—" I start.

"Amazing?" Maris supplies.

"I was going to say academically significant."

"You were not."

She's right. I wasn't.

We approach slowly, each footstep echoing from wall to wall, like the chamber is listening. The holocron is dark metal edged with glowing crimson lines—geometric, precise, ancient. Like someone weaponized geometry and turned it into a storage device for secrets.

I can feel the Force pooling around it. Thick. Warm. Curious. Like it recognizes I'm here and is yawning itself awake.

Maris leans in, eyes practically sparkling. "Touch it."

"I'm not just going to touch a Sith holocron," I say.

"You literally opened a death door by poking it."

"That was different."

"It really wasn't."

I'm going to die.

Not by Sith traps or ancient ghosts, but by peer pressure.

I narrow my eyes at her. "You are a terrible influence."

"I aspire to greatness."

I take a breath, then another. The Force trembles around the holocron. It's like standing next to a storm waiting to break. Things like this shouldn't be here, accessible to idiots like me. And yet…

I lift a hand.

The instant my fingers hover an inch from the surface, the air snaps.

A violent crack of energy bursts around the holocron—scarlet lightning spiraling upward in a spiraling column. Maris yelps and jumps back, and I definitely do not squeak. The holocron rises slowly, turning in the air as bolts of red energy coil around it like serpents.

"Oh," I breathe, "it's doing something."

"No," Maris mutters, "you did something."

The lightning vortices twist tighter, then explode outward with a blast of wind that sends my cloak snapping behind me.

And then the hologram forms.

A towering figure materializes in a shimmer of blood-red light—armor heavy and jagged, pauldrons spiked like the horns of some ancient beast. A mask covers the face entirely, all sharp lines and glowing slits. The whole silhouette radiates power.

And menace.

And drama.

So much drama.

I mean, if this guy wasn't Sith, he could've been a theater kid.

The hologram tilts its head, and the chamber rumbles with a deep, metallic voice that sounds like a thunderstorm trying to be polite.

"It has been many years since I last saw another face. A man by the name of Lord Bane was the last."

Well. That's casual.

"Centuries of darkness… so peaceful. Until now." The figure leans in slightly. "I am the Wrath of a fallen Empire. Who are you? You are no Sith."

My mouth works faster than my survival instincts.

"Not yet," I say. "Also, nice holographic cheekbones."

There is a silence.

The kind of silence where you realize you are speaking to a possibly murderous spectral demigod who might not understand humor.

"…I am wearing a mask," it says slowly.

"Oh," I say, nodding sagely. "A very pretty one. Look at those little druid-leaf things you've got going on there."

Maris elbows me sharply and hisses, "Do you flirt with everything capable of killing you?"

"I've never flirted with you," I whisper back.

She pauses.

Considers.

"…Maybe you should."

"I like your horns."

She smirks, faint pink flushing at the tips of her cheekbones.

The hologram continues, sounding vaguely offended that I'm not cowering. "You approach with irreverence. Foolish. Or clever."

"Is that a compliment?" I ask.

"It was not intended as one."

"I'm taking it as one."

Maris groans, burying her face in her hands.

The holocron studies me, energy rippling around its projection. "You feel of contradiction. Light and shadow twisting upon themselves. Anger tempered by restraint. Curiosity restrained by fear. A child… of conflict."

"That sounds right," Maris murmurs.

"That still feels rude," I say.

"It is still accurate," she adds.

Again: fair.

The figure raises one armored hand. The air shivers—like a vibration in my bones—and questions spill out, each one heavy with purpose.

"What is strength?"

"What is wrath?"

"What is loyalty?"

"What is the purpose of power if not to reshape the self?"

They aren't simple questions. They aren't even real questions, not really. They're tests. Measurements. A probe into my skull without touching me.

I answer as best I can, fumbling but earnest.

"Strength is… choosing who you want to be, even when it's hard." That sounded like a good, safe, Disney answer. Let's hope the House of Mouse still has some sway in the Force.

"Wrath is what happens when you stop choosing," Maris adds quietly beside me, surprising me. "When you let instinct take over, and make your choices for you."

I nod. "Loyalty is… the people you decide matter, and who decide you matter. And… Power is the ability to do something meaningful with all the things that hurt."

Every doubt. Insecurity. Frustration.

I never let any of them stop me. Hold me back. When they pushed me down, I got up, and pushed back harder. I don't get even, I get better.

The hologram paused, and for a moment, I was worried I just said something incredibly dumb. Which isn't out of character, but in this case was potentially life-threatening. When suddenly, it let out a noise.

A low rumble.

A laugh?

"You speak as if you already know suffering."

"I mean—" I gesture vaguely at my entire life. "Yeah?"

The projection leans closer. "Your potential is unrefined. Untamed. And your humor is ill-advised."

"It's a coping mechanism."

"It is insufferable."

"Thank you."

Another pause. Another annoyed rumble. The masked face tilts slightly, studying me with newfound… curiosity? Wariness? Amusement?

"You are a child of contradiction," it says again. "That is both your weakness and your greatest weapon."

I beam. "Aw."

Maris looks at me like I've completely lost my mind. "He called you contradictory."

"In a cool way."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"It felt like one."

She throws her hands up. "I cannot save you."

The hologram floats back slightly, cloak of light swirling around it.

"You stand where few dare. You seek what others fear. If you wish to learn… then prove yourself."

"Prove myself how?" I ask, bracing for lightning. Or a riddle. Or a riddle made of lightning.

But instead the projection simply gestures to my chest.

"Show me your truth," it says.

I blink. "Oh. That's… vague."

"It is meant to be."

Maris nudges me. "Go on."

"Go on what? What does that mean?!"

She shrugs. "I don't know. Figure it out. Interpretive dance?"

I glare. "I am not dancing for a Sith holocron."

"Coward."

Before I can threaten to steal her boots while she sleeps, the Wrath speaks again.

"I sense ambition. And fear. And longing. A desire to escape your path while clinging to it desperately."

"Wow," Maris mutters. "He's reading you for filth."

I ignore her.

I take a slow breath and try to feel what the holocron wants. What it's asking.

Truth.

My truth.

Not the Jedi's version.

Not the one I pretend fits.

My own.

"I don't want to be… one thing," I say quietly. "I don't want to fit into a path someone else decided for me. I want—I want to choose my own destiny. For once."

The projection stills.

The energy dimming.

"You may yet be worthy."

The holocron lowers slightly, light gathering toward its core.

Maris whispers, "Holy kriff…"

I whisper back, "Right?"

The Wrath's final words echo through the chamber, vibrating in my bones.

"Child of contradiction… you seek power not for domination, but for identity. For understanding. That makes you dangerous. And it makes you mine."

...​

The landing platform tilts slightly under the shuttle's weight as Ahsoka touches down, and for a brief, delusional second, she considers simply never lowering the ramp. If she stays inside long enough, maybe the Temple will forget she exists. Maybe the galaxy will politely reset itself. Maybe Ben and Maris will miraculously not be doing something catastrophically stupid on Korriban.

She snorts.

Yeah. And maybe Yoda will join a punk band.

The ramp hisses open. Warm Coruscant evening air rolls inside—blessedly non-cursed, non-metallic, non-haunted. Normal. Safe. Absolutely incompatible with what she's here to do, which is lie to the Order with the spiritual eloquence of a wet loth-cat who just fell into the refresher.

Ahsoka squares her shoulders. She's got this. She can lie. She's lied before. About liking things she doesn't actually like. And sneaking out after curfew. And about who actually knocked over the Council chamber ficus (Ben). And about who encouraged him (Maris). And who watched it happen without intervening (her).

So this should be easy.

She takes three steps down the ramp.

And immediately walks straight into Anakin Skywalker.

"Ahsoka!" he says, brightening like someone plugged him into the sun. "Finally! You're back. Where were you, anyways?"

She squeaks.

It's very dignified.

He blinks at her, then tilts his head, taking in her dust-smudged jumpsuit, frizzed head-tails, and the distinct twitch in her right eye. "Uh… you okay?"

"I'm fine!" she blurts. "Nothing weird happened."

Anakin's eyebrows climb so high they could apply for citizenship in the ceiling.

Ahsoka clears her throat, trying to reset her entire aura. Calm. Jedi. Centered. Definitely not a frantic raccoon in Jedi robes.

And then Anakin starts talking, thankfully too self-absorbed to ask the dangerous questions.

"You wouldn't believe how boring it's been here," he groans, sweeping into a complaint so fluid it's clearly been waiting for an audience. "Obi-Wan's been sent to Mandalore—again—and I have been stuck here because apparently I'm not, and I quote, 'diplomatic' enough. Can you believe that?"

Ahsoka absolutely could believe that. The entire galaxy could believe that.

But she nods sympathetically as they start walking down the corridor. Anakin is a one-man storm of restless energy, and the Temple hallways practically bend away from him out of habit. A pair of older Padawans spot him coming and immediately veer off into a storage room with the urgency of people avoiding a natural disaster.

He doesn't notice. Or pretends not to.

"Obi-Wan gets to talk to politicians and negotiate clone rights and prevent rebellions," he says, all tragic frustration. "And I'm stuck here. Sparring with the same people who refuse to spar with me. Which is rude. Just because I'm so much better than them, doesn't mean I don't have feelings too!"

Ahsoka suppresses a smile. She likes Anakin—he's loud, chaotic, oddly reassuring—but subtle he is not. He misses Obi-Wan. If only because he wants someone to scold him so he can have fun for misbehaving. This is, apparently, part of his spiritual balance.

"Well," she says lightly, "if you're bored, you can always challenge Ben again."

Anakin stiffens up. "Please. I'm not dealing with that kid's tricks."

She shrugs innocently. "Oh? You still haven't found a way to counter the Kryze Maneuver?"

Anakin stops dead in the hallway. "I could counter it."

"Mhm."

"It's just—cheap," he insists, crossing his arms. "Throwing pocket sand in your opponent's face? Who does that?"

Ahsoka considers this.

"…Ben does that."

"That's not the point."

"It feels like the point."

"It's not."

"It's a little the point."

He scowls, pacing again. "The point is—it's unsportsmanlike."

She tries—tries so hard—not to grin. Because what she is actually thinking is that Anakin spent three hours coughing sand the last time Ben pulled that trick on him, and Maris still has the holo recording saved.

Which is when he glances sideways at her, casual as a grenade.

"So where is Ben, anyway?"

Ahsoka's soul leaves her body, does three laps around the ceiling, and returns only out of obligation.

She forces a smile. "Meditating."

Anakin narrows his eyes, the full weight of That Skywalker Suspicion hitting her like a podracer engine. "Meditating?"

"Mhm."

"Voluntarily?"

"…Yes?"

A pause.

A long one.

Ahsoka's palms start sweating. Her montrals stiffen. Her heart beats in the rhythm of please don't ask follow-ups.

But Anakin… just sighs. Long. Loud. Dramatic.

"Fine," he mutters, waving a hand. "Good for him."

She blinks. He believed her?

No. No, he absolutely did not.

But Anakin Skywalker has reached that very particular state of apprentice ennui where anything requiring effort—like supervising younger students or preventing catastrophic rule-breaking—falls firmly under the category of not my problem.

He stretches, yawning theatrically. "If he wants to meditate, let him meditate. I'm not in the mood to be responsible today."

Ahsoka nearly collapses in relief.

The Force, however, is cruel.

Because that is exactly when Master Plo Koon appears at the end of the hallway.

"Ahsoka Tano," he calls warmly, "I sensed your return."

Ahsoka jolts like she's been shot.

Anakin mutters, "Uh-oh," with the tone of someone grateful this is now someone else's issue.

Plo Koon strides toward them, robes flowing, mask serene in that uncomfortably perceptive Kel Dor way. "I trust your… excursion… was uneventful?"

Ahsoka makes a noise that is meant to be a laugh but sounds more like a desperate malfunctioning repulsorlift. "Oh… you know. Very uneventful. Nothing happened. At all. Ever."

Plo Koon's head tilts slightly. He may not have facial expressions in the traditional sense, but Ahsoka can feel the eyebrow raise.

"You are certain?"

"Yes! Absolutely! Completely certain! Why wouldn't I be certain? That's a weird question, Master."

Anakin leans against the wall, watching the exchange with the fascinated detachment of someone who loves drama but prefers not to participate in it. Unless he's the one causing it. "She says Ben's meditating."

Plo turns to Ahsoka with a soft hum. "Meditating. Is he?"

Ahsoka smiles too wide. "He loves meditating. Big fan of meditation. Meditates constantly."

She is absolutely dying.

The worst part? She knows Plo knows she's lying. The Force hum at his side has that gentle-judgment feeling, like when a parent finds cookie crumbs on your face and asks if you've been in the pantry.

"I see," Plo Koon says calmly. "And Maris Brood? Also meditating?"

Ahsoka's brain tries to implode.

"That depends," she blurts, "on your definition of meditating."

Plo pauses again. She can feel him evaluating approximately 11,000 potential disaster scenarios involving her, Ben, and Maris.

Finally, he says, "I should inform Master Yoda that your trio is accounted for."

Ahsoka briefly considers faking her own death.

"No need!" she says, maybe a bit too fast. "We're all… very accounted. Super accounted."

Anakin snorts.

Plo lets the silence linger. "Ahsoka."

"…Yes, Master?"

"Would you like to rephrase that?"

She wants to.

She tries to.

But her mouth is no longer receiving transmissions from her brain.

"We're accounted," she repeats weakly.

Another long pause.

Then Plo, merciful saint that he is, simply rests a hand on her shoulder. "Young one… whatever trouble you three have found—may the Force be with you."

She freezes.

Does he know? He knows, doesn't he? Impossible. She didn't even get to the part where they crashed a shuttle, lost a hyperdrive, and oh Force, did she take the only shuttle they had?!

Ahsoka swallows.

"Thank you, Master."

Plo nods. "If you require assistance—"

"No!" She practically yelps it. "No assistance needed. We're great. Perfect. Fine. Very centered."

Plo Koon and Anakin exchange a look. It is the universal adult expression for we should probably supervise these children.

But then Anakin shrugs. "She said they're fine."

Plo sighs, the weight of centuries behind it.

The moment he turns to leave, Ahsoka bolts in the opposite direction, offering a strangled, "I need to—go—do a thing!"

She doesn't stop until she's around the corner, bracing herself against the wall, breathing hard.

Okay.

Okay. She survived that.

Ben and Maris are on Korriban doing Force-knows-what.

Anakin is bored and suspicious-adjacent.

Master Plo is perceptive enough to smell guilt through solid durasteel.

The Council is about to do a headcount.

And she is responsible for maintaining the illusion that everything is normal.

Ahsoka drags her hands down her face.

"This is fine," she whispers to herself.

It is not fine.

But she's committed now.

And she is absolutely going to die of stress before either of them get back.

...​

The ramp of the shuttle hissed open, and the dry heat of Sundari rolled inward like a polite, desert-flavored greeting. Obi-Wan took the first step down with measured grace — even for him — because Cody was watching, and the clones seemed to take their behavioral cues from the Jedi they'd been assigned to. Or, in this case, temporarily loaned to while the Senate panicked in circles.

Cody stood just behind him. Not quite at parade rest, not quite at ease — more like someone trying desperately to read a planet they had no context for. Mandalore was wide and clean and sunlit in a way that made it look peaceful, even though the politics beneath the surface had enough tension to light up a lightsaber.

"This is… different from Kamino, sir," Cody said quietly.

"Nearly everything is different from Kamino," Obi-Wan replied with a gentle smile. "Weather, architecture, the number of things trying to kill you on any given day. Mandalore is comparatively tame."

Cody didn't answer, but that wasn't surprising. The clones were still learning how to express anything that wasn't tactical or urgent. Even uncertainty came out like a mission report.

Obi-Wan felt a ripple of sympathy. They'd been created for a war that didn't exist yet — and hopefully never would. And now they were being offered citizenship by a world the Republic didn't want to lose, for reasons the Senate couldn't articulate without sounding afraid.

Fear. It always came back to fear.

Cody's voice lowered further. "Do you believe they'll actually accept us?"

"That depends," Obi-Wan said honestly. "On Satine. On the Council. On you, I imagine. Mandalorians respect strength and integrity. You have both."

Cody blinked. He wasn't used to compliments. Or perhaps he simply wasn't used to someone seeing him as anything other than a soldier. Obi-Wan watched the realization settle. Carefully. Cautiously. Like someone unfamiliar with owning something fragile.

He opened his mouth to continue — something reassuring, something anchoring — when a familiar voice cut across the landing pad.

"Master Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan blinked.

Padmé Amidala stood at the edge of the reception platform, framed by the soft white glow of Sundari's artificial sky. For a moment, it felt like the years since Naboo hadn't passed at all — as though he were stepping off a different ship, onto a different world, seeing a very young queen trying desperately to negotiate peace in a galaxy allergic to it.

Then she smiled — polite, warm, quietly excited.

Not a queen anymore.

A senator.

"Senator Amidala," Obi-Wan said, bowing slightly. He wasn't sure why his chest tightened. Nostalgia, perhaps. Something gentler, quieter, fond. "This is a surprise."

"Mutual," she said with a soft laugh. "I didn't realize the Council had dispatched anyone yet. Especially not you."

"Especially not me?" he echoed lightly.

Padmé gave him a look that suggested he already knew the answer.

He did.

Satine.

And the Senate had a long memory.

Cody straightened as she approached, and the senator gave him a respectful nod. "You must be…?"

"Cody, ma'am."

"No rank?" she asked gently.

"Not recognized outside Kamino, ma'am."

Something flickered across her expression — outrage and heartbreak, political and personal. "Well then," she said, recovering with senatorial grace, "welcome to Mandalore. I hope this visit gives you clarity, Commander."

Cody froze.

Obi-Wan smiled. "Careful, Senator. You'll confuse him. He's been warned not to accept titles from strangers."

Padmé lifted a brow. "I'm not a stranger."

"That," Obi-Wan said dryly, "is debatable."

Her laugh was delighted, and Obi-Wan felt the knot in his chest loosen. Not entirely — never that — but enough.

Padmé gestured for them to walk with her. "I arrived this morning. The Senate needed a direct representative since the situation with the clones is… complicated."

It was the diplomatic version of "the Senate is panicking so hard they're starting to sweat through their robes."

"And your stance?" Obi-Wan asked.

"My stance," Padmé said, smoothing her gloves, "is that Satine's offer is the sensible, humane, morally correct option — and also potentially catastrophic for Republic–Mandalorian relations."

"Ah," Obi-Wan murmured. "Balanced, then."

"Pragmatic," she corrected. "But I'm relieved someone took the first step. Even if it wasn't us."

She meant Satine.

Of course she did.

Obi-Wan kept his expression neutral, though something uncomfortably warm twisted in his chest. Pride? Worry? Both? Satine had always been capable of bold decisions that made the galaxy reconsider both its assumptions and its patience.

Before Obi-Wan could reply, the grand doors to the audience chamber slid open with their characteristic Mandalorian efficiency — meaning silently, impressively, and with just enough theatricality to remind visitors they were on a planet whose architectural aesthetic was "political intimidation, but tasteful."

A pair of guards stepped out first.

Then Satine.

Her presence filled the space like the quiet before a storm — or perhaps like the storm itself, polite enough to give you a moment to brace.

Padmé straightened automatically.

Cody went rigid.

Obi-Wan's heart did something profoundly undignified.

"Senator Amidala," Satine said with a perfect diplomatic nod. "Welcome to Sundari. Mandalore appreciates your willingness to speak on behalf of the Republic."

"Duchess Kryze," Padmé said, matching her tone. "Thank you for receiving me."

There was respect, certainly.

And steel.

And a thin layer of frost — not personal, but political. Satine's independence was newly declared. Padmé represented a government still trying to pull Mandalore back into its orbit.

Then Satine's eyes slid past her.

And found Obi-Wan.

The room warmed ten degrees.

Padmé noticed first.

Then the guards.

Then Cody, who looked like a man experiencing a spiritual revelation and trying very, very hard not to react.

"Obi-Wan," Satine said, softer than protocol allowed.

"Duchess," he murmured, because anything else — any use of her name — would betray too much in front of an audience.

She stepped closer. Not close enough to break decorum. Close enough to break him.

"You've traveled far," she said. "I trust the journey was comfortable?"

Very normal greeting. Very diplomatic. Except she said it the way one might ask if he'd slept well, or if he'd eaten, or if he'd missed her as terribly as she'd missed him.

"It was uneventful," Obi-Wan said. He hoped his voice did not betray that his pulse had doubled. "Though I admit, Mandalore is always a welcome sight."

The corner of her mouth softened — a smile only he saw, or perhaps one only he was meant to.

Padmé cleared her throat gently, not interrupting so much as reasserting her existence. "Duchess, if you prefer to speak with Master Kenobi privately before the negotiations continue, I can prepare the preliminary brief with your advisory council."

Satine did not look away from Obi-Wan when she answered.

"That would be appreciated."

Obi-Wan, very specifically, did not swallow.

Because he knew exactly what the room was thinking.

Exactly what Cody was thinking — Force, I'm getting transferred to someone interesting, aren't I?

Exactly what Padmé was thinking — So that's the infamous duchess.

Exactly what Satine was thinking — We have limited time and far too much to say.

Satine offered her arm.

"Master Kenobi," she said, "a private discussion?"

Absolutely professional.

Not romantic at all.

No sir.

Obi-Wan placed his hand lightly atop her offered arm — the contact brief, restrained, and quietly devastating.

"Of course," he said.

Cody exhaled very slowly behind him.

Padmé hid a smile.

And the guards pretended the most politically charged, emotionally fraught, galaxy-shaping tension in recent Mandalorian history wasn't walking itself down a hallway, hand in arm, to have a conversation no report would ever accurately summarize.

...​

Like Father, like Son.

Attachments are a hard thing to get rid of. They are, quite aptly, attached to you.

Anyways! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter. There was a lot of skepticism about how things were going to go when last we left off. I hope I put some of those fears to rest. Please stay tuned for next week to see what happens next!

Or, if you prefer, go ahead and check me out on Patreon, and read ahead. Link below:

My Patreon

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 20: There Is No "Try"

The first thing I learn is that Sith tombs have back doors.

Which, in hindsight, should not surprise me. Anyone who builds a monument to eternal domination and galactic supremacy probably also plans an emergency exit. Or twelve. Preferably hidden behind ominous murals so that archaeologists—and idiot Jedi children—don't immediately notice them.

The wall behind the holocron dais does not open so much as decide to stop being a wall.

There's no dramatic explosion or lightning strike this time. Just a deep, resonant thrum that I feel more than hear, like the planet clearing its throat. The carved stone splits along seams I hadn't noticed before, sliding apart with mechanical precision that absolutely should not still function after several thousand years.

Cold air pours out.

Not dusty air. Not stale.

Cold. Clean. Surprisingly decent smell.

Maris's grip tightens on my sleeve. "Oh. That's not good."

"That depends," I say faintly, staring into the newly revealed passageway, "on whether or not this will scar us for life. Personally, as long as it's not a collection of baby skulls, I'm pretty open-minded."

"That was… specific."

"Don't read into it."

The tunnel beyond slopes downward at a gentle angle, lit by thin red lines embedded in the walls—dim at first, barely more than veins of dying embers. The floor is smooth beneath my boots, worn not by time but by use. This place wasn't abandoned in a hurry. It was sealed carefully. Reverently.

Behind us, the holocron hums.

The Wrath's presence presses outward, subtle but undeniable, like a gravity well tugging at my spine.

"You may proceed," he says, voice echoing not just in the chamber, but in my head. "Try not to embarrass yourselves immediately."

Maris snorts and steps forward without hesitation. "No promises."

I hesitate for half a second longer.

Not because I'm scared.

Okay, that's a lie. I'm terrified. But it's the good kind of terrified. The kind that comes with footnotes and diagrams and a strong urge to document everything in a very illegal journal. It's like watching a horror movie or riding a roller coaster. It's horrifying and enthralling, all at once.

The Force here doesn't push me forward.

It expects me to follow.

So I do.

The moment my foot crosses the threshold, the tunnel lights brighten—just a fraction, but enough that I notice. Enough that my stomach drops.

"…Maris," I say quietly.

"Yeah?"

"I think this place just noticed me."

She grins over her shoulder. "Congrats. You've been adopted by a murder hallway."

We descend deeper, the tunnel widening gradually until it opens into something that makes my brain stall out completely.

The Sith Academy is not a ruin.

It is a fortress.

Massive stone arches stretch overhead, ribbed with dark metal supports etched in Sith runes that glow faintly as we step into the space. Walkways branch off in every direction, suspended over a vast central chamber that drops into darkness so deep my lightsaber can't find the bottom. Towering spires rise along the cavern walls, stacked with balconies, training platforms, and sealed doorways.

Dormitories. Lecture halls. Sparring arenas.

Infrastructure.

I've seen holos of Jedi temples long lost to time—crumbled, hollowed out, half-buried. This place feels… paused. Like someone hit a button and told it to wait.

As if it knew someone would come back.

"That's," Maris breathes, eyes wide and shining, "so much bigger than I thought."

"Same," I whisper. "I was expecting… you know. Rubble. Dramatic decay. At least one skeleton pointing ominously."

The Wrath's hologram materializes beside us, larger now, his armored form casting a red reflection across the stone.

"You were taught," he says coolly, "that the Sith were destroyed."

There it is.

The Jedi version of history. Clean. Tidy. Victorious. Wrong.

"Yeah," I admit. "I mean—yes. That's the official stance."

"And yet," he says, gesturing broadly to the Academy, "you stand within the heart of our legacy."

I frown, looking around again. "So… this place just… what? Got hidden away?"

Wrath's helm tilts, ever so slightly.

"No," he says, irritation creeping into his voice like a crack in glass. "It was preserved."

The lights along the walkways flare brighter in response to his mood. Doors along the far walls unlock with a chorus of clicks and hisses. Somewhere deep below us, massive mechanisms grind awake, ancient systems reconnecting after centuries of dormancy.

Maris lets out a delighted, borderline feral laugh. "Oh, I love a planned apocalypse."

Wrath ignores her.

"The Sith did not fall by accident," he continues. "Nor did we allow our institutions to rot into useless monuments. This Academy was rendered inactive by design. Its masters dispersed. Its archives sealed. Its wards maintained by systems you do not yet comprehend."

He turns his gaze back to me.

"We planned for resurgence."

That… shouldn't unsettle me as much as it does.

I was raised on the idea that the Sith were a cautionary tale. A closed chapter. Something the Jedi overcame through patience and balance and the moral high ground.

Even having all this meta knowledge.

Knowing about the Rule of Two, of the Bane Line. Papa Palpatine, and the Grand Plan. I assumed that the Jedi at least had good reason to believe the Sith were gone forever. The least they could have done was torch and burn these places.

"So," I said, carefully, "you're saying this place was… waiting."

"For someone worthy," Wrath replies flatly.

Maris beams. "We're worthy!"

"No," he snaps. "You are present."

Ouch.

He floats closer, his presence sharpening. The Force tightens around my chest—not painful, not threatening. Evaluative.

"You are unacceptable," he says, turning slightly toward Maris. "Undisciplined. Excessively volatile. Your anger lacks direction."

Maris puts a hand on her hip. "Wow. First impressions are overrated anyway."

Wrath shifts his attention to me.

"You are unqualified," he continues. "Untrained in the true applications of power. Shackled by Jedi restraint and moral indecision."

That one lands harder.

"And yet," he says, voice lowering, "you are useful."

The word echoes.

Useful.

Not chosen. Not destined.

Useful.

I should be offended.

Instead, something in my chest twists—not resentment, but recognition. The Jedi don't talk like that. They don't frame people as tools, even when they absolutely are. There's a brutal honesty to it that feels… refreshing. Disturbing. But refreshing.

Let's be honest, I'm a hop and a skip away from getting shipped out to the Corps. The odds of me getting to be a Padawan, let alone a Knight get lower every day. It wouldn't kill me to have some sort of fallback plan.

Besides, I can't exactly go anywhere without a ship. Might as well hear him out.

Wrath gestures, and a nearby platform lowers itself with a smooth hum, aligning perfectly beneath my feet. The moment I step onto it, the runes along its edge ignite.

The Academy responds.

Not to him.

To me.

I suck in a breath. "Okay, I know I've got… vibes. But this feels like a lot."

Maris hops onto the platform beside me. The runes flicker—but don't brighten for her.

She notices immediately.

"…Oh," she says softly. Then, louder, with delight, "Oh, that's fascinating."

Wrath watches this exchange with keen interest.

"The structure recognizes authority," he explains. "Not lineage. Not allegiance. Intent."

I tilted my head. "That seems… complicated."

"Yes," he agrees. "Now you are beginning to understand."

The platform carries us forward along a central causeway, gliding smoothly over the abyss below. As we pass, more systems awaken—training droids powering up, holoprojectors flickering to life, sealed doors unlocking one by one.

This isn't a tour.

It's a handover.

"You will remain here," Wrath says suddenly.

Maris and I speak at the same time.

"Wait, what?"

"Awesome."

Wrath does not seem phased. Most impressive.

"Not as prisoners," he clarifies, clearly annoyed that he has to. "Nor as students. You have earned neither distinction."

I wince. "That's… comforting?"

"You are candidates," he continues. "For now. There is much to be learned from you before decisions are made."

"Decisions about what?" I ask.

His gaze lingers on me.

"About whether you are worth the effort."

The platform comes to a stop before a massive set of doors, far larger than the one we entered through. The runes carved into them pulse slowly, like a heartbeat.

The Academy hums around us, awake and aware and very much no longer abandoned.

Maris looks at me, eyes bright, grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Ben," she whispers, reverent, "we own a Sith Academy."

"We do not," I hiss back. "We are unsupervised minors on a murder planet."

Wrath turns toward the doors.

"Welcome," he says, "to Korriban's true legacy."

The doors begin to open.

And somewhere deep in the Force, I get the very distinct feeling that I've just crossed a line I can't uncross.

...​

The first thing Wrath does after welcoming us to Korriban's "true legacy" is not try to kill us.

This should have been reassuring.

Instead, it's deeply unsettling.

He doesn't lead us to a sparring ring or unleash training droids or even do the classic Sith thing where he tries to provoke us into attacking him so he can prove a point about our weakness. No, he guides us into what appears to be a lecture hall—tiered stone seating, a central dais, ancient holoprojectors lining the walls like unblinking eyes.

Desks. Actual desks.

I feel cheated.

"Sit," Wrath says.

Maris drops into a seat immediately, boots up on the desk in front of her like she's daring the furniture to complain. I choose a seat closer to the front, mostly because the Force feels… denser there. Like the Academy is watching to see where I'll put myself.

Wrath does not sit. Given he's a Holocron Force Ghost, that makes sense.

What he does do is pace.

Slowly. Deliberately. The way a predator paces when it already knows where the exits are and is mostly just killing time.

"This," he says, gesturing around us, "is not a trial."

Maris raises a hand. "Aw."

He ignores her.

"You have not earned that distinction," he continues. "Nor is this training. Training implies investment. This is an evaluation."

"Like an interview?" I offer.

Wrath stops pacing. Turns. Fixes his helm on me.

"If you interrupt me again," he says calmly, "I will begin with you."

"… Touchy," I mutter.

He resumes pacing.

"The Jedi," Wrath says, with a disdain that feels practiced, "test aptitude through obedience. Through repetition. Through adherence to rules designed to prevent failure rather than cultivate success."

Maris nods. "Yeah, pretty much. The system doesn't always work, though. Case in point." She pointed at herself. And at me.

"Indeed. But their purpose remains clear. They teach you what not to feel," he goes on. "What not to want. What not to become. And then they wonder why their initiates fracture the moment reality refuses to conform."

I think of the Corps.

I do not say anything.

Wrath stops in front of Maris.

"You," he says. "Your anger is loud."

Maris tilts her head, unimpressed. "Golly Gee. You don't say. You've only brought it up like three times."

"It is inefficient," he snaps. "You lash out without direction. You indulge emotion for its own sake. That is not strength. It is noise."

Her smile sharpens. "You gonna tell me to meditate about it?"

"No," Wrath says. "I am going to ask you a question."

He lifts one hand. The air in front of Maris ripples, and suddenly she's not sitting in a lecture hall anymore.

She's standing in the crèche.

So am I.

The memory is vivid enough that my chest tightens—the smell of disinfectant, the low hum of Coruscant traffic far below, the way the lights were always just a little too bright. We're younger here. Smaller. Ahsoka's there, too, sitting cross-legged with her montrals tucked in close, pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.

Wrath's voice echoes through the illusion.

"Why are you angry?"

Maris doesn't hesitate. "Because the galaxy's a mess."

"Vague."

"Because people lie."

"Pathetic. Dig deeper."

She clenches her fists. "Because no one ever means what they say."

Wrath circles her like a vulture. "Better. And when you strike out—when you hurt others—what do you hope to accomplish?"

Maris opens her mouth.

Closes it.

For the first time since I met her, she looks… unsure.

"…I don't know," she admits finally. "I just don't want to be small."

The illusion shatters.

We're back in the lecture hall. Maris exhales sharply, jaw tight.

Wrath nods once. "There it is. Anger born of fear. Untempered. Wasteful."

He turns away from her and points at me.

"You," he says. "Your loyalty."

Oh. Great. We're doing this.

The room shifts again, but this time the Force doesn't drag me into a memory. Instead, it splits the space.

On one side: the Temple. The Council chamber. Yoda's patient gaze. Mace Windu's disapproval. The quiet, suffocating pressure of expectations I can never quite meet.

On the other: Mandalore.

Not the politics. Not the throne.

Just her.

Satine Kryze, kneeling to adjust my cloak, her hands gentle, her smile sad. Obi-Wan Kenobi, laughing softly as he corrects my stance. Korkie, being insufferably cheerful. A life I was never fated to have. And yet, I dream about it constantly.

I wonder about it a lot. What I might be, who I might be, if I was reincarnated without my memories. Would I still live on Mandalore? Would I be a better Initiate? A worse one? There's so much to consider, too much for me to ever really know.

Wrath's voice cuts through it all.

"If ordered to choose," he says, "which do you abandon?"

My throat goes dry.

I think either one of them would press me to sacrifice the other. The Jedi hate attachments. Mandalore hates the Jedi. It's less a hypothetical, more of an absolute certainty that to actually live my life, I'd need to make a choice.

A sacrifice.

"I wouldn't," I say finally.

Wrath's helm tilts. "Incorrect."

"I'd find another way," I insist. "Or I'd break the order."

The Force hums, curious.

Wrath studies me for a long moment. Then—He laughs. It's sharp and humorless, but unmistakably real.

"There," he says. "That."

The illusion dissolves.

"The Jedi call that defiance," Wrath continues. "The Sith call it ambition. Both are wrong." He steps closer, looming. "It is clarity."

I swallow.

"Sith training," Wrath says, "is not about rage. Rage is fuel, not purpose. We do not lose ourselves to emotion. We hone it. Direct it. Strip away sentiment until only intent remains."

Maris leans toward me, whispering, "I think he's pitching us a management position."

Wrath hears her anyway.

"This Academy," he says, ignoring her, "does not need students."

The walls seem to listen.

"It needs caretakers."

The word lands heavy.

"Someone must maintain it," Wrath continues. "Someone must decide what knowledge is preserved. What is discarded. What is rebuilt."

My stomach twists.

This isn't a lesson.

It's an offer.

Not of power. Of responsibility.

An inheritance.

I think of the Jedi archives—locked, restricted, curated by committee. I think of the Corps, of being useful but never chosen. I think of the Academy responding to me not because of who my parents are, but because of what I intend.

Maris, of course, grins.

"So," she says brightly, "do we get, like, a renovation budget? Because I have ideas."

Wrath stares at her.

Then, after a pause, he says, "You will begin with the west wing. It is structurally unsound."

Her grin widens. "I love this job."

I should be horrified.

Instead, I realize—far too late—that I'm already thinking about where I'd start reorganizing the archives. And that scares me more than any lightsaber battle ever could. I wonder if that was his intention?

...​

Ahsoka Tano learned very early in her Jedi education that the Temple did not actually run on the Force.

It ran on schedules.

This was, frankly, more terrifying.

She stood in the Hall of Meditation with three datapads balanced in her arms, a fourth hovering in the air beside her courtesy of a repulsor clip she'd "borrowed" from Maintenance and absolutely intended to return someday. The hum of Coruscant traffic filtered faintly through the transparisteel windows, a reminder that the galaxy was continuing to exist whether or not the Jedi were ready for it.

Right now, the Jedi were very much not ready.

"Ahsoka," Master Plo Koon said gently, appearing at her side with the quiet grace of someone who never seemed rushed, "have you seen Initiates Kryze and Brood today?"

Ahsoka smiled.

It was an easy smile. Practiced. The kind she'd been honing since the moment she realized adults responded better when you looked cooperative.

"Of course," she said without missing a beat. "They were in the south gardens earlier. Group meditation."

Plo Koon nodded. "I see. They were not present at the mid-morning count."

"Yes," Ahsoka agreed. "They… left early."

"For what reason?"

Ahsoka tilted her head, thoughtful. "Personal reflection?"

There was a pause.

The kind of pause that made it very clear that Plo Koon did not believe her.

But he also did not push.

"Thank you, Ahsoka," he said finally. "Please inform them that Master Yoda expects their attendance this evening."

"I will," she said brightly.

He moved on, robes whispering softly against the stone floor.

The moment he was out of earshot, Ahsoka exhaled and tapped furiously at one of her datapads, pulling up the Temple's presence logs.

Initiate Kryze: Present.

Initiate Brood: Present.

She duplicated the entries across three different systems, cross-referenced them with a meditation report she'd forged earlier that morning, and then—just to be safe—scheduled them both for a "voluntary physical conditioning session" in one of the auxiliary gyms no one ever checked.

She was very good at this.

That realization sat… uncomfortably.

Ahsoka hadn't set out to become an expert in falsifying Jedi records. It just sort of happened, the way all survival skills did. The Temple was a maze of procedures and exceptions and overlapping authorities, and once you understood how the pieces fit together, it was surprisingly easy to… nudge things.

She told herself she was helping her friends.

Which was true.

She was also, objectively, committing several ethical violations that would get her lectured for hours if anyone ever found out.

Her comm vibrated.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

She didn't check it immediately. That would look suspicious. Instead, she walked calmly down the hall toward the Archive Annex, nodded politely at Jocasta Nu, and only ducked into a quiet alcove once she was sure she wasn't being watched.

She opened the channel.

BEN: Hey.

Ahsoka frowned.

AHSOKA: Hey?! That's all you have to say?!

MARIS: Right. Sorry. Hi, Ahsoka. How are you?

Ahsoka leaned her head back against the wall. "Stars help me."

AHSOKA: Where the heck are you guys?!

There was a pause. Longer this time.

Then—

BEN: Korriban. Still.

Ahsoka froze.

Not outwardly. Years of Temple life had trained her out of obvious reactions. But inside, something went very still.

AHSOKA: You said you were just going to look around. That you'd be right behind me!

BEN: We did look around. Thoroughly.

MARIS: You might've taken the only ship on this entire planet.

Ahsoka pinched the bridge of her nose.

AHSOKA: This was a terrible plan!

She pushed off the wall and started walking again, letting her body move on instinct while her mind raced. Korriban wasn't just forbidden—it was categorically forbidden. The kind of place Masters referenced in lectures with ominous pauses and very clear warnings about what happened to people who went poking around Sith ruins.

AHSOKA: Are you okay? Do you need me to pick you up!

BEN: Define "okay."

Her montrals twitched in irritation.

AHSOKA: Ben.

BEN: Yes. We're okay.

MARIS: Mostly intact.

Ahsoka exhaled slowly through her nose.

AHSOKA: Send me your exact coordinates. I'm coming to get you.

BEN: That might not be a great idea… we might've accidentally turned the Sith Academy on?

She stopped walking.

That was… not good.

AHSOKA: You what?

MARIS: You know, this is kinda your fault for leaving us alone. Just saying.

Ahsoka closed her eyes.

This was no longer a prank.

It hadn't been one to begin with, not really, but she'd treated it like one because that was easier. Ben and Maris got into trouble. She covered. That was the rhythm. That was how it worked.

This was different.

AHSOKA: Can you power the Academy down?

BEN: Maybe?

That answer wasn't very reassuring.

AHSOKA: What's your plan?

Another pause.

Longer.

BEN: We're… evaluating our options.

Ahsoka opened her eyes and stared out at the Temple corridor, at the steady stream of Jedi and initiates moving about their day, blissfully unaware that two children were currently squatting in a Sith Academy like it was a summer internship.

AHSOKA: This is bad.

MARIS: It's interesting.

AHSOKA: No, it's just bad. Don't get yourselves killed. I will figure something out.

She ended the transmission before they could say anything else.

For a moment, she just stood there.

Then she straightened her shoulders and went back to work.

The Council meeting was a disaster.

Not because anything went wrong—if anything, it went too smoothly—but because Ahsoka found herself fielding questions that were clearly circling closer to the truth.

Master Mace Windu wanted updated attendance metrics. Master Yoda wanted to know why several initiates had logged identical meditation reflections. Master Shaak Ti asked, very politely, whether the Temple's internal tracking systems had been experiencing errors lately.

Ahsoka smiled. Explained. Redirected.

She blamed outdated software. Overlapping schedules. Human error.

Technically accurate. Just… selectively framed.

By the time the meeting adjourned, she had three new tasks, two follow-up reports to file, and exactly one chance to make sure Ben and Maris did not get declared missing.

She retreated to her quarters and pulled up the Temple's long-range communication logs, fingers flying as she masked outgoing signals and rerouted incoming ones through half a dozen innocuous relays.

This wasn't just hiding them anymore.

This was shielding them.

The realization hit her harder than anything else that day.

Ahsoka sat back on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

She trusted Ben. She trusted Maris. But she didn't trust Korriban. Whatever they'd found out there, wasn't going to let go easily.

And the Jedi?

The Jedi wouldn't understand.

They'd react. They'd intervene. They'd send Masters and warnings and ultimatums, and whatever fragile balance Ben was walking right now would shatter.

Ahsoka didn't know if she was doing the right thing.

But she knew what would happen if she didn't do something.

Her comm buzzed again.

She hesitated.

Then opened it.

BEN: Hey. Again.

AHSOKA: You're in so much trouble.

BEN: I know. Still love me?

She smiled despite herself.

AHSOKA: I can cover for you. For now. But this is bigger than sneaking out of the Temple.

BEN: Little bit. Thanks, Ahsoka. I promise, I won't do anything stupid.

AHSOKA: Now, why don't I believe you?

BEN: Have a little faith.

AHSOKA: I did. Look where that got us. Stay. Put. I mean it!

Ahsoka stared out at the endless cityscape of Coruscant, at the heart of the Republic, at the place that thought it was the center of the galaxy.

It might very well be.

But it didn't feel that way when the most important people in the galaxy were entire star systems away.

...​

Ahsoka finds Anakin Skywalker sulking in the Temple sparring hall.

This is not unusual.

What is unusual is the level of sulk.

He's seated on the edge of the mat, elbows on his knees, staring at absolutely nothing with the intensity of someone trying to Force-choke reality into behaving differently. His lightsaber is beside him, deactivated. His robes are rumpled. His hair—usually a carefully cultivated state of controlled chaos—is a mess.

The air around him practically hums with grievance.

Ahsoka slows her steps, observing from a safe distance.

She knows better than to interrupt immediately. Anakin sulks the way a storm system forms: dramatic buildup, escalating pressure, and eventual emotional lightning strike if provoked too early.

She clears her throat anyway.

Nothing.

She waves a hand in front of his face.

Still nothing.

"…Wow," she says. "You're really committing to the bit."

Anakin blinks. Looks up. Scowls. "What do you want?"

Ahsoka grins. "I was hoping to spar. But I see you're busy brooding."

"I'm not brooding."

"You're staring at the floor like it personally betrayed you."

He huffs and looks away. "I'm thinking."

"That's what I said."

She drops down beside him, legs swinging idly over the mat. The silence stretches for a moment, thick and petulant.

Finally, Anakin mutters, "He should've taken me."

Ahsoka hums. "Ah. There it is."

Anakin shoots her a look. "What?"

"Obi-Wan," she says lightly. "Mandalore. Diplomacy."

His jaw tightens.

"He's not good at diplomacy," Anakin says. "You know that. He overthinks everything. He'll say the wrong thing. Or worse—he'll say the right thing and annoy everyone anyway."

"Mm," Ahsoka agrees. "And yet."

"And yet what."

"And yet the Council decided you were too much of a liability to send along."

Anakin bristles. "They didn't say that."

"They didn't have to."

He glares at the far wall. "I could've helped."

"I'm sure," Ahsoka says soothingly. "By not starting an incident."

"I wouldn't start an incident."

She gives him a look.

He sighs. "…I would start a small incident."

"Growth."

Anakin folds his arms. "Besides. It's not just Obi-Wan."

Oh?

Ahsoka tilts her head, pretending sudden fascination with the ceiling. "Really."

"Yes," he says, too quickly. "I mean—no. I mean—it's irrelevant."

She waits.

He doesn't elaborate.

Ahsoka smiles to herself.

"So," she says casually, "I heard Senator Amidala was sent as a diplomatic envoy."

The effect is immediate.

Anakin stiffens.

"What," he says flatly, "about Senator Amidala."

"Oh, nothing," Ahsoka replies innocently. "Just that she and Obi-Wan are apparently working very closely."

His shoulders tense. "That makes sense. She's a senator. He's a negotiator."

"Mm-hm."

"Professionally."

"Of course."

He glances at her. "Why are you saying it like that?"

Ahsoka shrugs. "No reason. Just… you know. Long days. Long nights. Private discussions. Shared ideals."

Anakin scoffs. "Obi-Wan Kenobi does not have shared ideals with Padmé Amidala."

"Really?" Ahsoka asks. "They're both very principled. Passionate. Willing to defy institutions when they think something's wrong."

"That doesn't mean anything."

She leans back on her hands, studying him. "I don't know. Obi-Wan definitely has a type."

Anakin's head snaps toward her. "He does not."

"Oh, he absolutely does."

"No, he doesn't."

"He likes strong women," Ahsoka continues, ticking points off on her fingers. "Stalwart. Conviction. Not afraid to stand up for what they believe in. Politically savvy. Morally stubborn."

Anakin opens his mouth. Closes it.

"That's—" he starts. Stops. "That's coincidental."

"And," Ahsoka adds thoughtfully, "Padmé does seem like the kind of person who might have a thing for men with beards."

"That is inappropriate," Anakin snaps.

Ahsoka beams. "Is it?"

"Yes!"

"Why?"

"Because—because Jedi aren't supposed to—"

"And senators aren't supposed to what," she presses. "Have preferences?"

He flushes. "That's not what I meant."

"Sure it is."

Anakin pushes himself to his feet and starts pacing. "You're imagining things."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Because," Ahsoka continues sweetly, "from what I hear, they've been spending a lot of time together."

"Who told you that."

She shrugs. "Temple gossip."

"There is no Temple gossip." He stops pacing to glare at her. "This isn't funny."

"Oh," she says. "I think it's hilarious."

Anakin splutters. "You're enjoying this."

"Immensely."

He rubs his face with both hands. "This is ridiculous. Obi-Wan wouldn't—Padmé wouldn't—there's nothing there."

Ahsoka watches him spiral, amusement bubbling under her ribs.

The thing is—he really doesn't have anything to worry about.

At least not from Obi-Wan.

She knows that.

She knows about Satine Kryze.

She knows the way Obi-Wan's voice softens when her name comes up. The way his posture changes. The grief he carries quietly, carefully, like a fragile thing he refuses to let break further.

Obi-Wan Kenobi loved one person.

And he loved her deeply.

Ahsoka has seen that kind of love up close. It leaves marks.

Padmé Amidala, for all her brilliance, is not that woman.

But Anakin doesn't know that.

And it's not her secret to tell.

Also?

This is far more entertaining.

"You're overthinking it," Anakin insists, mostly to himself now. "It's just diplomacy."

"Sure," Ahsoka agrees. "Very private diplomacy."

He groans. "Stop saying it like that."

She stands and stretches. "Well, if you're so unconcerned, then there's nothing to worry about."

He narrows his eyes. "You're doing this on purpose."

"What? Me?" She places a hand over her heart. "I would never."

Anakin looks unconvinced.

"Besides," she adds, starting toward the exit, "if something did happen, it'd probably be very scandalous. Jedi Knight and Senator. Forbidden attachment. Tragic consequences."

"Nothing is happening," he snaps.

Ahsoka pauses at the doorway and glances back, grinning. "Good. Then you can relax."

He glares.

She leaves him there, muttering to himself, pacing like a caged nexu.

As she walks down the corridor, her smile fades just a little.

Because as funny as it is to poke at Anakin, she knows what this really is.

Jealousy. Fear. Loneliness.

He hates being left behind.

She understands that feeling more than she wants to admit.

And right now, everyone is somewhere else.

Obi-Wan is on Mandalore, navigating politics and ghosts.

Ben and Maris are on Korriban, playing caretakers to a Sith legacy that should never have woken up.

And she's here. Holding things together. Juggling lies and schedules and friendships like fragile glass.

Ahsoka exhales slowly.

Just one more plate to keep spinning.

Hopefully none of them shatter.

...​

The Academy breathed.

Maris noticed it once she stopped pretending she wasn't listening for it.

Not breath like lungs—nothing so pedestrian—but a slow, subterranean awareness that pulsed through the stone beneath her boots. Old power. Old intention. Korriban didn't sleep so much as it waited, and the Academy was the same: corridors carved to endure millennia, training chambers shaped by hands that had never believed in the future so much as conquest.

She liked it immediately.

They'd split up, loosely. Not because either of them said it out loud, but because the place was too big to digest all at once, and because Maris had always learned best by wandering off.

The training chambers came first.

They were cavernous spaces, circular and tiered, with scorched floors and blast scars etched permanently into the walls. Some had shattered columns. Others still held dormant emitters set into the ceiling, faintly humming when she passed beneath them.

She paced the circumference of one chamber, boots crunching on ancient debris, and tilted her head.

"Could fix this," she murmured.

The Force stirred in response—not approval, not disapproval, just… attention.

Maris rolled her shoulders and moved on.

The dormitories were worse in a way that made her smile. Rows of stone bunks, austere to the point of cruelty, with alcoves clearly meant for meditation rather than rest. No warmth. No comfort. The kind of place built to strip children down into weapons.

She ran her fingers along one of the carved headrests. "Okay," she said thoughtfully. "So we're definitely adding blankets."

The archives were her favorite.

Not because they were intact—most weren't—but because of what they implied. Endless shelves. Holocrons long since removed or destroyed. Databanks etched directly into the walls, their interfaces eroded into illegibility.

This place had been built to teach.

To shape.

Maris stood in the center of the archive chamber and turned slowly, letting the enormity of it sink in.

The Jedi Archives back on Coruscant were pristine. Bright. Carefully curated. Every lesson filtered through layers of doctrine and restraint.

This?

This had been honest.

Brutal, yes. Cruel, often. But honest about what it was trying to do.

She liked honesty.

By the time she found Ben again, he was in one of the upper halls, staring at a cracked mural depicting Sith Lords kneeling before something abstract and violent enough to hurt just to look at.

He didn't notice her approach.

That wasn't unusual lately.

"You're pacing," Maris observed.

Ben startled, then sighed. "Am I?"

"Yes. You do it when you're thinking too hard."

"I'm always thinking," he muttered.

She joined him, hands clasped behind her back, studying the mural with casual interest. "You're also frowning. That one's new."

"This place is…" He trailed off, searching. "A lot."

"Sure," she agreed. "It's dusty. Needs updates. The aesthetic is aggressively 'ancient evil.' But the bones are solid."

Ben shot her a look. "You're talking about it like a fixer-upper."

Maris shrugged. "Everything's a fixer-upper if you're not a coward."

That earned her a snort despite himself.

They stood there in silence for a moment, the weight of the Academy pressing in—not threatening, exactly, but insistent.

"You're getting cold feet," she said finally.

Ben glanced at her. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." She tilted her head. "I can feel it. I know it. I just don't know why. The Jedi keep trying to turn us into something we're not. You, especially."

He looked away again. "That's not fair."

"It's what it is," Maris replied calmly. "They want you contained. Predictable. Safe."

"And this is… what? Safer?"

"No," she said, smiling faintly. "But it's honest."

She gestured around them. "This place doesn't pretend it's not dangerous. It doesn't tell you that wanting more is a flaw. It doesn't lie to you about what power costs."

Ben's jaw tightened. "It kills people."

"So does the Jedi Order," Maris said softly. "They just outsource it."

That landed.

He didn't respond right away, and she didn't push. She knew when to let silence do the work.

They were still there when the temperature dropped.

Not suddenly—Wrath didn't announce himself that way—but unmistakably. The air thickened. The lights along the hall flared to life one by one, bathing the stone in a dull, crimson glow.

The holocron activated behind them.

Wrath did not loom.

He simply was.

The projection resolved into armored stillness: robes layered and heavy, mask impassive, posture relaxed in the way of someone who had never needed to hurry.

"You have seen what remains," Wrath said. His voice echoed, not from the walls, but from the Force itself. "And what could be."

Maris folded her arms. "Needs renovations."

Wrath stared at them, his mask expressionless, his stance unwavering. Even the Force seemed to obscure his feelings. Maris was beginning to wonder if the Holocron felt anything at all when she caught a flicker of something new.

Amusement. Barely perceptible, but there.

"It has been centuries since anyone spoke to me without reverence or fear," Wrath said. "You are… refreshing."

Ben rubbed the back of his neck. "You've been watching us."

"I have been evaluating you," Wrath corrected. "As I said I would. That is my purpose."

Maris angled her head. "And?"

Wrath turned slightly, his gaze settling on Ben. "You hesitate."

Ben didn't deny it. "This wasn't supposed to be permanent."

"No," Wrath agreed. "It was supposed to be curiosity. A glance behind the curtain."

Maris smiled. "Still is."

Wrath lifted one armored hand, and the far wall of the hall slid open with a low rumble.

Beyond it lay a hangar.

Clean. Maintained. Powered.

At its center rested a sleek, predatory starfighter—angular, dark, unmistakably Sith in design.

"My Fury," Wrath said. "It remains functional."

Ben stared. Maris whistled softly.

"Leave," Wrath continued. "Now. Take the ship. Depart this world. The Academy will return to dormancy, and you will carry its memory as a secret."

The hangar lights brightened, inviting.

"Or," Wrath said, lowering his hand, "remain. Claim what was abandoned. Become something new."

The choice hung there, heavy and sharp.

Maris didn't hesitate.

She stepped forward. "We'll stay."

Ben turned to her. "Maris—"

She met his gaze, unflinching. "You said you wanted options. Remember? You wanted a feel of what life outside the Order was like." She gestured at the Academy. "Here's one. We don't have to commit forever. We just have to try it on. See if it fits."

Ben swallowed.

Maris softened her tone—not by much, but enough. "You're curious. That's not a crime."

Wrath watched them in silence.

Finally, Ben exhaled. Long. Slow.

"…Fine," he said. "We stay."

Wrath inclined his head. "Then it is done."

The Academy woke up.

Power surged through ancient conduits. Lights flared to full strength across levels long dark. Systems long dormant spun to life, humming with renewed purpose.

The Sith Academy of Korriban was abandoned no longer.

Maris felt it settle around them—not as chains, but as acknowledgment.

She smiled.

"Well," she said lightly, "guess we live here now."

Ben snorted. "Please don't redecorate with skulls."

"No promises."

Behind them, the Academy breathed—aware, active, claimed.

...​

"Do, or do not. There is no try."

— Me

...

...

...

And also Yoda, I guess. Whatever.

I hope you all enjoyed! If you want to read more, wait another week! Or go check me out on Patreon, link below:

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[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 21: How To Train Your Apprentice

Korriban dawns red.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Just—red. The sky bleeds into the horizon like the planet itself is remembering something ugly, and the heat settles in early, thick and suffocating, clinging to my skin before I'm even fully awake. Sweat beads along my spine as I step out onto the cracked stone of the Central Training Complex, boots crunching against sand that looks more like powdered bone than earth.

I hate this planet.

Which, apparently, makes me exactly the right kind of idiot to be here.

Maris is already outside, leaning against a half-collapsed pillar with her arms crossed, looking irritatingly awake. She hasn't bothered tying her hair back. Red mascara striking against pale skin, like some kind of female Kratos, eyes sharp and alert like this is exactly where she's supposed to be at this hour.

I resist the urge to throw a pebble at her.

"Morning," I said, because I was raised by Jedi and apparently politeness is a hard habit to kill.

She snorts. "It's barely a morning. This planet doesn't do mornings. It does 'impending doom' and 'worse impending doom.'"

Fair.

We stand there in silence for a moment, the heat crawling higher, the ruins looming around us—jagged obsidian ridges stabbing up from the ground like broken teeth. The Central Training Complex isn't a single building so much as a graveyard of ambitions. Ancient Sith architecture layered over itself, rebuilt, collapsed, rebuilt again. Doors that don't line up with hallways. Stairs that lead nowhere. Walls etched with carvings so eroded they look like screaming faces if you squint.

I don't squint.

I've seen enough screaming faces lately.

The air shifts.

That's the only warning we get.

The temperature drops—not enough to be pleasant, just enough to feel wrong. The shadows stretch unnaturally long, pooling together in the center of the courtyard, and then he's there.

Wrath.

The holocron's projection is solid enough to cast a shadow, armored and imposing, face hidden behind a Sith mask that has never once shown us anything resembling humanity. Cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders, lightsaber unlit at his side. He stands with the casual authority of someone who has never, in his entire existence, questioned whether people would listen when he spoke.

I straighten instinctively.

Maris doesn't. Of course she doesn't.

"About time," she said. "I was starting to think you forgot we exist."

Wrath does not react.

Not a flicker. Not a breath.

"Acolytes," he said, voice distorted and resonant, echoing against stone that has heard worse. "You are late."

I blink. "We're not—"

"You arrived when summoned," he continues. "That does not make you punctual. It makes you adequate."

Maris grins. "Wow. Starting strong."

I shoot her a look. She ignores me.

Wrath turns slightly, the movement slow, deliberate. Calculated. "This is your orientation."

I brace myself. Some part of my brain—the part that has watched holovids, read archives, consumed every scrap of Sith history I could get my hands on without screaming—expects… something. A speech. A creed. A dramatic explanation of suffering and power and the Dark Side as liberation.

Instead, Wrath gestures toward the open desert beyond the complex.

"There is no schedule."

…Okay. That's new.

"There will be no instruction."

Less okay.

"There will be no rescue."

Actively concerning.

He pauses, letting the words settle, sink in, rot where they land.

"The lesson is simple," Wrath said. "Live. Or die."

I stare at him.

Internally, my brain does that record-scratch thing where everything halts, as I try to process the sheer stupidity of what I just heard. You know, I actually think I saw this in the Ahsoka series. It didn't make sense then, either. Live or die.

Yeah, what a complex, and thoughtful principle. Not.

No wonder, Anakin Oneliner thought of it.

I don't say that out loud. I'm not suicidal.

Maris, however, tilts her head. "You know, when you phrase it like that, it sounds less like training and more like a poorly thought-out HR policy."

Wrath turns his masked gaze to her.

"If you were trained under the Old Sith," he said calmly, "you would already be dead."

She raises an eyebrow. "Because I asked questions?"

"No." His tone doesn't change. "Because you are an alien."

The air goes very still.

I feel something cold coil in my stomach, an old, ugly understanding clicking into place. I knew this, academically. I'd read about it. But hearing it said so plainly—no malice, no apology, just fact—hits differently. I forgot how common racism was in this galaxy.

Specism? Doesn't matter, it still sucks.

Wrath continues, unbothered. "They were… less than accepting of aliens among their number. Your presence here would have been an anomaly. A mistake corrected with blood."

Maris bares her teeth in something that might be a smile. "Good thing you're not them."

"No," Wrath agrees. "I am not."

That, somehow, is more unsettling.

He turns his attention back to both of us. "You are not apprentices."

I feel that one like a slap.

"You are acolytes," he continues. "You will earn the right to be called more. As I did."

I swallow my sarcasm, nodding slowly. In my head, I can't help categorizing it, slotting it into something familiar. Initiates, but worse. Same branch transfer, no promotion. Jedi Youngling to Sith… intern.

Fantastic. I crossed moral event horizons for an unpaid position.

Wrath lifts one gauntleted hand, and the ground moves.

Stone slabs slide aside with a grinding roar, revealing a descending path carved directly into the bedrock. Heat pours up from below, thick with the smell of iron and old dust.

"Training begins now," Wrath said. "Follow."

We do.

Because what else are we going to do? Argue? Run? Ask for a refund?

The path leads us out of the complex and straight into the surrounding wasteland. The sun climbs higher, turning the sky from blood-red to blistering orange. Almost immediately, my lungs burn. The gravity here feels heavier somehow, pressing down, dragging at my limbs.

Wrath does not slow.

He leads us to the base of an obsidian ridge that rises sharply, jagged and sheer. No clear handholds. No path. Just black stone that glints like glass.

"Up," he said.

Maris looks at it, then at him. "You couldn't have started with, I don't know, stretching?"

Wrath is already moving, scaling the ridge with efficient, powerful motions. No rope. No hesitation. To be fair, he's a hologram. It's not like he's actually putting any physical effort in.

I sigh. "Of course."

Climbing obsidian is a special kind of hell. The stone is sharp enough to slice skin, smooth enough in places to offer no grip at all. Every mistake costs blood. Every slip punishes you immediately. My palms are scraped raw within minutes, arms shaking as I force myself higher.

I'm painfully aware of the Force-reactive sand below us—how it shifts when emotions spike, how a fall wouldn't just hurt, it would respond.

Fear feeds it.

That's deliberate.

Halfway up, my muscles scream. I grit my teeth, forcing my breathing steady, reaching for the Force instinctively—and immediately feel resistance. Not blockage. Just… indifference. Like the planet itself is watching, unimpressed.

No safety nets, I think grimly.

No Master calling encouragement. No calm Jedi mantras. No rules to lean on. Just gravity, stone, and consequences.

At the top, Wrath waits.

He does not congratulate us.

He hands us relic weights.

Again, not physically. They were already there. He just gestures to them.

Ancient, dense objects that look like chunks of carved metal and bone fused together, etched with Sith runes that pulse faintly as soon as I touch one.

The thing gets heavier the angrier I feel.

I laugh breathlessly. "Oh, that's just rude."

Wrath inclines his head. "Control your emotions. Or be crushed by them."

Maris snorts. "That's ironic, coming from a Sith."

"Only if you misunderstand us," Wrath replies.

We move on.

Through Force-reactive sand that tugs at our boots when doubt creeps in. Across broken terrain that seems to shift subtly when frustration spikes. Every step is a lesson that no one explains, because explanation would make it easier.

And this isn't about easy.

By the time the sun reaches its apex, I'm exhausted, bleeding, and very aware of how much I relied on the Jedi structure I used to complain about. The rules. The schedules. The certainty that someone was watching my back.

Here?

If I fall, I fall.

Wrath finally stops, turning to face us fully.

"This is not about breaking you," he said, as if reading my thoughts. "It is about removing what you hide behind."

His masked gaze lingers on me for half a second longer than on Maris.

"No Masters," he continues. "No doctrine. No absolution. You will succeed or fail on your own merits."

I straighten despite myself.

For the first time since arriving on Korriban, something settles in my chest. Not comfort. Not confidence.

Clarity.

...​

The Valley of the Dark Lords smells like old blood and hot stone.

Maris notices this immediately, because she has good instincts and because Korriban doesn't bother hiding what it is. The valley stretches wide and uneven beneath a sky the color of an infected wound, tombs carved into the cliffsides like open sores. Statues of long-dead Sith loom over the terrain, half-buried and eroded, their expressions frozen somewhere between wrath and triumph.

She loves it.

This place doesn't pretend to be holy. It doesn't dress violence up in philosophy or insist that power is only acceptable when politely framed. It is what it is, and if you don't like that, the planet will kill you and move on.

Wrath stands at the edge of a ridge overlooking the valley, cloak unmoving despite the hot wind that claws at Maris's hair and tugs at Ben's robes. He looks carved into the landscape rather than projected onto it, like Korriban itself decided he belonged here.

"You will hunt," Wrath said.

Maris perks up immediately.

Ben stiffens beside her.

Wrath gestures downward. "A lesser predator. Native to this world. It stalks the carrion fields along the valley floor."

"What kind of predator?" Maris asks, already scanning the terrain, eyes narrowing as she takes in tracks, broken stone, disturbed sand.

"One you can kill," Wrath replies.

She grins. "Excellent."

Ben clears his throat. "There are… rules, I assume."

Wrath turns his masked gaze to him. "There are conditions." He raises one gauntleted hand, ticking them off without ceremony. "No lightsabers. No Force attacks beyond physical augmentation. Speed. Strength. Awareness."

Maris rolls her shoulders, already feeling the familiar hum of anticipation settle into her bones. "So basically don't be boring."

"Hesitation," Wrath said, ignoring her, "will be punished."

Ben exhales slowly. Maris can practically feel the tension spike off him, sharp and uneasy. She resists the urge to poke him immediately, mostly because she wants to see what they're hunting.

Wrath steps back. "Begin."

And just like that, they're alone.

No dramatic countdown. No signal flare. No reassurance that this is a controlled exercise and nothing will go wrong.

Maris drops into a crouch at once, fingers brushing the ground. The Force here is thick and heavy, like wading through warm oil. It presses against her awareness, humming with old violence, but it's alive in a way the Temple never was.

"Tracks," she said quietly, already moving downslope. "See how the sand's disturbed? Heavy gait. Quadruped. Claws."

Ben follows, slower, more cautious. "You're assuming it's recent."

"I'm assuming it's hungry," she replies. "Big difference."

One just meant their target was strolling through. Another meant it was on the prowl. Both meant that it was here, and not that long ago. Just a lot more alert than either of them would like.

She lets her senses stretch—not reaching, not grabbing, just listening. The valley answers. A low, predatory resonance pulses faintly through the Force, like a heartbeat out of sync with everything else.

There.

She angles left without explanation. Ben hesitates, then adjusts course to follow.

The creature reveals itself gradually.

At first, it's just movement at the edge of perception. A shape slipping between stone outcroppings. Then they get a clearer look: long-bodied, low to the ground, with sinewy limbs and a ridged spine. Its skin is a mottled gray-black, shot through with veins of dull crimson light that pulse faintly beneath the surface, like embers trapped under ash.

It hasn't noticed them yet.

Ben stops.

Maris keeps moving.

She glances back at him, eyebrow lifting. "What are you doing?"

"It hasn't attacked," Ben said. His voice is low, controlled, but she can hear the conflict buzzing underneath it. "We could avoid it."

She straightens slowly, studying him instead of the beast. "We could. And then it hunts something else. Or us. Or the next idiot who wanders into its territory."

"That's not the same thing," he insists. "We're choosing to kill it."

"Yes," she agrees calmly. "That's the point."

He frowns. "It feels wrong."

Maris considers him for a moment, then looks back at the creature as it prowls along the edge of a carrion pit, sniffing the air. She tilts her head, thoughtful.

"Okay," she said. "Reframe."

Ben sighs. "Maris—"

"It's a creature almost entirely shaped by the Dark Side," she continues, unfazed. "It exists because Korriban exists. The only reason it hasn't attacked yet is because it hasn't seen us." She meets his gaze again. "This is preemptive self-defense."

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

"I… maybe? That's not how the Jedi would—"

"I know," she cuts in gently. "That's why they're not here. They can't be bothered with actually taking out the monsters lurking out of view. We can."

The beast lifts its head suddenly, nostrils flaring.

Too late.

It sees them.

The Force snaps taut as the creature lets out a low, reverberating snarl that rattles the stones around them. It lunges.

Maris moves first.

She doesn't think. Thinking is slow. She surges forward, Force pouring into her muscles—not as lightning, not as a shove, just enhancement. Faster. Stronger. Sharper. She rolls beneath snapping jaws, coming up behind it as it whips around with terrifying speed.

"Ben!" she shouts. "Left flank!"

He reacts on instinct, darting to the side, barely avoiding a swipe that would have taken his head off. He stumbles, recovers, grabs a chunk of broken stone and hurls it—not to hit, but to distract.

It works.

The creature turns, just long enough.

Maris leaps, landing on its back, fingers digging into the ridged hide. It bucks violently, slamming her against a rock face. Pain flares white-hot through her ribs, but she holds on, teeth bared in something like laughter.

"Rude!" she snarls, driving her heel down into a sensitive joint.

The beast howls.

Ben doesn't hesitate anymore.

He rushes in, using the Force to propel himself upward, slamming both feet into the creature's shoulder. It collapses sideways under the combined assault, crashing into the dirt with bone-jarring force.

For a split second, everything goes still.

Then the creature surges up again, thrashing, tail lashing wildly. It clips Ben across the chest, sending him skidding across the ground. He rolls, gasping, scrambling to his feet as the beast turns on him fully now.

Maris doesn't think.

She decides.

She grabs a jagged shard of obsidian from the ground and drives it into the creature's neck with all her strength, twisting hard. Dark blood sprays hot across her hands as the beast convulses, collapsing at last in a heap of twitching limbs and fading crimson glow.

Silence crashes down around them.

Maris stands there, chest heaving, hands slick with blood, heart pounding with exhilaration.

Ben staggers over, staring at the corpse.

"…Wow," he said faintly.

She looks down at the creature, then back at him, grin slow and satisfied. "I'm naming it."

He blinks. "You're what?"

"Sir Bites-a-Lot," she declares solemnly.

Ben snorts despite himself.

Maris straightens, brings two fingers to her brow, and salutes the corpse. "You fought bravely. Poorly, but bravely."

Behind them, the temperature drops.

Wrath's presence settles over the valley like judgment made manifest.

"You hunted well," he said.

Maris turns, unrepentant. "We did."

"No. You hunted well." Wrath corrected, before shifting his gaze to Ben. "You hesitated."

Ben squares his shoulders. "Yes."

"And then?"

"And then I acted."

Wrath inclines his head a fraction. "Acceptable."

Maris glances at Ben, studying him as Wrath fades back into the Force. He's quiet now, thoughtful, eyes lingering on the fallen beast.

She nudges him lightly with her elbow. "You okay?"

He nods slowly. "I think I get it."

"Get what?"

"This isn't about right or wrong," he said. "It's about choosing. Sith training doesn't reward morality. It rewards decision."

She smiles, sharp and approving. "Look at you. Learning."

He meets her gaze, something darker and more resolute settling behind his eyes. "Hesitation is the only sin."

Maris claps him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit!" A Dark Side spirit to be specific, but she's just so proud of her friend for finding his way.

The Valley of the Dark Lords watches them in silence, ancient and satisfied, as two new predators walk away from their first kill.

...​

The Diplomatic Hall of Sundari is designed to impress without threatening.

Obi-Wan notices this immediately, because Mandalorians understand intimidation and have deliberately chosen not to use it here. The ceiling arches high and wide, crystalline panels filtering the pale Mandalorian sky into soft, even light. Banners bearing the sigil of House Kryze hang along the curved walls, not as declarations of dominance, but as statements of continuity.

We are still here, they said. We always will be.

Obi-Wan walks at Padmé Amidala's side, hands folded into the sleeves of his robes, posture serene in the way the Jedi Temple drills into you until it becomes second nature. Outwardly calm. Inwardly… attentive.

Satine waits at the far end of the chamber, flanked by members of the Mandalorian Council. She wears white and silver today, lines clean and sharp, her expression composed enough to pass for peace if one does not know her very well.

Obi-Wan knows her very well.

He feels her before he meets her eyes—a tight, coiled tension in the Force, controlled with iron discipline. Not fear. Not doubt.

Anger.

Padmé inclines her head respectfully as they approach. "Duchess Satine. Thank you for receiving us."

"Senator Amidala," Satine replies smoothly. Her gaze flicks briefly to Obi-Wan. Just a fraction of a second too long to be accidental. "Master Kenobi."

"Duchess," Obi-Wan said, allowing himself a small, polite bow. Nothing personal. Nothing that could be read into.

Satine's lips curve in a smile that fools absolutely no one in the room.

The Republic delegation settles into their seats. Senators, aides, legal advisors. Security concerns given flesh and voice. Obi-Wan notes the subtle repositioning of guards along the perimeter.

Clones.

They stand in crisp white armor that hasn't yet been marked by war, helmets tucked beneath their arms. They look—young. Not in the way Padawans do, with softness and potential, but in the way something newly made looks, unsure of its place in the world.

Across from them, Mandalorian soldiers stand at ease in blue-gray armor, beskar plates polished but unadorned. Neutral. Defensive.

The distance between them is measured in meters.

And in futures.

The session begins with the usual formalities, acknowledgments, carefully phrased affirmations of respect. Obi-Wan listens, nods when appropriate, and lets the current carry him until they reach the heart of it.

Clone citizenship.

A Republic senator—a man Obi-Wan vaguely recognizes as having strong opinions and weak follow-through—leans forward. "The Republic appreciates Mandalore's humanitarian instincts," he said, tone carefully neutral. "However, granting citizenship to a military asset of this magnitude raises… concerns."

Padmé turns her head slightly. Just enough to look at him.

"Concerns," she repeats.

"Yes," the senator continues. "Security concerns. These clones were engineered for combat. Allowing them to integrate into Mandalorian society could—"

"—lead to what, precisely?" Padmé asks mildly.

He hesitates. "Instability."

"Instability," she echoes again, voice warm and curious. "Senator, if I may—are you suggesting that the clones are inherently unstable?"

"Well," he said, flushing, "they were created for war."

"So were many of the Jedi in this room," Padmé replies pleasantly.

Obi-Wan almost smiles.

The only Jedi in the room was him. Senator Amidala's statement was not lost on him.

The senator splutters. "That's—that's not the same thing."

"No?" Padmé tilts her head. "The clones did not choose to be created. They did not choose their purpose. And yet we are prepared to deny them basic rights on the assumption that they might one day behave exactly as they were designed to?"

She folds her hands on the table. "That sounds less like a security concern and more like preemptive punishment."

A murmur ripples through the chamber.

Satine's jaw tightens.

Another senator interjects quickly. "With respect, Senator Amidala, the Republic must consider the broader implications. Mandalore has just declared its independence. Taking in a population of trained soldiers—"

"—who would no longer belong to the Republic," Padmé finishes calmly. "Unless, of course, the Republic is claiming ownership over sentient beings."

Silence.

Obi-Wan feels the weight of that land, heavy and undeniable.

Satine's fingers curl slightly against the armrest of her chair.

"Senator Amidala is correct," Satine said, voice precise, controlled. "Mandalore's sovereignty allows us to determine our own citizenship policies."

Her gaze sweeps the Republic delegation. "We are not requesting permission."

"And yet," the first senator said carefully, "such a move would inevitably draw attention. The Republic cannot ignore a concentration of military potential on a world outside its jurisdiction."

Satine's eyes flash. "That is not my concern."

"It becomes one," he counters, "when it threatens regional stability."

Padmé leans back, considering. "Senator, may I ask you a question?"

He nods warily.

"If Mandalore were to accept these clones," she said, "as citizens—not soldiers—what exactly would the Republic do?"

He hesitates again. Too long.

Obi-Wan feels Satine's anger spike, sharp as a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

Padmé smiles gently. "Would you sanction them? Occupy them? Reassert control over a system that has lawfully declared independence?"

The senator shifts. "That's a hypothetical."

"So are your concerns," Padmé replies smoothly. "Yet you seem comfortable acting on them."

Obi-Wan watches Satine carefully now. The way her shoulders tense. The way her eyes flick—not to Padmé, but to the Mandalorian councilors beside her.

Padmé is winning.

And that is precisely the problem.

Satine exhales slowly, then stands.

"Mandalore has spent generations clawing its way back from endless war," she said. Her voice carries, steady but charged. "We chose pacifism not because we are weak, but because we are tired of being defined by violence."

She turns her gaze to the clones standing guard. "These men did not choose to be weapons. If they wish to become something else, Mandalore will not deny them that chance."

The Republic senators exchange glances.

"But," Satine continues, and there it is—the edge, the warning—"we will not accept Republic oversight. Not now. Not ever."

The chamber holds its breath.

Obi-Wan feels it then—something quiet, fragile, and deeply human.

Hope.

He sees it on the clones' faces, flickering and uncertain as they watch Mandalorian soldiers not as enemies, but as… possibilities. A life beyond orders. Beyond purpose assigned at birth.

It hurts to look at.

Padmé inclines her head respectfully toward Satine. "Duchess Kryze," she said, "the Republic does not wish to undermine Mandalore's independence."

Satine meets her gaze, cool and unreadable. "Then it must learn to accept the consequences of that independence."

Their eyes lock.

Two women standing on opposite sides of the same truth.

Obi-Wan understands then—Padmé is right. Entirely, unequivocally right.

And Satine knows it.

That's what makes her furious.

Because if the Republic pushes too hard, Mandalore becomes a target. Not for invasion—no, nothing so crude—but for pressure. Sanctions. Political isolation. Quiet, suffocating control.

Freedom, offered with strings.

The session adjourns without resolution.

As they rise, Satine turns to Obi-Wan, her expression composed once more, the anger banked but not gone.

"Walk with me," she said quietly.

It is not a request.

Obi-Wan inclines his head. "Of course."

Padmé watches them go, something thoughtful in her eyes.

Politics, Obi-Wan reflects as he follows Satine toward a side corridor, is very much like combat.

You don't always know you've been wounded until much later.

And sometimes, the most dangerous strikes are the ones that land exactly where you know they must—and cannot afford to defend against.

...​

The sparring ring was older than the Republic.

That wasn't hyperbole. The stone beneath my boots felt ancient in the way only things that have outlived civilizations can—smooth in places where thousands of feet had worn it down, jagged where repairs had been abandoned because whoever owned the place next didn't care enough to fix them. The ceiling arched high overhead, ribbed with black stone supports that reminded me uncomfortably of a skeletal cage.

There were no observation windows. No safety fields. No instructors standing close enough to intervene.

Wrath stood at the far edge of the room, arms folded into his robes, mask unreadable, presence heavy enough in the Force that it pressed against my senses like a hand between my shoulder blades.

"Begin," he said.

No countdown. No salute.

Maris ignited her lightsaber instantly.

Blue light flared to life, sharp and clean against the dark stone. It painted her features in cool contrast—eyes focused, posture loose, ready. She looked comfortable. Excited, even.

I ignited mine a heartbeat later.

Green light answered hers, strong and steady. The familiar hum grounded me, muscle memory snapping into place. Temple drills. Forms practiced until my arms burned and my instructors nodded with approval.

For a moment, we just circled.

I could feel her through the Force—not aggressive, not restrained. Curious. Like a predator assessing how interesting the hunt was going to be.

"You ready?" she asked lightly.

"Always," I said, which was a lie, but a useful one.

She attacked first.

No warning. No flourish. Just a sharp forward step and a diagonal slash that would have taken my shoulder if I hadn't already been moving. I parried instinctively, blade ringing against blade, the impact jarring but familiar.

Form III, Soresu. Defensive. Controlled.

Her response was immediate—she flowed around my guard, spinning low, saber flashing in a tight arc aimed at my knees. I jumped, Force-assisted, twisting midair to bring my blade down toward her shoulder.

She blocked, grinning.

"You're thinking too much," she said, voice calm even as our sabers locked.

"And you're enjoying this too much," I shot back.

She disengaged with a sharp shove, sending me skidding backward across the stone. I recovered quickly, feet finding purchase, Force flaring to keep me upright.

We clashed again.

Blue and green light blurred together as we traded blows—her attacks aggressive and creative, mine precise and reactive. She shifted between forms seamlessly, Makashi into Ataru, pressing me, testing my defenses, forcing me to adapt.

And I did.

I always did.

That was the thing the Temple praised about me. Adaptability. Control. The ability to respond without giving in to impulse. I learned my lesson from Skywalker. Sometimes you have to react more than you act.

Overcommit to a single attack, and it leaves you completely exposed, the one time it fails.

Defense is the best offense.

Here, it felt… insufficient.

Maris fought like she didn't care what the room thought of her. Like there were no invisible lines she wasn't supposed to cross. Her strikes came from odd angles, footwork unorthodox, Force use subtle but constant—enhancing, redirecting, leaning into momentum instead of resisting it.

I caught her blade on mine and twisted, disarming maneuver smooth and practiced.

She laughed as she jumped back, barely avoiding it. "See? You're good. You just don't trust it."

I pressed the advantage, stepping forward, forcing her back toward the edge of the ring. My strikes grew faster, sharper. I let myself push, just a little—speed increased, reach extended, the Force humming brighter under my skin.

For a moment, it worked.

I drove her to one knee, blade locked against hers, power straining between us.

And then she headbutted me.

Hard.

Stars exploded behind my eyes as she shoved off me, rolling to her feet in one fluid motion. Insult to injury, I'm pretty sure her horns cut into something or other that I really wish they hadn't.

"Never assume I'll play fair," she said cheerfully.

I wiped blood from my lip and laughed despite myself. "I should've known."

Wrath hadn't moved.

I could feel his attention, sharp and focused, like a blade pressed flat against my back. He wasn't judging who was winning. He was cataloging how we fought.

We came together again, faster now.

I shifted forms, letting go of strict defense, allowing myself to press. Not reckless, but assertive. I reached for the Force—not to strike, not to shove—but to read. Her balance. Her intent. The moment before she committed to a movement.

She felt it.

Her grin sharpened. "There you are."

Our sabers locked again, energy crackling between them.

"Come on," she said quietly. "Show me what you can do. I can take it."

I shoved her back, harder than I meant to.

She slid, boots scraping stone, and then—

"Enough."

Wrath's voice cut through the room like a blade through silk.

We froze.

I disengaged immediately, breath coming fast, sweat cooling on my skin. Maris straightened, saber still ignited, eyes bright.

Wrath stepped forward.

"The purpose of this exercise was not victory," he said. "Competition will come later."

Maris tilted her head. "Aw. I was just getting warmed up."

Wrath ignored her.

"This was evaluation," he continued. "Baseline. Ability. Instinct."

His masked gaze turned to me. I felt it like pressure against my chest.

"You are disciplined," he said. "You value control. You seek reaction, over action."

Then to Maris.

"You are decisive. You value momentum. You act and adjust."

He paused.

"Both are strengths," he said. "Both are liabilities."

Maris deactivated her saber and rested it on her hip. "So what's the verdict?"

Wrath turned slightly, pacing a slow circle around us.

"The Jedi fear corruption," he said. "They build rules to keep themselves pure."

Point.

"The Sith fear stagnation," Wrath continued. "We do not ask whether an action is permitted. We ask whether it leads to growth." His gaze returned to me. "Hesitation is decay."

Message received.

It still hurt. Not enough to make me cry, but enough to make me mad. Which had already done more to offset me than any of the blows Maris landed.

Wrath stopped in front of us. "Tomorrow's trial will not test your individual skill."

Maris perked up. "Oh?"

"It will require mutual survival," Wrath said simply.

She considered that for half a second. "Is that code for a team-building exercise?"

Wrath's mask tilted just enough to suggest interest.

"Not at all," he said. "If one of you dies, the lesson simplifies."

Wrath faded, projection dissolving into the ambient darkness of the room, leaving us alone with the echo of his words.

I exhaled slowly and deactivated my saber.

Maris nudged my shoulder. "Hey. You did good."

"Did I?" I asked.

She shrugged. "You didn't die. Apparently that's the bar."

Not a high one.

But I'll take it.

...​

Padmé decides, not for the first time, that if this was a vacation, she deserves a refund.

Chancellor Palpatine had phrased it so endearingly, when he suggested it. In hindsight, she should have known it wouldn't have been that simple. Why else would he have sent her, in the first place?

She always did like a challenge. Though, sadly, it didn't leave much time for relaxing.

The residence Duchess Satine has provided is elegant in that distinctly Mandalorian way—clean lines, cool colors, restraint elevated to an art form. The walls curve gently instead of looming, the lighting is soft without being dim, and the view beyond the wide transparisteel windows overlooks Sundari's domed skyline, glowing faintly as evening settles in.

It should be peaceful.

It is not.

Padmé sits at the long dining table, posture impeccable out of long habit rather than necessity, hands folded neatly in her lap as she watches steam curl upward from her untouched tea. She has changed out of her senatorial attire into something less formal but no less deliberate: simple Naboo silks, muted tones, nothing that could be read as a challenge.

She learned very young that diplomacy begins before anyone speaks.

The doors slide open with a soft hiss.

Satine Kryze enters alone.

No guards. No councilors. No advisors hovering at her shoulder. She wears a pale blue gown tonight, cut sharply at the collar and shoulders, severe enough to read as armor if one knows what to look for. Her blond hair is pinned back, precise, immaculate.

Composed.

Padmé rises immediately. "Duchess."

"Senator," Satine replies, inclining her head just enough to be courteous, not submissive. "Thank you for accepting my invitation."

"Thank you for extending it," Padmé said sincerely. "I'm aware how… busy things are."

Satine's lips curve in something that might be a smile, if one were feeling generous. "Busy is one word for it."

They sit.

The table is set for two. No servants hover nearby. Whatever this meeting is, it's meant to be private.

Padmé waits.

She has learned that letting people choose the opening move often tells you more than forcing one.

Satine pours tea for them both, the movement practiced, almost ritualistic. "I wanted a setting without an audience," she said at last. "Too much has already been said in rooms designed for performance."

Padmé nods. "I couldn't agree more."

They sip in silence for a moment. The tea is strong, herbal, unfamiliar but pleasant.

Satine studies her over the rim of her cup. "You're younger than I expected."

Padmé smiles faintly. "I get that often."

"And yet," Satine continues, "you speak in the Senate as if you've been tired of it for decades."

Padmé allows herself a soft huff of amusement. "That would be because I have."

That earns her a real smile this time—brief, sharp, gone as quickly as it appears.

Satine sets her cup down. "You were very effective today."

Padmé meets her gaze steadily. "That was not my intention."

"No," Satine agrees coolly. "Your intention was to be right."

Padmé does not flinch. "Yes."

There it is. The first blade, slid neatly between ribs without raising a voice.

Satine leans back in her chair, fingers lacing together. "Do you know what the Senate will do if Mandalore proceeds with this?"

The question was loaded, but the Duchess's tone was more inquisitive, than accusatory.

"I know what some of them want to do," Padmé replies. "They'll call for investigations. Hearings. Sanctions framed as 'protective measures.' Quiet economic pressure designed to make your independence… uncomfortable."

"And if that fails?"

Padmé hesitates, just for a breath. Honesty, she's learned, is a calculated risk.

"They'll look for justification," she said carefully. "Any sign of instability. Any excuse to reassert influence."

Satine's jaw tightens. "So you admit it."

"I acknowledge it," Padmé corrects gently. "And I'm trying to prevent it."

Satine's eyes sharpen. "By what method, exactly? Standing beside me in chambers while warning me what happens if I don't bend?"

Padmé exhales slowly.

The absolute worst vacation, she thinks dryly.

"I'm warning you because I respect you," she said. "And because if you move too quickly, the backlash will not be aimed at the senators who argue policy. It will be aimed at your people."

Satine stands abruptly and turns away, pacing toward the windows. Sundari's lights reflect faintly in the glass, blurring her reflection.

"My people have survived worse than the Senate," she said quietly.

"I know," Padmé replies. "That's what worries me."

Satine turns back, eyes blazing now. "You think I don't see what this costs?" she snaps. "That I don't understand the danger? Mandalore declared independence because we refused to be pulled into another Republic war. And now you tell me that offering citizenship—not weapons, not alliances, but homes—to men who have known nothing but obedience is too provocative?"

Padmé rises as well, matching her stance. "I'm telling you the Senate is afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of losing control," Padmé said without hesitation. "Of admitting they created something they don't know how to put down. Of acknowledging that these men are people. And of a foreign entity holding the threat of these men over their heads."

Satine's shoulders sag just slightly. Not in defeat. In exhaustion.

"They are soldiers," Satine said. "And Mandalore has sworn off war."

Padmé steps closer, lowering her voice. "They are men who have never been allowed to be anything else. You are offering them choice."

"That choice may cost us everything."

"Yes," Padmé agrees softly. "It might."

Silence stretches between them, taut as a drawn wire.

Then Satine laughs—a short, humorless sound. "You know," she said, "the irony is almost unbearable."

Padmé tilts her head. "Oh?"

"You're warning me about radicals in the Senate," Satine said. "While I'm preparing to warn you about radicals on my own world."

Padmé's stomach tightens. "Death Watch."

Satine's expression hardens. "They've been quiet. Too quiet. My intelligence suggests they're watching this situation closely."

"Waiting for an excuse," Padmé murmurs.

"Waiting for proof," Satine corrects. "Proof that pacifism is weakness. Proof that independence invites chaos. Proof that Mandalore needs to be reminded who we used to be."

Padmé folds her arms, processing. "If violence breaks out—"

"—they will blame the clones," Satine finishes. "Or the Republic. Or both. Whichever serves them best."

"And you'll be caught in the middle," Padmé said. "Again."

Satine meets her gaze, something raw flickering beneath her composure. "I am always in the middle."

They stand there, two women shaped by systems that expect them to absorb impact without cracking.

Padmé breaks the silence first. "If I may be blunt."

Satine gestures sharply. "Please."

"You're standing between a Senate that fears losing power and a faction that wants to reclaim it through blood," Padmé said. "If you misstep, either side will use it to justify war."

Satine's smile is thin. "And you, Senator Amidala, are standing between a Republic that wants obedience and a conscience it keeps trying to bury."

Padmé allows herself a wry smile. "It seems we have that in common."

They return to the table slowly, the earlier tension cooling into something more dangerous: understanding.

Satine sits, steepling her fingers. "You believe the Senate can be swayed."

"I believe it can be stalled," Padmé replies honestly. "Long enough for alternatives to take root."

"And if they can't?"

Padmé meets her eyes. "Then history will remember who tried to prevent the fire."

Satine considers her for a long moment. "You're very young," she said again. "To be carrying this much."

Padmé shrugs lightly. "I was elected at fourteen. Perspective comes early when innocence is optional."

That earns her another sharp laugh. "You would have made an excellent Mandalorian."

Padmé arches a brow. "Is that a compliment or a warning?"

"Yes," Satine said dryly.

They share a brief, genuine smile.

Then Satine sobers. "There is something else."

Padmé straightens. "Go on."

"My nephew," Satine said carefully. "Korkie. He's… been asking questions."

Padmé's heart skips. "About the clones?"

"About his family," Satine replies. "About loyalty. About what Mandalore stands for. Did you know that his brother is a part of the Jedi Order?"

Padmé nods slowly. "Ben Kryze, yes? We met briefly, in passing. I don't think your nephew has anything to worry about. Whatever decision we reach, the Order has been ever impartial."

"Not to Mandalorians," Satine counters. "And Death Watch knows it."

Padmé exhales. "Then we're not just preventing war between governments."

"No," Satine agrees. "We're preventing one within my people."

They sit in the quiet aftermath of that admission.

Outside, Sundari glows on, serene and oblivious.

Padmé lifts her cup again, takes a measured sip, then allows herself a small, dry smile. "You know," she said, "when I agreed to this posting, I was told Mandalore was beautiful. Restful. A chance to step away from constant crisis."

Satine snorts. "I assume you've revised that assessment."

"Thoroughly," Padmé replies. "This is the worst vacation I've ever had."

That earns a genuine laugh—soft, tired, but real.

"Welcome to Mandalore, Senator Amidala," Satine said. "We specialize in beautiful disasters."

Padmé raises her cup slightly. "Then I suppose we'll have to make sure this one doesn't end in blood."

Satine lifts her own in return, eyes sharp with resolve.

"To impossible balancing acts," she said.

Padmé clinks her cup lightly against Satine's.

"And to stopping wars," she adds, "before they start."

...​

The doors seal behind us with a sound that feels final.

Not dramatic. Not explosive.

Just a deep, grinding thoom as ancient stone meets ancient stone, dust shivering loose from the ceiling and drifting down in slow, lazy spirals. The kind of sound that said: whatever happens next, you're not leaving until it's finished.

I swallow.

The arena is circular, carved directly into the bedrock of Korriban. The floor slopes gently downward toward the center, etched with Sith glyphs worn smooth by time and blood and feet that stopped caring whose they were. Jagged pillars rise at uneven intervals, broken in places, like ribs from some long-dead god.

Above us, the ceiling disappears into shadow.

Wrath stands across the arena, unmoving, mask unreadable, presence heavy enough in the Force that it presses against my spine. Not just a projection this time.

He's here.

"Position yourselves," he said.

Maris and I exchange a look.

No bravado. No jokes. Just a mutual understanding that whatever this is, it's not a sparring match.

We move toward the center instinctively, backs not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of her through the Force. She ignites her saber with a snap-hiss of blue light, blade steady, posture loose but ready.

I ignite mine a heartbeat later.

Green light floods the arena, painting the glyphs in harsh contrast.

Wrath lifts one gloved hand.

The far wall opens.

Not slides. Splits.

Stone peels back like a wound reopening, and something massive moves in the darkness beyond. I feel it before I see it—a surge of rage, hunger, and old, old hate crashing into my senses like a wave.

Maris sucks in a sharp breath.

"Oh," she said. "That's… big."

The terentatek steps into the light.

It's enormous. Easily three times my height at the shoulder, all muscle and scarred hide, its thick limbs ending in claws that gouge furrows into the stone with every step. Its head is low and wide, maw full of teeth meant for tearing Force-sensitives apart, eyes glowing with feral intelligence.

A predator bred to hunt us.

My heart starts hammering.

Wrath's voice carries easily across the arena.

"Live," he said.

I rolled my eyes.

"Or die."

Still so stupid.

The wall slams shut behind the beast.

For half a second, no one moves.

Then Maris said, brightly, "I call the left one."

I blink. "Maris. There's only one."

"Yeah. I can count. Dibs."

The terentatek roars.

It's not just sound—it's pressure. The Force ripples outward with it, raw and violent, slamming into my senses hard enough that I stagger back a step. The creature charges, stone cracking beneath its weight, claws tearing up chunks of the arena floor as it barrels straight for us.

"Okay," Maris said, voice sharp now. "Plan?"

"Don't die?" I offer.

"Great," she said. "Love that plan."

We split instinctively, diving in opposite directions as the beast crashes through the space we occupied a second earlier. I roll, come up on one knee, and reach for the Force—

—and nearly choke on it.

The terentatek pushes back.

Not consciously. Not with technique.

Just sheer mass and hatred, a gravitational well of fury that resists my grip like trying to lift a mountain with one hand.

Maris slashes at its flank as it passes, blue blade carving a glowing line across its hide. The cut is deep—but the beast barely reacts, tail lashing out and forcing her to leap clear as it smashes into a pillar, reducing it to rubble.

"Yeah," she mutters. "That didn't do much."

"Distract it!" I shout.

She grins ferally. "With pleasure."

Maris darts forward, fast and aggressive, saber flashing as she strikes at its legs, its joints, anywhere she can reach. The terentatek roars again, swiping at her with claws the size of speeders, every miss cracking stone and throwing debris into the air.

I plant my feet and commit.

No hesitation. No half-measures.

I reach deep into the Force and push.

The terentatek stumbles as invisible pressure slams into its side, forcing it off-balance for half a second—just enough.

Maris takes it.

She vaults off a fallen chunk of stone, flips over the creature's back, and drives her saber down between its shoulder plates. It bellows in pain, thrashing violently, and she barely manages to wrench her blade free before being thrown clear.

She hits the ground hard, rolls, comes up swearing.

"Okay," she pants. "That got its attention."

The beast turns toward me.

Its eyes lock on mine.

I feel it then—not just rage, but recognition. A hunter identifying prey that matters.

My breath stutters.

Focus.

I raise both hands, fingers splayed, and the Force answers.

The air around the terentatek compresses.

It rears back, roaring in fury as I lift—inch by inch—thousands of pounds of muscle and hate off the ground. The strain hits immediately, pressure building behind my eyes, my vision blurring at the edges.

Size matters not, I remind myself through clenched teeth.

The beast thrashes mid-air, claws gouging furrows into nothing, tail lashing wildly. Each movement sends shockwaves through my grip, threatening to tear it free.

"Maris!" I shout. "Now!"

She doesn't hesitate.

She moves.

Blue light flashes as she sprints straight at the suspended terentatek, Force-assisted leaps carrying her impossibly high. She runs up the beast's side, boots finding purchase on muscle and bone, saber carving deep as she goes.

I slam the terentatek down.

Hard.

The impact shakes the arena, cracks spiderwebbing across the stone floor as the creature is pinned beneath my will, flattened against the ground by crushing Force pressure.

It fights.

Stars explode behind my eyes as it pushes back, raw instinct and fury slamming into me like a tidal wave. My knees buckle, blood trickling from my nose as the strain threatens to tear my concentration apart.

"Ben!" Maris shouts.

"I've—got it!" I lie.

The terentatek's head lifts an inch.

I scream—not in rage, but effort—and push harder.

The Force roars through me, bright and terrible, pinning the beast flat once more. My arms shake. My vision tunnels. This is too much. I know it is.

But I also know I can't let go.

Maris lands beside its head.

She doesn't look at me.

She trusts me.

Her saber ignites brighter as she raises it high—and brings it down.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Blue light cleaves through bone and muscle, severing limbs, splitting armor-thick hide. The terentatek convulses, roars cut short as Maris drives her blade straight through its skull.

The creature goes still.

The Force snaps back into place.

I drop to one knee, gasping, hands shaking as the weight vanishes all at once. My head pounds, every muscle screaming in protest.

Maris stumbles, then steadies herself, chest heaving. She looks down at the corpse, then at me.

A slow grin spreads across her face.

"Team-building," she said hoarsely. "Ten out of ten."

I laugh weakly. "Never again."

The arena is silent.

Then Wrath steps forward.

His presence fills the space like gravity, heavy and undeniable. He looks at the corpse, then at us, mask tilted slightly as if considering a particularly interesting problem.

"You did not flee," he said. "You did not compete." He turns to me. "You exerted control beyond comfort." Then to Maris. "You trusted another's strength without reservation."

I can feel the judgment.

"These are not Jedi instincts," Wrath said.

He raises one hand.

The air changes.

Power coils around us, ancient and deliberate.

"Kneel."

We do.

Stone bites into my knees, but I barely feel it.

Wrath looms over us.

"You will train," he said. "You will struggle. You will suffer."

His gaze fixes on me.

"You will learn when to restrain—and when to unleash."

Then Maris.

"You will learn when to strike—and when to wait."

He straightens.

"From this moment," Wrath intones, "you are no longer acolytes."

The word lands like a thunderclap.

"You are my apprentices."

The arena seems to breathe.

Maris lets out a low, incredulous laugh. "Wow. So this is official, huh?"

Wrath does not respond.

But I feel it.

The shift. The weight of it settling into place.

I glance at Maris, and she looks back at me—eyes bright, fierce, alive.

We survived.

Together.

And somehow, I know—

This is only the beginning.

...​

And that's how the story ends! Thank you all for reading, I appreciated all the support, you guys are the best!

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Kidding! There's still more. We'll be back next week with the next chapter. But, if you'd prefer to read ahead, you are more than welcome to check me out on Patreon, link below:

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