The morning light was pale and gray when the knock came. Not loud. Just enough to make my eyes crack open. I groaned softly, rolling over in bed and burying my face in the pillow. My muscles still ached from yesterday's ceremony, and all the pretending that came with it.
My legs had carried me up and down those stairs a dozen times, but this morning they felt like lead. I reached blindly for the blanket and tugged it over my head. Another knock, firmer.
"Liora. Up."
That snapped me out of it. There was only one reason Father would come for me personally before sunrise. I sat up too fast and nearly tangled myself in the sheets. "Coming!" I called, voice rough with sleep. My room was still dim, curtains drawn against the sun. I scrambled out of bed and into the training clothes Aunty Jenza had left folded on the footlocker last night. Simple brown tunic, loose black trousers, boots with worn soles.
The hallway outside my room was quiet, the servants not yet awake. Father was already waiting near the stairwell, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His cloak had been replaced with a fitted training coat, long sleeves cuffed at the wrist. His lightsaber hung at his belt.
"You're late," he said.
"I overslept," I muttered, rubbing my eyes.
He turned, and I followed him down the narrow servant stairs to the courtyard at the rear of the manor. It was open to the sky, surrounded by tall stone walls and shadowed trees. The air still carried the chill of night, and the cobbled ground felt cool even through my boots.
At the center of the courtyard was a raised platform. I'd seen it once before through a window, when Father had practiced forms alone.
"Sit," he said simply.
I sat.
He sat across from me, cross-legged, hands resting on his knees. For a long moment, he just… breathed. Eyes closed. Face still.
I couldn't help but fidget.
A breeze rustled the nearby branches. A bird chirped once. My legs were already beginning to tingle. I shifted slightly. Tried not to scratch the itch on my shoulder. My nose twitched. I rubbed it.
"Be still," he said, eyes still shut.
"I am still," I whispered.
"You're not."
I let out a huff. "Meditation is boring."
He opened one eye. "Then perhaps you are doing it wrong."
I stuck out my tongue. Just a little. He closed his eyes again. We sat in silence. Ten minutes passed. Or maybe an hour. Time seemed to stretch. I cracked open one eye. Father hadn't moved. I sighed and closed my eyes again.
The silence stretched long enough that I was sure I'd fall asleep sitting up. Then, finally, I heard him shift. A quiet sigh, not tired, more like the end of a long thought.
"How... surprising. You, who so often excel beyond your peers, struggling with something as elementary as this?" He didn't open his eyes. Just tilted his head slightly toward me. "Hm. I must say, I hadn't expected that."
I squinted at him. "I can do it. Just… not this way."
"Ah. Of course," he said, his tone so neutral I couldn't tell if he was amused or annoyed. "Perhaps the universe should reconsider its structure then."
I frowned, cheeks heating. "That's not what I meant."
He opened his eyes at last and unfolded his legs with smooth, practiced ease. "We'll stop here for now. Stretch your legs. You'll need them."
I didn't understand what he meant until I tried to stand. The moment I shifted my weight, every nerve below my knees lit up like a blaster bolt. I nearly tipped over.
"Ghuh—!" I grunted, grabbing my thigh with both hands as needles stabbed their way up from my ankles.
"That's what happens when one does not listen to her body during stillness."
"I was listening," I muttered, staggering to my feet.
He didn't slow, but I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. My boots clicked on the polished stone as I followed him back toward the dining chamber. I stretched my legs as I walked, trying not to limp. The pins and needles were finally retreating, but it still felt like walking with ghosts in my calves.
When we reached the small dining table beside the morning hearth, a servant had already set out a light meal: soft bread, poached fruit, and a pitcher of chilled water steeped with citrus slices.
I slid into my usual chair with a sigh of relief. Father sat across from me, but his eyes weren't on the food. He looked out the window, expression thoughtful, quiet.
I chewed slowly, watching him over the rim of my glass. He hadn't said anything about my meditation struggle. But I could feel it lingering. Not disappointment, exactly. Something else.
Finally, he spoke while still looking out the window. "You move with ease when your mind is engaged, when you're solving problems and directing actions." He turned his gaze back to me. "But to know the Force, to know one's self you need to meditate."
I nodded a little. "That's what you said yesterday."
"It bears repeating," he said, sipping from his own glass. Then, more to himself: "Perhaps I am falling back into habits I meant to leave behind."
I tilted my head. "What habits?"
"Never mind," he said, too quickly. Then softened it with, "It's not important."
But I saw it in his posture, that momentary stiffness in his shoulders, the way he didn't quite meet my eyes. Whatever it was, it was still bothering him.
After a few more bites, he set down his fork and stood. "Come. You've eaten enough."
I blinked. "That's it?"
"You'll be moving soon. A heavy stomach does not make for clean form."
"…Form?"
He stepped to the far wall, where a small, narrow case rested on the mounted display rack. With a precise twist of the locking mechanism, it hissed open.
Inside was a training saber. Slightly shorter than a standard hilt, made of dull alloy with a smooth shaft. Still, my heart jumped just seeing it.
He turned and held it out to me.
"You said you wanted to be more like me," he said. "Let's begin."
The training saber was warm in my hands. Not hot, just… warm. I blinked at it, turning the hilt slightly in my grip. My thumb hovered near the activator switch, but I didn't press it yet.
"Go on," Father said, watching me with his arms crossed behind his back.
I pressed the switch.
A quiet snap-hiss, and a blade of light burst to life, glowing pale green. It hummed low. I couldn't help it, I smiled. I gave the hilt a small test swing. The blade moved cleanly through the air, but the weight was strange. Not heavy, exactly. Just… off. Like it was top-light, but still wanted to pull my hand the wrong way. I adjusted my grip, then again.
"Feels weird," I admitted.
"It should," he said. I nodded, repositioning my feet the way I remembered from watching him. My left heel lifted. My right elbow flared. Wrong again. He didn't say anything, just stepped forward and lightly tapped the inside of my ankle with the toe of his boot.
I shifted again. "There," he said. "Now. Begin." I raised the saber.
He didn't have one in hand. Just stood there with his arms folded, waiting. Which made it worse, somehow. I swallowed and took a swing, slow, right to left, the way I'd seen him do during his own training, he did in the early mornings.
The saber pulled wide at the end.
Again.
I tried to keep the blade tight this time, slicing through the invisible arc I imagined at chest height.
Again.
Then downward.
He nodded slightly. "Slower."
But that made it harder. The saber wasn't as Light as I had been expecting it to be. How could something made of light have weight? My wrist twitched. The blade dipped again. I reset my stance and started over.
We stayed like that for a while. He never yelled. Never raised his voice. But when I got lazy with my shoulders, he noticed. When my elbow wandered, he pointed it out. Every mistake I made, he called out.
"You're fighting it," he said once.
"I'm not."
"You are. You're treating it like a problem to solve. Stop thinking. Just move."
That made me grumble. Not out loud, but inside. I wasn't thinking. Okay, I was, but only a little. I just didn't want to look stupid.
After maybe twenty minutes, or forever, he finally stepped forward and unclipped his own saber hilt from his belt. He didn't ignite it. Just held it.
"Footwork."
He took a short step forward, then to the side. I copied it. He pivoted smoothly, hand still relaxed. I followed, my boot scraping a little. The saber bobbed in my grip.
"Keep your center," he said. "Don't let the blade control you."
I tried again. Small step, turn, blade out.
Better.
"Again."
I did it.
We moved like that for a while, him walking slow arcs, me chasing his steps across the dueling circle. I was sweating again, hair sticking to my neck. My hands were starting to cramp from holding the hilt too tightly.
I wasn't sure how long we'd been at it before I stumbled. The blade slipped low, nearly catching the floor. He stopped. Watched me carefully.
"Anger won't help," he said.
"I'm not angry," I said quickly.
He raised an eyebrow.
"…Okay maybe a little."
His mouth twitched. "Then stop. Frustration clouds intent. You want to improve, yes?"
"Of course."
"Then stop wrestling with the weapon."
I sighed. "I'm trying."
"I know." He said it without sarcasm.
That made it worse, honestly. Because he meant it.
He stepped closer, reached out, and placed one hand over mine. His hand was big, warm, and calloused from years of practice. He guided the hilt upward slightly, adjusted the tilt of the blade.
"Breathe," he said. "It's not just a tool. It's an extension of you. If your hand is tight, your mind is tight. Loosen both."
I adjusted. Loosened my grip.
He nodded once and stepped back.
I moved again. Slowly.
And this time, the blade didn't wobble.
I let the saber power down with a quiet snap-hiss, the glow vanishing. My arms ached, not sharp pain, just that weird, low heat from muscles that had been doing something new too long. My shirt clung to my back. The air outside had warmed since we started, and I could feel the weight of sweat behind my knees and under my collar.
I stood still a moment, blinking against the light.
My father stepped forward and took the practice saber from my hands. "We'll resume tomorrow," he said. "At dawn."
I followed him to the courtyard, where a shaded bench sat beneath one of the tall flowering trees. The leaves rustled faintly overhead, and something about the smell reminded me of clean paper and old books.
We both sat. I folded my legs under me. He didn't say anything for a minute, just pulled a folded cloth from his sleeve and handed it to me. I took it and wiped my forehead.
"You have instincts," he said. "They'll serve you. Eventually."
"Eventually?" I asked, glancing up.
"Instinct alone won't protect you. Training will. Experience. Time. Patience"
"I thought I'd be better," I said quietly.
"Why?"
I hesitated. "Because I want to be."
"That's not the same thing."
I looked down at my knees, bare beneath the rolled trousers. I could still feel the hum of the saber in my fingers.
"You learn fast," he said. "Faster than most. But impatience is a cost. If you push forward too hard, you'll trip. Or worse, someone could end up dead."
That made me go quiet.
He let the silence stay, then added: "You did well for your first lesson."
I turned to look at him. "Really?"
He gave me a side glance. "Would I lie?"
I considered. "Not to me."
"Exactly." He stood. "Get cleaned up. The shuttle crew is already prepping the vessel."
I blinked. "Already?"
" We leave in a day. I want you rested and alert when we land."
I stood too, brushing off the back of my pants. My arms were still sore, but lighter somehow. As I walked ahead toward the manor steps, I heard him say behind me, low and half to himself:
"Do not rush…."
The halls were quiet when I slipped through them, my training boots padding softly over the smooth stone floor. The sun had climbed higher, pouring gold through the lattice windows and making the walls glow. Afternoon meant studying today with Aunt Jenza.
Aunt Jenza's study was in the west wing, smaller than Father's and lined with plants. Actual plants. Vines curled down over polished shelves, and hanging gardens filled the corners with scents of damp earth and sweet spice. I liked it better than the formal libraries.
She was already seated when I arrived. A tray of books and stone tablets rested beside her, but she was focused on grinding something with a pestle in a shallow bowl. It smelled sharp and green.
"You're late," she said without looking up.
"Am I?"
"Three minutes and a few seconds. I was beginning to worry your father had buried you under Force doctrine."
I snorted and sat across from her, pulling my boots off to cross my legs. "He would never."
Jenza smiled without showing her teeth. "He would."
I settled in, palms on my knees. "What's today?"
She reached over and tapped a narrow woven band on the table. "Mirialan script. Old patternwork, actually. Used in storytelling before they adopted standard galactic."
I leaned forward. The band was deep green, embroidered with tiny golden shapes, triangles, circles, loops, and dots. At first glance, it looked decorative. But as I squinted, I saw patterns. Repeats. Themes.
"It's a story?" I asked.
She nodded. "About a girl who carried the wind in her hands and anger in her heart. She went to the mountains to challenge the stars."
"…Did she win?"
"She failed. But in failing, she learned why she wanted to win in the first place. That was her real lesson." Jenza picked up the band, rolling it slowly between her fingers.
I hesitated. "Will I ever get markings?"
Jenza looked up, surprised. "You're asking already?"
"I just… wondered."
She gave me a gentler look now. "Mirialan markings are earned, not given. I have been researching to make sure I will be able to give them to you when you have earned them."
I swallowed. "So… I will get them someday?"
"Of course." She passed me the band. "When you're older."
I turned the cloth in my hands. "Auntie?"
"Yes?"
"I want to do something good. Not just… big. But good."
She reached out, touched my chin, and tilted my face up to meet her eyes. "Then remember this: doing good doesn't mean being liked. Sometimes it's the opposite."
I didn't quite understand, but I nodded anyway. It sounded important.
We studied for a few hours. Script, myth, a bit of geography, I learned where the Mirialan pilgrim routes once crossed before the Republic swallowed the borders. She made me sketch a few patterns of my own, simple ones.
When the sun shifted again and the light turned orange against the walls, she finally closed the last book.
"You're tense," she said.
"I have a lot on my mind."
"You're six."
"I'm thinking."
She laughed then, the real kind, soft and sudden. "Force help us all."