Chapter Text
Kyla focuses on the blazing fire of love and determination in her mind, letting it anchor her as the Dark Side presses in like a rolling black fog at the edges of her awareness. It does not replace her thoughts so much as move through them, threatening to spread into everything she is reaching for.
T7-01 beeps beside her, and the sound cuts through the pressure just enough for her to latch onto it. She exhales, a small smile breaking through despite everything pressing in. “You’re right, buddy. I’ve got to keep Kira safe.”
For a moment, perception fractures—not into separation, but overlap. What is happening and what is about to happen press against the same space in her awareness, until movement and outcome blur into each other.
Her hair is shorter. Her stance shifts without her deciding. The lightsaber in her hand is not the one she remembers—its weight unfamiliar, its surface etched with patterns that feel like living things pressed into metal. Two kyber crystals pulse within it, steady and synchronized, like twin heartbeats.
Rage, love, and fear compress together under the pressure of the moment, not resolving into separate emotions, but into something directed.
Something inevitable.
Revenge and justice stop being thoughts.
They become motion.
The saberstaff ignites—twin blades of emerald and sapphire cutting forward through the battlefield as she pushes into Sith forces toward a figure at the center of it all.
Someone who looks like Ashla.
Red hair. Green eyes.
Close enough to break recognition, but not identical—something subtly different in how she stands, how she holds the space around her.
Familiarity flickers between them like a misaligned reflection.
“Thanks. That’s another one I owe you,” the woman says.
Kyla grins in response, but it falters almost immediately.
A memory pushes through the overlapping perception—the sound of Kira’s scream as purple lightning fills the air around her.
Her grip tightens.
“I need all the help I can get,” she says, forcing the words through the pressure in her chest. “Mind wishing me luck?”
An eye roll in response.
“May the Force be with you, Master.”
Kyla startles out of the vision but does not break her meditative position as the shuttle drops out of hyperspace.
For a moment, the two layers of perception overlap—the echo of what she saw still pressing faintly against the present, refusing to fully dissolve at once.
Then it begins to fade.
The familiar warmth of the Light Side reasserts itself as the Jedi Temple comes into view below on Tython’s surface.
Her robes are a darker brown than most Jedi wear, softened by years of use and care—practical enough to move in, comfortable enough to forget she is wearing them. Her gaze stays fixed on the viewport, letting the Force shift around her rather than reaching for it.
Tython is alive.
Not distant. Not abstract. Layered—like pressure beneath still water.
She reaches out.
Life answers all at once.
Countless small presences flare through her awareness, scattered through the Living Force like drifting light—plants, animals, the slow unseen movement beneath canopy and stone. It all settles into a pattern she does not need to search for. Her attention is already drawn to the strongest concentration she can feel: a grove near the Jedi Temple.
She is there before she decides to be.
Something older responds.
Not words. Not thought. Just a shift—like something in the world noticing her in return.
Kyla stiffens slightly, breath catching as the connection holds.
The tree is aware.
She does not pull away. Holding it takes everything she has, but she stays with it anyway.
Then it opens.
Only for a moment.
Images rise through the connection like fragments through deep water.
Roots plunging down into the world’s dark core.
Figures gathered in stillness around the grove, robed and silent.
Pain—deep, buried, imprinted into the structure of the Force itself.
Kyla exhales sharply and sends calm into it without thinking, instinct overtaking intent.
The response comes at once.
A low, steadying hum through the connection.
Acceptance.
Then withdrawal.
The presence folds inward again—not gone, only quieted, like something choosing sleep.
Kyla draws a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
A small smile returns.
Her hand drifts to the lightsaber at her hip. It was her mother’s once, before it became hers, and the kyber crystal answers her touch with a soft, steady hum.
It anchors her.
Ashla surfaces in her thoughts without warning.
Warmth answers immediately through the bond they share—familiar, alive, lightly amused in a way that does not need translation.
Kyla’s smile deepens slightly.
Her holocom beeps.
She opens her eyes and answers it.
"Jedi Knight Derrin Weller, I'm waiting for you at the Master's Retreat," an auburn-haired man with brown eyes explains, and she nods.
"Thank you, I'm eager to see the Temple and become a proper Padawan," she responds, and Derrin disconnects.
As the shuttle lands, she stands and welcomes the familiar comfort of the Light Side, then exits the ramp once it's down. Her hood is already off as Knight Derrin Weller approaches, and she senses his confusion as he sees her lightsaber. "I haven't used it yet; I have a vibrosword to use for now," she explains.
"Hmm. You're certainly dressed like a Padawan, and your masters say you're becoming an expert duelist," He compliments, and she nods in agreement.
"With my talent, it's easy when you're trained by the best," she responds.
"There's a speeder waiting for you to-" Derrin is interrupted as his holocom beeps, and he answers it. Kyla stares at the Bith apprentice as he speaks an alien language, and waits for Derrin to translate, "His name is Unaw Aharo. Flesh Raiders are attacking the Padawan training grounds. Take a speeder to the Gnarls Outpost; other able-bodied Padawans will assist you. May the Force be with you," and Kyla nods before jumping onto the landing pad, rolling to break her fall.
While the droid drives the taxi, she checks her vibrosword. The edge is still in good condition, but she'll need to replace it soon or finally start using her lightsaber.
As soon as the taxi lands, she jumps out and draws her weapon. Reaching out through the Force, she searches for someone who needs help and immediately finds several Padawans fighting Flesh Raiders.
A human woman much smaller than her staggers backward, both vibroswords raised in a desperate guard. A Flesh Raider swings at her.
Kyla sprints forward and blocks the blow just in time before cutting the Raider down.
"Are you all right?" she asks.
The Padawan nods silently.
Only then does Kyla notice the hand pressed against her left hip.
"Don't get yourself killed. Go to the med center."
After another hesitant nod, the Padawan retreats.
Kyla turns as another Flesh Raider charges her.
She plants her boots firmly against the ground and meets his strike head-on. Strong parries come naturally to her. She has always preferred Djem So's decisive counters to Soresu's patient defense. More importantly, she feels more connected to the Force when her feet remain planted on the earth. Beneath her, she can sense roots stretching through the soil and countless living things going about their lives.
The Raider overextends.
Kyla immediately counters and drops him.
Another attacks.
Then another.
She welcomes the familiar rhythm of combat. Ever since she began learning lightsaber forms, fighting has helped clear her mind and focus her will. The Force flows easily through her movements as she advances through the battlefield, searching for the next person who needs her help.
Just as the Flesh Raiders start to retreat, her holocom goes off, and Knight Weller appears once again. "I've discovered that the Flesh Raiders are using a nearby cave to enter this valley, Padawan. I would investigate, but I got shot in the leg while I was rescuing Padawans, so I need you to stop any Flesh Raider reinforcements from getting through."
"I will, but make sure you get some rest," Kyla responds, disconnects, and starts following the Flesh Raiders, staying in the shadows. She sighs in frustration as she notices them take defensive positions behind cover and face the cave entrance.
She opens herself to the Force and lets her frustration go, then reaches out with her mind to the plants growing beneath the cave's stone. They instantly respond with a gentle breeze inside the Force, and she closes her eyes, guiding them to help her. The plants are smaller than the largest she tried it with, but she has to lean against the tree she hid behind as the ground splits open.
As soon as the Flesh Raiders look around in confusion, she draws her vibrosword and leaps into action, cutting them down in one strike.
Her gaze is drawn to the last one just as his body fall, a fractured echo of the bond she shares with Ashla fading into nothingness.
Kyla has never had a formal name for what she feels in the Force.
But she knows the difference between what is there… and what is gone.
A Life Echo is presence. Not emotion, not thought—just the steady pattern of something living within the Force. It shifts, breathes, and moves like part of a larger current she can sense without seeing.
A Silent Echo is the opposite.
It is not darkness. Not pain. Not anger.
It is absence—when a star, no matter how dim or bright, burns out from death.
A place where a pattern should continue—but does not. A thread that has stopped moving. The moment something living falls out of the Living Force, and only the space it occupied remains behind.
Not nothingness, and not fading.
Thick, black fog rushes toward the bond, consuming it whole.
Her body shudders at the feeling—a complete absence of life, but the shifting patterns around her diminish the fear as soon as it formed.
The tunnel near the back of the cave has life near the end of it, so she cautiously approaches in case she gets ambushed, holding her vibrosword in her left hand. Eventually, she sees Unaw Aharo held captive by two Flesh Raiders and a human she doesn't recognize, then her eyes fix on the blue blade of his lightsaber.
She stands and approaches, then hears the Fallen Jedi threaten, "Stop struggling, Padawan. Your life was over the moment you set foot in this cave. You will be the first of many Jedi to fall, Bith."
"Don't kill an injured and unarmed prisoner. Whoever you are, step away from that Padawan," she interrupts in a calm voice, and keeps her gaze fixed on the Dark Jedi's face as he turns.
"Then you will join your fellow Padawan in death," he snaps and jumps to attack her. Kyla rolls forward and dodges the killing blow, then remains crouched to avoid the follow-through. She almost raises her vibrosword to parry his next strike, but remembers that his lightsaber would cut it in half, and with a simple gathering. "I sense your fear," he spits out as he clears the distance in one force-powered leap. She ducks out of the way, kicks his leg so he falls to one knee, then follows with a slash across his arm. He grimaces and swings wildly, which she easily side steps, then stabs him in the abdomen. She deflects the Flesh Raiders' blaster fire, easily cuts them down, kneels next to Callef, and quietly says, "It's not too late to return to the light."
His presence in the Force is fractured—fear spiking outward in sharp, broken bursts.
Kyla crouches beside him without hesitation and takes his hand. The moment she makes contact, everything in him pulls inward and collapses at once, the jagged pattern folding into itself without resistance—not into calm, but into stillness. A Silent Echo follows, and the thread of him in the Force is gone.
Kyla releases his hand immediately, as if the absence itself pushes back against her touch. Her fingers linger for a fraction longer than they should, then fall away. What remains is not grief—just a gap where a life had been.
She rises as something else enters the space.
It is not jagged. Not broken. It moves like weight held in place—steady, controlled, grounded. The Living Force around it does not fracture; it shifts, adjusts, and settles around its presence.
“Thank the Force that you’re both safe. This man’s not one of us.”
Kyla turns.
Master Orgus.
She inclines her head. “Master Orgus.”
He is already kneeling beside the body. Kyla feels absence still sitting in the space between them—an absence that does not fade quickly. Orgus does not react to it as she does. He works through it, as if it is simply part of what remains.
His attention moves to the weapon.
The lightsaber.
The moment he picks it up, something tightens subtly in his star. Not shock. Not fear. Something older—buried recognition, surfacing like stone shifting under long-pressed earth.
“This weapon’s design… It’s familiar,” he mutters.
He sets it aside and helps Padawan Aharo to his feet.
Kyla steps back, giving them space.
Sorrow is there in Orgus’s presence, but it is contained—held in place like heavy soil after rain, not allowed to spread.
“I warned the Council these weren’t mindless beasts.”
Kyla says nothing.
The cave feels quieter now, but not peaceful. It remains where the man was, an absence pressed into the pattern of the world.
Orgus straightens. “I’ll collapse the tunnel so the Gnarls won’t be threatened anymore and get Aharo to safety. You seem alright to travel alone. Report to the Jedi Council.”
Kyla nods. “I just arrived on Tython. I need directions.”
“Follow the path through the valley, and you’ll see the Jedi Temple near the mountains,” Orgus says.
“I will, Master. May the Force be with you.”
She turns and leaves the cave.
Outside, the Living Force returns at once—life everywhere again, steady and layered, pressing gently against her senses. But the Silent Echo does not vanish immediately; it follows for a few steps behind her, thinning slowly, until it finally dissolves back into the background of the world.
The tranquility and sanctuary of the Temple soothe Kyla as she walks back to it from the wilderness—the sky turning dark with dusk—and still drawn to Master Orgus Din's warmth in the Force.
She enters the temple, and the entry hall has two staircases that spiral around a holocron, with stars, individual and clusters, filling the room with Life. As soon as she enters the Temple proper, her holocom beeps with an incoming transmission. Kyla answers it.
A woman appears—short gray-brown hair braided in places, calm blue eyes, olive-toned combat robes worn with the kind of quiet authority that doesn’t need ornament.
Even through the holocom, her presence in the Force is immediate.
Stable. Deep. Unbroken.
Not like the fractured presences Kyla has been feeling since arriving on Tython. Not like the sharp bursts of fear and violence that ripple through the Living Force in jagged waves. This is something else entirely—like standing at the edge of still water and realizing it does not end where it should.
It goes deeper.
For a moment, Kyla’s perception shifts without permission. The Living Force around the woman does not spike or scatter. It settles, as if everything nearby is being held in place simply by her presence.
Kyla straightens instinctively.
The woman inclines her head slightly.
“Padawan, I’m Satele Shan, leader of the Jedi Council. I’d like to speak with you privately before we meet the others.”
Warmth is there in her presence, but it is restrained—filtered, like light passing through clean glass. Beneath it, something Kyla cannot quite separate from thought or feeling brushes against her awareness and recedes again, like a tide that chooses not to linger.
Kyla bows her head slightly.
“Grand Master Shan.”
A faint ripple moves through Satele’s presence—amusement, subtle and controlled, like the surface of water disturbed and then immediately still again.
“No need for such formalities, Padawan. I look forward to meeting you.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Kyla says.
The transmission ends, but the presence does not withdraw at once.
It lingers—steady, unchanged—for a few heartbeats longer than Kyla expects.
Then it fades, and the surrounding Life Echo feels briefly less ordered by comparison.
Satele’s meditation chambers are less decorated than Kyla expected—two silver banners bearing the Jedi Order’s symbol frame a couch, another sits opposite, and three chairs line the left side of the door. A separate room to the right holds a table surrounded by ten chairs and a holocom, flanked by additional banners in each corner.
Satele herself is seated in meditation in front of the couch. A soft glow surrounds her presence in the Force, and she looks up as Kyla enters.
The moment Kyla steps inside, she feels it.
Warmth.
The Living Force around Satele does not ripple like most presences Kyla has felt since arriving on Tython. It moves like tides held in perfect balance, every current contained, every motion deliberate without effort.
Kyla pauses without meaning to.
That stillness presses against her awareness again—slow, immense, certain. Like standing at the edge of a sea that has already noticed her, and is not troubled by it.
“The Temple’s already buzzing with accounts of your heroism, Padawan,” Satele says. “Master Orgus said you battled Flesh Raiders and a Force user with a lightsaber. That must have been a disturbing confrontation; are you alright?”
Kyla flinches slightly as Satele's star brushes against her awareness.
“I’m fine, Master,” she answers.
The presence shifts—gentle, but unavoidable. Like a tide adjusting itself rather than advancing.
“I admire your composure, but have you truly searched your emotions, Padawan?” Satele asks. “Be mindful of them; do not let your emotions control you, Kyla. Taking a life affects the Living Force—and the one who does the killing. This is why Jedi enter battle calmly, with reason. Anger and fear lead to the Dark Side; do not allow your impatience to be your downfall.”
Kyla raises an eyebrow.
“I’m surprised you’re aware of my struggle with impatience,” she remarks.
“Only because I’ve grown so familiar with it myself,” Satele acknowledges, and smiles.
Her gaze shifts downward—to the saber on Kyla’s waist.
“Where did you get that?”
“My mother gave it to me; she didn’t have any use for it. My sister adjusted the hilt to suit me better, but nothing else, and I haven’t used it yet. Why do you ask?”
“I thought I recognized it as her hilt. Who is your sister, Kyla?”
Kyla hesitates only briefly.
“She’s an adopted former slave; Master Dajuuk and I rescued her from the Zygerria Slave Empire. She’d forgotten her name, so we named her Ashla, and I dropped her off on Corellia to stay with my mom. Ashla’s been doing mechanic work.”
As she speaks, she pushes the familiar sorrow of that mission deeper into the Force.
But it does not leave.
It never leaves.
It clings instead—like something caught in deep water that refuses to drift away, no matter how many times she tries to release it.
"Perhaps she should've been brought to the Temple instead," Satele remarks, and seems to refocus herself. "I'll walk you to the Council Chambers, Padawan."
Kyla nods and follows Satele, but frowns slightly as her attention lingers on what she is feeling.
She has always been better than average at reading people through the Force, even through the mental shields of her fellow Jedi. With Satele, it is not like that. It comes too easily.
The presence beside her does not resist perception. It does not blur or fragment like most minds she has encountered. Instead, it aligns—quietly, without effort.
Not stronger.
Just… closer.
And it affects her in return.
Kyla notices it immediately. A subtle easing of tension in her thoughts, like pressure in the air shifting without warning; simple resonance.
She does not reach deeper. Out of respect, she holds herself at the edge of it, but she is aware enough to notice something else.
Satele knows.
There is a faint amusement in her presence, not directed at Kyla, but aware of being perceived.
“Satele,” Kyla asks, “is it common for Padawans to feel something like this with their Masters?”
Satele glances at her briefly as they walk.
“Yes,” she says. “It is not uncommon for strong connections to form between Jedi. Most often after trust has already been established.”
Then why has Kyla formed such a strong bond with Satele?
“As for what you and I share… I do not know its origin. Perhaps it is simply the result of bringing you here myself.”
Kyla nods slowly.
She considers mentioning Ashla, but she doesn't.
The presence beside her remains steady, unchanged, as if the silence itself is part of the same pattern.
“I don’t doubt you,” Kyla says instead. “It just hasn’t faded. That seems unusual to me.”
"Then we shall wait, Padawan, and see how it develops," Satele responds, opens the doors to the Council Chamber with the Force, and leads Kyla inside. The room is mostly empty, save for a semicircle of seven chairs in the middle, several of which are occupied by Jedi Masters. She recognizes Master Orgus and Grand Master Shan, of course. Still, she isn't familiar with any of the others: a female Togruta named Bela Kiwiiks, a male Kel Dor named Tol Braga, and a human male named Kaedan, both of them in the familiar blue of a hologram.
Even when she was traveling across the galaxy with many different masters, she heard how Master Braga's legendary pacifism turned a Sith back to the light, rumored to be his former apprentice.
“I searched the Archives for this Force user leading the Flesh Raiders. There is no record of Jedi training.”
A pause follows as the Council absorbs it.
Kira shifts beside them, glancing between faces. “Then I guess the Sith have found us. Shouldn’t we prepare for them?”
Orgus shakes his head slightly. “Don’t panic, Padawan.”
“But we’ve all felt it,” Kiwiiks adds. “A growing darkness. Perhaps it has finally revealed itself.”
Kyla exhales once.
“The growing darkness just tried to kill me.”
The words land harder than intended. She feels it immediately—the shift in attention toward her, subtle but present.
She offers Kira a small, uneven smile anyway.
Satele’s presence remains steady through it all—like deep water that does not ripple, even when disturbed.
“We did not expect the Temple’s safety to be threatened,” Satele says. “The Flesh Raiders have been disorganized and primitive until today.”
Kyla leans slightly forward before she can stop herself.
“Well. I killed their leader. So they won’t be a threat anymore.”
Silence follows.
Not hostile.
Measuring.
Satele’s gaze lifts—calm, direct. Not judgmental, but present enough that Kyla immediately wishes she had chosen different words.
“I doubt the one leading them was acting alone,” Orgus says.
“Agreed,” Satele replies. “Much of Tython remains unexplored. That will need to change.”
“I will see to it,” Orgus says, then glances toward Kyla. “With my Padawan.”
Kyla feels it—a subtle surprise across the Council. Not disagreement. Reassessment.
“Are you certain?” Kiwiiks asks. “You have not taken an apprentice since Coruscant.”
“She is one of the most capable Padawans I have seen in decades,” Orgus replies. “She requires proper guidance.”
Satele’s gaze shifts slightly toward Kyla.
“I can think of no better Master for you.”
Kyla hesitates.
The moment stretches.
Something in the bond between them tightens—unintentional, but present enough that she feels it before she speaks.
“Actually, Master Shan… perhaps you would.”
The air changes, and it's not sharply.
But enough that Kyla immediately understands she has stepped beyond where she should have.
“My duty is to the Order, Padawan,” Satele replies gently.
Kyla lowers her gaze slightly.
“Of course. That was… inappropriate of me. And disrespectful to Master Orgus.”
A brief silence.
Then Satele’s expression softens—just slightly.
"We have much to discuss," Orgus says, and gestures for Kyla to follow him out. They walk to his personal chambers, and he offers, "Take what you need, Padawan." Kyla nods and crouches in front of the cabinet, only taking a couple of combat stims just in case. "Blast those Council meetings. I'd die of old age before my colleagues ran out of things to say," he remarks, and Kyla stifles a chuckle with her fist.
"I prefer solving problems over talking about them," she responds, and stands to face him. She can't help her impatience for the conversation to be over; it's been over a week since she last contacted Ashla, and she usually talks to her every night.
"There are times when talking about problems is just as important as action, Padawan. You've braved dangers many Jedi never face, and if you have questions, now is the time to ask them."
"I don't believe you, Master Orgus; surely there are survivors from Coruscant who'd disagree with you," Kyla counters. "I won't even try to compare the danger I faced with someone like you or Master Satele."
"Hmm. I sense you have a question to ask me."
"Why did you choose me as your Padawan? It sounded like you hadn't taken a Padawan in decades."
"I trusted my instincts, and when I met you in that cave, my instinct told me I was meant to train you. I don't know why, but the Living Force brought us together for a reason."
"You mean the Force is alive? How does it know what it wants, Master?"
Orgus smiles with amusement and responds, "Padawan, every Jedi Master could meditate for centuries and not find an answer to that question."
"Master, will I be staying here?" She asks, her right hand already reaching for the holocom she always keeps attached to her belt. There's a bed in this room, and the door leads off to what she assumes is for her, but it doesn't hurt to ask.
"Yes, Padawan. I won't give you any more duties for tonight, though you will have a new assignment in the morning." Orgus explains, and from the nod she almost doesn't see, he's giving her permission to do whatever she's eager about.
"Thank you, Master. I won't be long," she responds, and senses his smile as she leaves. The familiar blend of life and Tranquility surrounds Kyla as she exits the Jedi Temple, already holding the holocom in her right hand, forcing an outward serenity that doesn't betray her excitement.
Her recent missions had prevented the usual contact with her sister, and she hurries to her chosen sanctuary—the same grove she sensed in Tython's orbit. The comlink frequency for the one she gave to Ashla is muscle memory by now, and she centers herself in the Force while she waits for her sister to respond.
"Kyla?! Oh, I'm so glad to see you," Ashla greets, and Kyla smiles with happiness as she always does. Her sister's wearing her usual mechanic's suit, which is relatively form-fitting; her red hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her green eyes are bright with joy. There's an oil smear on Ashla's left cheek that she wipes away.
"The Flesh Raiders attacked us again, my little Ashla," she explains, and her smile grows as Ashla blushes a little.
"I'm eighteen now, you can't call me that forever," Ashla responds, and Kyla raises an eyebrow. "But, I do appreciate it. Makes me feel-"
"Safe, like the Light Side does for me," Kyla interrupts. "Have you gotten stronger?" Ashla's hesitation is the only confirmation she needs. "Ashla, you should come to Tython so we can help you focus it and train you. You'll be able to do so much more than just mechanic work on Corellia, and-"
"I don't want to, Kyla! I still have nightmares from Zygerria, and besides, it'd be too familiar. I can handle myself, sis."
"I want you to be safe, and I can train you," Kyla pleads.
She doesn't know if attachment's driving her.
"Please, consider it and don't just write it off. You can be a hero and save people in the same position you were when I found you."
"I'm not sure, Kyla. I mean, you're only twenty-two; I don't think you could take me on as an apprentice, especially if you're still one. Besides, isn't the Code against attachment or something?"
"It's a bit complicated. We're supposed to have compassion and love all life, but I would be going against the Code if I let my affection towards you affect my decision," she explains. "Besides, the Republic and Sith Empire are skirmishing a lot; I'm worried about another war. If there's another Coruscant…"
"What happened to Coruscant?" Ashla asks, and Kyla sighs, then closes her eyes as the familiar sorrow spreads in the Force.
“Darth Malgus led a surprise attack on the Jedi Temple ten years ago,” Kyla says, her voice steadier than the memory feels. “Grand Master Shan and most of the Republic’s strongest fighters were away on Alderaan at the time.”
She pauses slightly, as if choosing what to leave out, watching Ashla's reaction for any sign she needs to stop.
“The Sith hit the Temple directly. The Supreme Chancellor was killed in the attack, and the Republic was forced into negotiations while the fighting was still going on.”
Ashla doesn't interrupt, silently observing, so Kyla continues.
“That’s what led to the Treaty of Coruscant. The war ended because neither side could hold what it had left.”So, please be careful and listen to Master Dajuuk; he's experienced enough to know when it's necessary to leave," Kyla pleads.
"He's too strict, Kyla—he wants me home by dusk, and doesn't let me go into town for errands," Ashla complains, but regrets it. Her sister's exasperation leaks across their bond, and she adds, "I know he keeps me safe, Kyla, but I'm getting a bit tired of Corellia."
"Well, there's a perfect opportunity for you to-" Kyla begins.
"If you're going to ask me for Jedi stuff again, I'll consider it. Only if you can be the one to train me," Ashla declares, and Kyla nods.
"I'll see what I can do. Ask Master Dajuuk to do what he can, my Little Ashla. I love you," Kyla responds with a warm smile.
"I love you too, sis," Ashla replies with a brief eye roll, but warmly smiles as well, and disconnects. She smiles again as she senses Kyla's happiness from speaking with her, and pushes a happy memory of sleeping in Kyla's arms to her.
Kyla smiles as the memory of Ashla sleeping in her arms slips into her mind, embracing the warmth that accompanies it, and ignorant of Master Orgus's glance. She takes out another set of her tunic and pants, changes into them, and lies down under the blanket. It's certainly colder than Corellia was, and she shivers a little despite the thick blanket—Ashla's body heat used to help keep her warm. She's asleep before her thoughts wander.
Her dreams are nightmares, filled with desecrated life that burns as white-armored figures kill innocents with blue and red laser bolts. An all-encompassing darkness spreads from the core of a dead planet across the galaxy; she, her sister, and Satele are the only lights left.
She startles awake as the Force gently brushes against her—the sun will rise in about two hours. Her footsteps are nearly silent as she moves, soothing Master Orgus with the Force so she doesn't wake him up.
It takes some time, but she eventually finds a training area, and she starts to reach for the lightsaber on her right hip.
Not yet, young one, the Force whispers, and she reaches for her vibrosword instead. She salutes her invisible opponent and begins to train, moving through the powerful parries and strikes of Form V, clearing her mind and focusing her will—this has always worked better than traditional meditation.
She startles out of her rhythm as a voice calls, "I didn't expect you to be awake at this hour, Padawan. Trouble sleeping?" Satele asks.
"No, Master. This helps me focus and clear my mind for the hard day ahead, and relax before I retire for the night," Kyla explains.
Satele chuckles and reminds, "Call me Satele if you'd like to. Perhaps a proper spar would improve your focus," she remarks, then raises an eyebrow. "Why aren't you using your lightsaber, Padawan Kyla?"
"It doesn't feel like the right time yet, Satele," Kyla explains.
Instead of the frustration or mockery Kyla expected, Satele nods in agreement with a warm smile. A pressure between them lessens as Satele speaks, and a subtle warmth floats across their bond. "I think it's right for you to trust the will of the Force, Kyla. Even I still struggle with it," and Kyla raises an eyebrow.
"You? The Grand Master of the Jedi Order?"
"Yes, of course. I'm not some flawless supernatural being, no matter how impressive my feats may seem," Satele says, her smile growing.
“I guess I didn’t know what I expected,” Kyla admits. “Shall we spar, Master Satele?”
“Of course—but first.” Satele draws a training lightsaber into her hand and tosses it lightly to Kyla, who catches it with ease.
Morning light filters through the high windows of the Temple, warming Kyla’s face and neck as she steps onto the polished stone floor. Her taller frame casts a long shadow across the training circle, shoulders set and coiled with restrained readiness.
Across from her, Satele stands composed and centered. Relaxed, but precise—every posture already resolved before it becomes motion.
Kyla inclines her head in respect, though impatience slips through the gesture, already leaning toward the first exchange.
Satele mirrors it with calm acknowledgment.
“Begin,” she says.
Kyla ignites her lightsaber. Sapphire light snaps into existence in a clean, confident line, reflecting in her eyes.
Satele’s blade follows a heartbeat later—steady, unhurried.
The space between them tightens.
Kyla commits.
She closes the distance with purpose, her longer stride eating the space quickly as she brings her blade down in a heavy overhead strike, the motion driven through shoulders and core—Djem So expressed in action: meeting force with greater force.
Satele meets it without resisting directly, angling her blade just enough to redirect the impact rather than absorb it, letting the energy pass safely aside.
Kyla follows immediately, stepping through the opening and turning the motion into a horizontal cut. Her weight shifts forward as she presses the advantage, keeping Satele within her reach.
The exchange begins to tighten.
Her strikes come in controlled, continuous sequences—each one flowing from the last rather than resetting—pressure building through position as much as blade, her stance grounded and aggressive as she tests the boundaries of Satele’s defense.
Satele gives ground by a single step, her blade moving in efficient arcs that intercept Kyla’s strikes without meeting their full force. Her economy of motion stands in quiet contrast to Kyla’s heavier, more assertive pressure.
Kyla senses the shift and leans into it.
She increases the pressure, committing more fully to each strike, trusting momentum and strength to carry through resistance.
For a brief moment, it seems to work.
A downward strike forces Satele’s blade lower than before. Kyla immediately transitions into a rising cut, aiming to catch her before she can reset.
The strike is strong, clean—and nearly effective.
Satele pivots instead of retreating.
The rising blade slips just off-line as she turns her wrist, redirecting Kyla’s motion. Kyla is drawn slightly forward, her balance disrupted by her own momentum.
Kyla recovers quickly, planting her foot and resetting her stance. A faint fracture runs through her rhythm, but she closes it almost immediately.
She adjusts.
Her guard tightens as she steps in again, this time varying her timing—delaying the follow-up strike to disrupt anticipation while preserving the force behind each motion.
The exchange becomes more confined.
Kyla uses her reach to control the space, keeping Satele within the arc of her blade as she drives forward with deliberate pressure. Each strike lands with weight that demands response.
Satele answers without escalation.
Her movements remain economical—redirecting rather than resisting, turning strength aside rather than opposing it.
“You rely on power,” Satele says quietly as she angles another strike away. Her voice remains steady even as blades meet.
Kyla presses harder.
“It should be enough,” she replies, the next strike coming faster—heavier—carrying frustration beneath conviction.
She commits to a stronger sequence, chaining a downward strike into a sweeping horizontal cut, then a forward thrust—each motion carrying sustained force as she tries to overwhelm Satele through pressure and momentum.
For a moment, it builds.
Satele yields another step, her blade intercepting each strike at precise angles that dissolve impact rather than resist it. The space between them narrows despite the defense.
Kyla sees the opening.
She commits fully.
An overhead strike descends with everything she has behind it, aimed to break through Satele’s guard entirely.
Satele shifts at the last possible instant—not retreating, but stepping just inside the arc of the blow. The blade passes harmlessly to the side.
“You rely on brute force too much,” she says.
Kyla’s momentum carries her forward—past where her stance should have held.
Before she can recover, Satele turns the motion against her, guiding Kyla’s blade further off-line while stepping cleanly into her guard with fluid precision.
“But apply it in the right way,” she says.
Her blade rises in a controlled arc and stops at Kyla’s shoulder.
Kyla freezes. Her saber is still extended from the overcommitted strike, her balance carried forward, guard open and unrecoverable in time.
Her breath quickens slightly as the realization settles in.
Satele deactivates her blade first. The light vanishes with a soft hiss, leaving sudden stillness in its absence.
Kyla follows a moment later, lowering her weapon as the sapphire glow retracts. Her grip loosens, but her posture remains tight.
For a moment, neither speaks. The ambient sounds of the Temple return—distant, steady, unaffected.
Kyla exhales. The tension remains in her frame, but it has shifted—no longer blind effort, but awareness of exactly where it failed.
Satele studies her with calm attention.
“Your strength is not the issue,” she says at last, tone even but firm.
Kyla looks up, meeting her gaze.
“It’s how you rely on it.”
Kyla’s expression tightens. “I had the advantage,” she insists, though the certainty in her voice falters at the edges.
“For a moment,” Satele replies, stepping closer. Her presence remains steady, grounding. “And then you committed beyond control.”
Kyla lowers her gaze briefly, replaying the exchange in her mind.
Satele gestures back toward the center of the circle. “Power must be guided,” she continues. “Not abandoned to momentum.”
Kyla exhales once, longer than before, and nods.
“Again,” Satele says.
Kyla steps forward.
Her blade reignites, sapphire light snapping into being as her stance resets into Djem So form.
This time she moves—and still strikes with strength—but there is a pause before commitment. A measured restraint where before there was none.
Kyla sighs in frustration as Satele disarms her again, the training blade coming to rest in a controlled line near her guard. “You have great potential,” Satele says softly. “With discipline, you could become one of the Order’s greatest duelists.”
“It doesn’t feel that way,” Kyla mutters, glancing at Satele’s saberstaff. “Is there a training staff I could use instead? I think… I want to try it.”
“Of course,” Satele replies with a warm smile. “But Master Orgus requires your attention at present.”
She draws the training saber back to herself and returns it to its place with the others.
“Meet me here tonight, at 2100.”
“Yes, Mast—” Kyla pauses as Satele lifts an eyebrow. “Yes, Satele.”
A small, reluctant smile appears. “It still feels strange not using the title. Because…”
“Because I am Grand Master of the Jedi Order?” Satele finishes gently. “Or is it something else, Padawan?”
Kyla’s smile lingers, quieter now.
"You're powerful, Satele. I've heard stories of how you faced Malgus on Alderran, and-"
“Power means nothing without the wisdom to use it,” Satele says calmly. “You must remember that.”
She smiles as Master Orgus approaches.
“Wise words, Grand Master. I’m glad you’re instructing my Padawan, but I need a word with her,” Orgus says.
Kyla bows to Satele, then turns and follows her Master out.
“Where can we get breakfast, Master? I’m starving,” she admits.
Orgus’s presence settles over her like steady ground—calming, familiar.
“I will get breakfast,” he replies. “You will find a place to sit. Let the Force show you where.”
Kyla nods.
She lets her awareness open—not searching, not forcing—just listening.
The Living Force responds gently, not as direction, but as pull, a quiet concentration of life a short distance away.
A hill.
A single tree.
She shares the sense with Orgus, and catches a faint ripple of reluctance from him at the climb before it fades.
They start walking.
The hill is steep, but stable roots and vines cut through the slope—anchors for anyone without the Force. Kyla barely notices them as she climbs.
At the top, she looks out over the planet as the rising sun warms her face. She exhales slowly, letting her awareness open outward. Life answers in layered presence—small, steady patterns spreading across the land.
She lingers in it for a moment, then turns as Orgus reaches the base of the hill.
He closes the distance in a single jump.
Kyla rolls her eyes.
“Show off,” she mutters, though a smile follows immediately.
Orgus lands lightly, breakfast held securely in both hands. “I have seen more battles than I hope you will,” he says. “My legs are allowed to disagree with unnecessary climbs.”
They sit cross-legged across from each other.
Kyla takes the first bite and exhales in satisfaction.
“It’s awfully chilly today,” Orgus adds. “Wear your outer robes.”
She nods, still chewing, and hums in agreement.
“Master, someone I know wants to be trained at the Temple,” Kyla begins once they’ve started eating. “She’s a former slave I rescued. But she only wants me to train her.”
“Hm,” Orgus replies. “Your attachment would make that difficult. Not impossible—but dangerous. I cannot decide for you, only advise. If she comes to the Temple, she should begin formal training immediately.”
Kyla nods. “Master Dajuuk has been staying with her since we brought her to Corellia,” she says with a faint smile. “He helped train me during the rescue. He also sensed the Force in her—dormant, but there.”
“I will meditate on what the Force reveals,” Orgus says. “For now, remain mindful of the present, and your training.”
Kyla straightens slightly as his presence shifts—subtle, focused, as if the conversation has reached something important beneath the surface.
“Your next assignment,” he continues, “is the Twi’lek settlement of Kalikori. The Republic has refused aid—they consider it an illegal settlement—but we believe they are in need of assistance.”
“The Republic shouldn’t be telling the Jedi what to do,” Kyla replies. “They don’t understand how the Council operates. Who better to lead the war against the Sith than the Order sworn to fight them?”
“I forget how impressionable Padawans can be,” Orgus says calmly. “The Jedi exist to serve the Republic.”
He studies her for a moment. “I need you to establish a base camp, speak to the Matriarch, and learn everything the Twi’leks know about the Flesh Raider attacks.”
“Yes, Master,” Kyla replies.
She hesitates, then continues when he gives her a faint, approving smile.
“We should have taken action like this sooner,” she says. “Before the Flesh Raiders ever reached the Temple. I’ll make sure the Twi’leks know we’re not repeating that mistake.”
Orgus nods. “May the Force be with you, Padawan. The coordinates are on your holocom.”
Kyla bows slightly, then turns and walks back down the hill.
Behind her, Orgus exhales softly and settles into meditation, his awareness turning inward through the Force as he considers her words.
Kyla sighs as she follows Master Orgus’s coordinates. She really needs to buy a speeder—or find something native that doesn’t involve walking across half a planet.
Militia guard the gap in the wall, but she walks past them without slowing. None of them stop her.
Kalikori Village is more developed than she expected—structured, fortified, lived-in. Not a scattered settlement, but something that has learned to endure.
She approaches a Twi’lek guard at the entrance. His skin is a bright lime green, lekku marked with dark patterns.
“I need to speak with the Matriarch. Can you take me to her?”
He nods once and leads her inside.
The main building opens into a raised hall—tables, chairs, and a low defensive wall overlooking the interior space, clearly designed for both council and last stand.
Kyla steps forward.
“Greetings, Matriarch. Master Orgus Din sent me to assist with the Flesh Raiders,” she says with a respectful incline of her head.
Matriarch Sumari studies her for a moment, then smiles—measured, testing.
“So,” she says, “the Jedi finally decide our suffering is worth your time. Or is it only because the attack reached your Temple?”
“We didn’t realize how much of a threat the Flesh Raiders had become,” Kyla says with a slight bow. “My apologies, Matriarch Sumari.”
“Do not carry the burden of your elders’ mistakes,” Sumari replies. Her gaze shifts briefly toward the Twi’lek beside her. “My scouts have tracked the Flesh Raiders for months. They have grown stronger than we anticipated. I will share what we know—but only if you promise to protect my people. We suffer.”
She grimaces, one hand rising briefly to her forehead.
Kyla notices the movement and stills slightly, concern flickering through her focus.
The lime-green Twi’lek beside Sumari steps forward. “Mother, you need rest. Let me take this.”
“This is my daughter, Ranna Tao-Ven, and Scout Chief Moorint,” Sumari says. “They will speak for me.”
Kyla leans forward slightly. “You look unwell, Matriarch. I can request the Jedi Healers—”
“We have our own healers, Padawan,” Ranna cuts in firmly.
She helps Sumari turn away, guiding her from the room.
Kyla exhales slowly, watching them go. She had only meant to help—meant to make up for what the Order failed to prevent.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Moorint says. “I don’t care why the Jedi are here—as long as the Flesh Raiders are destroyed. They hunt us like animals.”
Anger ripples through the Force around him, sharp and unsettled.
“My scouts have located a stockpile of Flesh Raider weapons and explosives in a cave,” he continues. “You’ll need to take a key from one of their warmasters.”
“Convenient,” Kyla replies. “I’ll ensure those weapons are secured so your people can defend themselves.”
She turns toward the coordinates, the weight of his anger fading behind her as she moves.
Tython presses in around her senses—dense, alive, layered with presence at every turn. She lets herself settle into it, not as escape, but as awareness.
Then she advances.
The path to the cave is contested.
She fights her way through it with steady focus, each encounter met with controlled force, even as she carries the quiet awareness that every life taken is a disruption in the Living Force.
By the time the entrance comes into view, her breath is steady again.
The largest Flesh Raider she has faced yet blocks the path—towering over her by more than a meter, arms thick as her waist, its presence in the Force heavy and unstable, like a knot of agitation pressed into the Living current.
Fear rises in her.
She does not push it away.
She lets it pass through her awareness and dissolve into the wider field of Tython, where countless Life Echoes absorb and redistribute it without resistance.
Her blade ignites.
The cave tightens around them.
The Living Force here is distorted—compressed by aggression, fractured by instinctive violence—and every movement the creature makes drags against it like a breaking tide.
The first exchange is immediate.
Steel and raw strength meet her guard and she feels it in her bones more than her arms. The Raider’s strikes do not just hit—they press, each impact sending a vibration through her stance that echoes into the ground beneath her boots.
Her arms begin to tremble.
Not fear now—strain. Physical reality asserting itself through the Force-filtered awareness she uses to track timing and distance.
A glancing blow catches her left hand.
Pain flares sharp and immediate, a bright red spike in her perception that briefly fractures her focus. The Living Force around that injury pulses unevenly, as if the local pattern itself has been disrupted.
She exhales through her teeth and tightens her grip, forcing the sensation outward into the surrounding current where it disperses.
She gives ground—just enough for breath, just enough for recalibration.
Then the Force shifts.
Not power.
Alignment.
A moment opens in the Raider’s movement—an overcommitment, a fraction of imbalance—and Kyla feels it not as thought, but as a change in pressure across the field between them.
She steps into it.
Her vibrosword and stance align in a single continuous motion as she drives a controlled Force push into his center mass—not brute force, but direction imposed onto instability already present in him.
The Raider stumbles.
The distortion in the Living Force breaks.
That is enough.
Her blade follows through.
The presence collapses into a Silent Echo.
Absence settles where the life was.
She does not linger on it.
Kyla flexes her left hand once, wincing as swelling begins to form beneath the skin. The injury is stable for now, but will worsen without kolto.
She takes the key and moves deeper into the cave.
Inside the sealed chamber, the Living Force shifts again—this time differently. Not violent, but contained. Static. Artificial order imposed on a natural field.
Her attention locks immediately onto a T7 unit standing near a cache of weapons and explosives.
For a moment, the contrast registers clearly in her perception: living presence outside, absence within, and something mechanical holding position between them like a neutral thread.
She exhales once.
“…Hey, droid,” she says.
T7 beeps brightly in response.
“T7 = happy to serve the Jedi Order.”
Kyla’s shoulders loosen slightly as the tension of the fight bleeds out of her awareness and the surrounding Life Echoes reassert themselves through the stone.
She decides to take the weapons for the villagers.
T7 rolls forward, chassis humming softly, and emits a series of bright beeps that ripple oddly through Kyla’s awareness.
“T7 = glad to see Jedi… // T7 = recovery status: operational.”
Kyla smiles faintly. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here.”
T7 pauses.
Then continues.
“T7 = recon unit designation confirmed. // Mission parameters: wilderness survey, threat identification. // Restraining bolt: degraded. // sensory interference detected during Flesh Raider encounter.”
Kyla tilts her head slightly.
The Living Force in the chamber feels… off. Not hostile, but layered incorrectly, like something artificial sitting beneath natural flow.
“There’s no one else here,” she says.
T7 emits a sharper tone.
“T7 = correction. // T7 is not alone.”
A hologram flickers to life above the droid.
For a moment, the room changes.
Not physically—but in perception.
The Living Force distorts around the projection, as if the image itself carries weight. Kyla feels it immediately: not presence, but intention embedded into machinery.
Two figures stand in the recording.
And a third.
Hooded.
The Force around that figure is unstable—fractured in a way she recognizes immediately from the cave. Controlled, but not whole. Like something pretending at stillness.
The hooded figure speaks.
“Use our weapons against the native Twi’leks.”
A pause.
Then another voice.
“When will we strike against the Jedi?”
Kyla’s grip tightens on her vibrosword.
The realization lands before thought completes it.
“That’s the fallen Jedi I fought in the cave,” she says quietly.
Her gaze sharpens, fixed on the hooded figure.
“But… who are you?”
The Living Force in the room feels, for the first time, like it is listening back.
“Patience, Callef. Once our army reaches full strength, the Jedi will face our wrath.”
The transmission ends.
But the words linger—not as sound, but as pressure in the Force, like a distant distortion still rippling through the field. Kyla holds it for a moment, then lets it pass.
T7 emits a sharp sequence of beeps.
“T7 = recording complete. // recommendation: Jedi relocate unit T7 and remove restraining bolt for optimal efficiency.”
Kyla exhales softly. “Yeah… I never understood restraining bolts anyway.”
She kneels and removes it.
The moment it disconnects, the presence in T7 shifts—subtle but immediate. Not becoming more alive, but becoming less constrained, like a pattern finally allowed to stabilize.
“T7 = functionality restored. // auxiliary protocol: medical support enabled.”
Before Kyla can respond, T7 rolls closer and tilts upward.
A burst of kolto sprays across her left hand.
She flinches instinctively, pain flaring through the burn from the Flesh Raider encounter—but it immediately begins to dull, the sensation smoothing out as the injury is stabilized.
In the Force, the damaged point in her awareness stops screaming and begins to settle.
She flexes her fingers once, testing the recovery.
“So you’re a healer too,” she murmurs, a faint smile forming. “Thanks.”
T7 chirps in affirmation.
“T7 = assistance appreciated.”
Kyla straightens, gathering the weapons again.
“Come on,” she says. “We need to get these to the Matriarch.”
And for a moment, the cave feels less like a battlefield—and more like a turning point.
She’s glad the walk back to the village is peaceful.
The crate is too heavy to manage in combat, and she keeps her awareness spread through the Living Force around her, just in case.
But as she nears the settlement, the pattern shifts.
Shouting.
Inside the village, the Force feels unsettled—tight knots of grief and anger rising in uneven waves.
“She died in my arms! We need to kill ten—no, a hundred—for every one of us the Flesh Raiders butchered!”
The voice fractures through the space like a spike in the Living Field.
Ranna Tao-Ven’s presence responds immediately, steady but strained. “We all share your loss, Saylew.”
“Will revenge bring your lost loved one back?” Master Orgus asks, calm but firm.
Kyla exhales slowly as she steps into the edge of the gathering.
The anger here is sharp in the Force—twisted, self-reinforcing—but underneath it, grief pulses unevenly, like something struggling not to collapse inward.
Saylew turns.
“Don’t lecture me, Jedi. Where were you when our people were being slaughtered?”
Kyla studies him.
His presence is fractured—grief pressed too tightly into anger, creating instability in the Living Force around him.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says quietly. “But I won’t let more people die because of it.”
He spits the words back. “Nothing you say brings her back.”
Kyla feels Orgus watching her, but she keeps her focus on Saylew.
“I know,” she replies. “But I can stop it from happening again.”
A beat.
The anger does not resolve.
But it shifts slightly—redirected, not removed.
“I promise I’ll deal with the Flesh Raiders,” she adds.
Saylew’s presence wavers, then turns away.
The knot of emotion remains—but it is no longer pulling only in one direction.
“Make sure you can keep that promise. He won’t take disappointment well,” Master Orgus says.
His presence in the Force tightens slightly—not hostile, but weighted, like a memory pressing against the present.
“People often wonder why Jedi are forbidden to marry or form families,” he continues. “Attachments lead to suffering. Passion can override judgment. And a Jedi consumed by passion becomes something dangerous.”
Kyla listens, but the words settle unevenly in her awareness.
Not rejection.
Not agreement.
Just tension.
“I understand, Master,” she says.
T7 rolls forward.
“T7 = salutes Master Orgus. // Reconnaissance data: secured. // ready for transfer.”
“I’ll deal with the droid,” Orgus says. “Speak with Ranna.”
Kyla nods and moves toward the Twi’lek.
Ranna turns as she approaches, her presence in the Force steadier now than before—grief still present, but no longer spilling outward uncontrollably.
“Thank you for the weapons,” she says. “Our people can defend themselves now. Your actions give us hope we’ll survive this.”
Kyla inclines her head slightly.
“Is your Matriarch doing any better? Is there anything else I can do?”
Ranna offers a small, tired smile.
“Thank you. She is resting now. Our scouts have located something else—reports of Flesh Raider gatherings in an ancient city called Kaleth.”
At the name, the Living Force around the village subtly shifts—like distant pressure moving beneath still water.
Kyla feels it immediately.
Something older is waiting there.
“It was a great city of Force users,” Master Orgus says. “We still don’t understand everything about it.”
His presence in the Force shifts slightly as he speaks of it—something distant tightening, like old memory reactivating.
“Drive the Flesh Raiders back while I take the droid to the Temple. The hooded figure in the holo… felt familiar. I’ll need to investigate.”
Kyla exhales.
“So you’re not going to tell me what the danger is?”
A flicker of frustration crosses her thoughts, followed immediately by awareness of it—and she reins it in.
“I trust you can handle it, Padawan,” Orgus says.
His presence steadies hers as he speaks, like a hand briefly resting on turbulent water.
Kyla hesitates.
“What is it?” he asks.
“I don’t know how to get there,” she admits, then corrects herself quickly. “Well—I think I do.”
She opens her holomap, projecting the routes across the terrain, and points.
“Is this the correct path?”
Orgus studies it for a moment.
“Correct is a flexible term,” he says lightly.
Kyla narrows her eyes slightly. “Sorry. Is it the optimal path, Master?”
A faint warmth moves through his presence in the Force—amusement, restrained but unmistakable.
“No,” he replies. “It is not. That route cuts directly through Flesh Raider territory. There is a faster option along the Elarian Trail.”
His tone shifts just slightly.
“Or you may take a speeder to the forward camp. From there, the Ruins of Kaleth are an hour’s walk.”
At the name Kaleth, the Living Force around Kyla subtly tightens—like distant pressure acknowledging something old and half-buried.
“I trust in your abilities,” Orgus finishes.
Kyla exhales softly, then nods.
And despite everything ahead, something in her settles—not certainty, but alignment.
“Thanks, Master. May the Force be with you,” she says, bowing.
She turns before the moment can linger.
And the instant her boots leave the Temple path, something in her exhales with her.
The pressure she hadn’t realized she was holding loosens—subtle but immediate—as the Living Force around her returns to its natural rhythm.
Kyla lets out a quiet breath and begins the walk toward Kaleth.
Kyla unconsciously tucks her arms in as she feels it—the familiar absence of life in the Force.
Droids are nearby.
She hadn’t realized how void Corellia truly was until she felt Tython again in contrast. Almost a desert, by comparison.
But Kaleth is not empty.
Even as she steps into the ruins, she feels it—residual imprints left behind by those who once lived here. Force sensitives layered into the structure itself, as if the place has not fully released them.
She reaches out carefully to the faint Life Echoes.
Sorrow for loved ones. Curiosity toward the Force. Fractured impressions of memory and intention, overlapping without harmony.
A rustic beep cuts through her awareness.
She pivots instantly.
The droid’s strike comes high.
Her vibrosword meets it mid-arc, redirecting the blow with practiced precision before she dismantles it in a single, efficient motion.
Silence returns.
But not balance.
The Living Force around her remains unsettled.
Something is still here.
Not a Life Echo.
Not a Silent Echo.
Something that does not resolve into either.
It observes.
Kyla stills.
Nothing moves in the ruins ahead.
No sound. No presence she can clearly locate.
But the imbalance remains, faint and persistent—like a gaze she cannot quite return.
She turns slowly, blade ready.
Nothing.
And yet the feeling follows her as she continues deeper into the ruins, leaves cracking softly beneath her boots, the tunnel ahead swallowing light.
It is easy enough to slip past the droid scanners as she advances, threading through their blind patterns without breaking stride.
But once she enters the cave proper, the Living Force tightens.
Flesh Raiders.
Not just presence—echoes layered into presence. She feels it immediately.
One of them carries a faint resonance in the Force—an imprint of another beside him. A warrior’s presence, familiar in rhythm and intent, as if they had trained together for years, their movements once synchronized through repetition and survival.
Kyla hesitates for only a fraction of a second.
It is enough.
A vibroblade grazes her left leg.
Pain flashes hot and immediate.
She stumbles—but instinct takes over before thought can settle. Her weapon comes up in a single motion, and she cuts the attacker down before he can press the opening.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs under her breath.
The words fall into the Force without resolution.
She exhales once, steadying herself, and forces the pain into the background, even as the renewed throb in her hand returns with unwelcome clarity.
A healer will be needed when she returns.
For now, there is still work.
The cave opens without warning.
Light spills across broken stone as she steps into a wide valley ringed by mountains. Trees gather around the space in unnatural symmetry, as if the land has been shaped around something older than it remembers.
The Jedi Shrine.
The Living Force shifts again—denser, quieter, not absent but arranged, as if echoes of long-gone presences still linger in patterns the world has refused to forget.
At the base of the stairs stands a single Flesh Raider.
Larger than the others.
Still.
Waiting.
“Jeehd-ay…”
Kyla freezes mid-step.
Did he just—
“Did you just call me Jedi?” she asks sharply.
The Flesh Raider’s presence in the Force shifts.
Not empty.
Not animal.
Something primitive, but aware. Recognition flickers through it—then tightens, like a wound closing around intention.
A moment later—
The Living Force ruptures.
Kyla feels it before it lands, a pressure wave distorting her perception and throwing her backward through the Force itself.
She hits the ground hard.
For an instant, everything destabilizes.
Then instinct takes over.
She draws on the surrounding Living Force, catching the momentum of the fall and forcing herself back up into a fighting stance.
The anomaly remains.
And now she feels it more clearly.
Not just the one.
Shadows move along the edges of the ruins.
More Flesh Raiders.
“Hold your ground, Padawan!”
Master Kiwiiks’ voice cuts through as her saber ignites. Kira Carsen is already moving beside her, blade drawn, no hesitation in her stance.
Kyla adjusts instantly.
She falls into formation beside Kira without needing to think—distance, angles, rhythm snapping into place as if it had always existed.
Where Kira advances, Kyla stabilizes. Where Kyla pushes too far, Kira covers the opening.
Their movement becomes a single, shifting line of defense.
For a moment, there is no separation between intent and action.
Only motion.
Only response.
When the last Raider falls, the Living Force begins to settle again.
Kiwiiks deactivates her saber. “Master Orgus sent us. I’m glad we arrived when we did.”
“I could handle it,” Kyla says automatically, then glances toward the cave entrance. “But… thank you.”
Kira raises an eyebrow at her tone.
Kyla hesitates.
“The leader… he called me Jedi,” she says. “And he used the Force against me.”
A pause follows.
The words feel heavier than they should.
“That’s not normal… right?”
But even as she speaks, the Living Force does not fully settle.
Something about that presence still lingers at the edge of her awareness—like a pattern that should not have formed… but did.
“No, Padawans,” Master Kiwiiks says. “If the Flesh Raiders are learning the ways of the Force… then it will be the Dark Side guiding them.”
As she speaks, Kyla feels it—not in the words themselves, but beneath them.
A tightening in the Living Force.
Not fear.
Distortion.
Kira glances toward the battlefield remains. “You made quick work of this bunch. Do you ever leave survivors?”
The question lands with a slight edge Kyla hadn’t expected.
Her grip tightens subtly on her weapon.
“I don’t go into battle hoping to kill anyone,” she says. “And I avoid it whenever I can.”
For a moment, the memory of Zygerria rises—sharp, immediate—but she forces it back before it can fully surface in the Force.
Kira’s expression tightens. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong… my mouth runs faster than my brain sometimes.”
Kyla glances up and manages a small, controlled smile.
“It’s alright.”
Master Kiwiiks steps forward then, something held carefully in her hands.
A holocron.
Even before Kyla focuses on it, she feels the change.
Not an object simply existing within the Force—but one pressing into it. A structured presence, ancient and layered, as if its shape has remained imprinted long after its origin point vanished.
“This Flesh Raider carried it,” Kiwiiks explains. “It’s a holocron. A repository of knowledge created by a Force user.”
Her gaze tightens slightly.
“And by the looks of it… it’s thousands of years old.”
The Living Force around the object feels subtly wrong.
Not dark.
Not light.
But persistent in a way that does not belong in the present.
“Master Orgus thinks he knows who is behind this,” Kyla says.
Kiwiiks smiles faintly, though her attention does not leave the holocron.
“Then we are already behind them.”
“I trust his wisdom,” Kyla replies, “but he didn’t have time to explain everything. I wish we could stay and see this through—but Master Satele has assigned you both to a mission on Coruscant.”
At the name, something faint shifts in the Living Force.
Not enough to form certainty.
Just a distant pressure—like a current moving beneath still water.
“She believes it may be the source of the Council’s unease,” Kira adds.
Kyla’s brow tightens slightly.
“I understand Coruscant has its problems,” she says carefully. “But that seems… unlikely. Still, I trust the Council’s judgment.”
“Good,” Master Kiwiiks replies. “For now, place these sensors around the ruins. The Temple will monitor them remotely.”
Kyla nods.
“Yes, Master. May the Force be with you both.”
They depart.
The ruins settle again into uneasy quiet, though the holocron’s presence remains—deeper in the structure, unresolved, as if the site itself has chosen not to release it.
Kyla moves quickly through the placement route, climbing over broken stone where needed, using the Force to steady her balance as she installs each sensor.
When the final one clicks into place, the field around the ruins subtly stabilizes—like a system returning to partial order.
Her holocom chimes.
She exhales once and answers immediately.
“What is it, Master?”
“I’m on my way back to the Twi’lek settlement. Meet me at the Matriarch’s compound,” Master Orgus says.
“I did fine against the Flesh Raiders,” Kyla replies before she can stop herself. “Thanks for asking.”
A brief pause follows.
Then, unexpectedly, she feels it—his presence in the Force softening slightly.
A faint warmth.
“If you couldn’t handle it, I wouldn’t have sent you,” he says. “I’ll see you at the compound.”
The connection ends.
Kyla lets out a quiet breath and continues walking, the ruins falling behind her.
The pain in her left leg returns in full force halfway down the path.