Jedi Transport Shuttle – En Route to Coruscant
Late Evening
Hyperspace was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that made you wonder whether the stars you'd left behind had changed without you.
Kaelen sat in the forward compartment of the shuttle, alone but not unsupervised. Behind him, two rows back, the Knight assigned to monitor him sat upright and stiff in his seat, trying to look relaxed without actually relaxing. His presence hovered just at the edge of Kaelen's senses. Watchful. Tense. Controlled.
Kaelen didn't care.
He had what he came for.
And he had no intention of explaining it to anyone.
The kyber crystal rested in his palm, scarred and imperfect. It caught the cabin light at strange angles, refusing to shimmer the way a finished, "chosen" crystal should. It didn't radiate clarity. It refracted doubt.
A violet fracture ran down the center, veining through its core like a wound that never healed properly. One end was uneven, splintered like shattered bone that had mended under pressure.
He turned it over slowly.
Felt the subtle throb beneath the surface. Not from heat or energy, but from presence. A rhythm. A heartbeat.
Not his.
Not the Force's.
Theirs.
His fingers curled slightly around the crystal.
This wasn't the kind of connection the Temple described. There had been no call, song, or light show in a pristine cavern. No epiphany.
Just silence.
Pressure.
Weight.
Just a reflection of himself—uneven, flawed, alive anyway.
The shuttle shook once, barely.
A stabilizer flare adjusted its course through an asteroid belt's gravitational pocket. The stars outside distorted briefly, twisting through the viewport like streaks of oil across glass.
Kaelen didn't react.
He'd been through worse turbulence.
In ships.
In life.
His gaze remained fixed on the crystal.
He remembered the moment the obsidian cracked.
Not because of power.
Because of recognition.
The crystal hadn't chosen him.
It had recognized something buried beneath the armor and silence and training.
Something that I hadn't known could still break.
And maybe…
Maybe the crystal hadn't been waiting to be claimed.
Maybe it had just been waiting for someone who understood that broken things still pulse.
Behind him, the Knight shifted again. Cleared his throat softly.
Kaelen didn't turn.
Didn't offer words.
He didn't need to.
He could feel the Knight watching him, trying to figure out whether Kaelen would ignite the saber early, speak out of turn, or act without orders. Always the same fear: the silent one with the weapon might remember he doesn't need permission.
Kaelen let the silence stretch.
Then looked down again at the crystal in his palm.
He held it between two fingers, letting it hover just above his other hand. Not with the Force. Just gravity. Just breathe.
He whispered:
"You're not a relic.
You're a scar that still listens.
And I'm not ready to use you.
But maybe we're ready to learn."
The crystal pulsed once.
Not brighter.
Just steadier.
Like a breath.
The ship remained silent.
Coruscant grew in the distance—its endless lights flickering like promises waiting to be broken.
Kaelen closed his fingers around the crystal.
And for the first time since Ilum…
He felt ready to build something that might not break.
Jedi Temple – Sublevel Forge Chamber, After Midnight
The Temple above was quiet.
Not the meditative quiet it liked to preach, but the kind of silence that came when everyone decided it was easier to leave the shadows alone.
Kaelen moved beneath it like a breath no one wanted to acknowledge. He didn't wear armor. Didn't carry robes. His cloak was drawn tight, his footsteps soft, purposeful. Not hiding. But not inviting curiosity either.
The descent into the forge felt longer than before.
Not because the path had changed.
Because he had.
The door to the forge hadn't been sealed. It didn't need to be. No one came down here. No Knight seeking harmony. No Master is looking for clarity. This place wasn't about peace.
It was about truth.
The stone groaned softly as he stepped inside. A draft swept past him—dry, metallic, faintly bitter. Old blood still marked the corners of the room where he'd cut his hand assembling the hilt's framework days earlier. The bench at the center sat undisturbed. Scorch marks still darkened the rim. A single tool lay right where he'd left it.
Waiting.
Just like the crystal in his hand.
Kaelen moved slowly.
There was no hurry in him.
Only weight.
He knelt beside the bench and unwrapped the cloth bundle he had carried since Ilum. Layer by layer, he exposed the components he had chosen—not for beauty, not for elegance, but because each piece carried a scar.
A curved phrik shell, blackened from a firefight on Taris.
A bracer ring carved from the outer plating of a crashed shuttle he'd salvaged during survival drills.
A fragment of a broken emitter, once part of a ceremonial training saber, now stripped of everything but function.
And last, the stabilizer core is forged from reshaped beskar.
Scored. Imperfect. Scarred by fire.
Just like him.
He didn't activate the forge. Didn't relight the braziers. The heat inside him would be enough now.
He laid the parts out across the table, forming a rough crescent. Each placement was deliberate, like arranging bones for burial.
Kaelen paused.
His breath was steady.
Then, he reached for the first piece.
The inner focusing ring slid into place with a soft grind of metal on metal. He rotated it twice—by feel, not measurement—until the anchor ridge clicked into alignment.
Next came the chassis core, wrapped in insulating thread he'd pulled from a Temple storage spool meant for remote access gear. He laced it tight. Not for aesthetics.
For grip. For weather. For survival.
The emitter coupling came next. He filed it slightly with a vibro-tool, narrowing its edges until it matched the taper of the casing he'd reforged by hand.
A single drop of sweat rolled down his brow. He didn't wipe it away.
Every movement was precise.
But not perfect.
He wasn't building symmetry.
He was building resilience.
At last, he reached for the crystal.
The kyber rested in its cloth wrap, still faintly pulsing.
Not with eagerness.
With patience.
He unwrapped it slowly.
The fractured violet vein still streaked through its core like a scar trying to remember its original wound.
Kaelen didn't hesitate.
He placed the crystal between his palms.
And whispered, more breath than voice:
"Let's see what we become."
He slid it into the chamber cradle.
It didn't resist.
But it didn't click neatly either.
He had to adjust. Reseat. Realign. It took longer than it should have.
Not because the parts were wrong.
Because they weren't trying to fit.
They were trying to understand each other.
When it finally settled, the crystal pulsed once.
Not as acceptance.
As acknowledgment.
He locked the final seal.
The saber sat before him now.
No light.
No hum.
Just form.
It looked heavy.
Not because of the metal.
Because of the history.
Kaelen didn't reach for it.
He stared at it.
A long moment.
Then reached out, hand slow, fingers curled loosely around the grip.
The weight was real.
But it wasn't a burden.
It was an unfinished purpose.
The air grew denser. The room cooled quietly.
The Force didn't rush to meet the weapon.
It circled.
Waiting.
Kaelen took a breath.
And the saber pulsed in his palm.
It wasn't complete.
Not yet.
But it had shape.
And now… it would show him what it was.
The saber was warm in Kaelen's palm.
But it wasn't ready.
And neither was he.
The forge around him dimmed as the Force pressed inward—not aggressively, not violently, but with slow, inescapable weight. Not a hand on his shoulder.
A mirror to the soul.
Kaelen exhaled.
The moment he did, the air around him fractured—not with sound, not with light, but with possibility.
The forge dissolved.
Stone, soot, breath—gone.
He stood alone in a place that had no ceiling. No floor. No color.
Just haze.
Like standing inside the breath of something enormous and ancient, waiting to see what he'd choose to become.
In front of him, three figures stood in a loose arc.
Each one carried his face.
But none of them was him.
Not yet.
The First: The Jedi
Clad in the formal robes of a high-ranking Knight. Kaelen's posture was perfect—shoulders back, arms folded at the sleeves, head tilted slightly down in quiet humility.
His saber was clipped to his belt, perfectly centered. The blade, when it ignited, hummed in pure blue, no flicker, no flare. The kind of blade is designed for balance.
For control.
The kind of Jedi that the masters told stories about.
Around him: order. Marble pillars. Council seats. Archives stretching into white light.
Respect radiated from the silence.
And yet… this version did not blink.
He did not smile.
He didn't feel.
Kaelen stepped forward, studying the version of himself the Order might one day reward.
Respected.
Obedient.
Dead inside.
The Jedi raised his eyes once—just once—and Kaelen flinched.
Not from darkness.
From absence.
The Second: The Warlord
Dark armor wrapped in matte black beskar, reinforced at the shoulders and forearms. Crimson stripes marked the vambraces—earned through blood. A tattered half-cloak hung from one side. The visor of the helmet rested in his left hand. His right hand gripped a still-ignited lightsaber—long, unstable, violet sparks flickering like a controlled storm.
He stood on a battlefield.
Behind him, Death Watch. Mandalorians in full armor. Some bowed. Some watched. Some trembled.
The was over. He had won.
At what cost?
His gaze was not cruel. Not arrogant.
Just… heavy.
A man who had led because no one else would.
Kaelen walked to the edge of the scorched hill, feeling ash brush against his boots.
The Warlord turned to face him.
Their eyes met.
And Kaelen saw no joy. No glory.
Only the weight of command is born from isolation.
The Third: The Shadow
The last one stood half in the fog. Half-seen. Barefoot. No armor. No saber. No name.
A mask covered his face—plain, unmarked. His robes were threadbare, cut in silence. Every inch of his body moved like breath taken between thoughts.
This Kaelen stood alone.
There was nothing behind him.
No Temple.
No allegiance.
Only darkness… and the suggestion of purpose.
He didn't radiate power.
He radiated intent.
And even that was hard to name.
When Kaelen looked directly at him, he saw flickers in the air—ripples of lives ended, secrets buried, systems broken.
Not in cruelty.
In calculated necessity.
The Shadow tilted his head. Slightly.
As if to say: You understand now.
And Kaelen did.
He stood in the center of the three.
Each one is viable.
Each one is incomplete.
The Jedi who sacrificed self to uphold serenity.
The Warlord who conquered to keep others from being conquered.
The Shadow, who erased himself to preserve everything else.
None of them spoke.
Because none of them were meant to persuade him.
They were meant to be witnessed.
They were truths without balance.
Choices without clarity.
And Kaelen realized, with a chill down his spine—
He could become any of them.
He could become all of them.
Or something else entirely.
The fog trembled.
The figures dimmed.
And the forge returned.
Kaelen opened his eyes.
He was kneeling again. The saber in his hand.
Still quiet.
Still waiting.
His thumb hovered over the ignition switch.
Sweat ran down his back, despite the cool air.
He pressed it.
And—
The forge was silent.
But Kaelen wasn't.
Not on the surface. Not with breath or movement.
But inside?
He cracked.
His thumb rested on the ignition plate.
Just a touch.
Just a breath.
He pressed.
And the saber answered—
Wrong.
A jolt surged through the grip. The crystal flared—too fast, like a scream forced out of silence.
The blade erupted in a burst of fractured violet light. It extended a quarter meter, then stuttered violently, sparking at the emitter, growling like unstable wind—
Then cut off.
No fade.
Just death.
Like the Force itself had pulled the cord.
Kaelen didn't blink.
He didn't even exhale.
He just stood there, arm extended, hand clenched tight around something that refused to belong.
He twisted the hilt. Checked the grip seal. Adjusted the focusing collar.
Pressed again.
The saber crackled to life—
For a heartbeat.
Then sputtered. Flashed. Went dead again.
No sound.
No warning.
No acceptance.
The weight hit him in the chest.
Not like failure.
Worse.
Like disbelief.
The saber wasn't rejecting him.
It wasn't ready to carry what he hadn't finished becoming.
He stepped back.
Two paces.
Held the hilt in front of him.
Stared at it.
It didn't glow.
It didn't hum.
It just waited.
Kaelen's jaw tightened. His lips parted slightly, breath shallow, skin damp with sweat he hadn't noticed forming.
He shook his head once. Just once.
And then he moved.
The saber flew from his hand before the thought fully formed.
It hit the far wall with a sharp metallic crack, bounced, spun in the air, and slammed to the stone floor with a grinding scrape.
The sound rang in the forge like a memory too loud to silence.
He didn't move.
Didn't yell.
Didn't breathe for several seconds.
The saber didn't break.
But it stopped waiting.
Now it just existed.
Across the room.
Away from him.
Like a truth he couldn't carry yet.
Kaelen's shoulders rose with one long inhale.
And slowly fell.
His hand dropped to his side, bloodied from the earlier assembly, streaks of dried red outlining his knuckles.
He stared across the chamber.
At the thing he made.
The thing he wanted to believe could speak for him.
But it didn't.
Because he hadn't found his voice either.
His whisper came not in frustration—
But in exhausted understanding:
"I built a blade.
Not a voice."
The words fell to the stone floor like ash.
And the Force did not respond.
Not with rejection.
Not with approval.
Just with stillness.
Like it, too, was waiting for Kaelen to finish the sentence.
Jedi Temple – Sublevel Forge Chamber
Hours Later
The forge was cold again.
But not dead.
Just… patient.
As if it understood that Kaelen wasn't finished.
And neither was the blade.
He sat against the wall, back pressed to the ancient stone, the warmth from earlier having long faded from the room and his body. The braziers had burned out. The dim amber coals left no light—only shadows that drifted across the curved walls like memories unspoken.
Kaelen hadn't moved in hours.
His legs were folded loosely. His shoulders had slumped. His breathing came slowly, not from exhaustion but from resignation.
His eyes stayed fixed on the saber across the room.
It lay where it had fallen. Bent slightly on the uneven floor. The emitter is facing nothing. The grip scarred from where he'd slammed it into the wall.
Still whole.
Still silent.
Still… his.
But it no longer felt like a weapon.
It felt like a question.
He hadn't thrown it in anger.
Not really.
He'd thrown it because he'd believed, for one flickering moment, that it would ignite through force of will alone.
Because he'd earned it.
Because he'd built it with pain, with memory, with scars and blood.
But sabers didn't care what you survived.
They cared what you believed.
And right now…
He didn't know what that was.
The room wasn't quiet.
It listened.
The kind of silence that came not after a scream, but after a truth you weren't ready to hear.
Kaelen leaned his head back against the wall.
His fingers twitched once on his thigh, then stilled.
He wasn't frustrated anymore.
He wasn't numb.
He was aware.
For the first time since Ilum.
He thought about the cave.
The obsidian shell is cracking open. The crystal rose like it remembered how to breathe. The pulse in his hands. The promise he whispered:
We'll learn from each other.
That promise hadn't been broken.
But it hadn't been honored either.
He'd tried to speak through the blade before he knew what he wanted to say.
That's why it wouldn't light.
That's why it refused.
Because the blade hadn't failed.
He had tried to complete a sentence with a voice that still wavered.
Across the chamber, the hilt caught a shimmer of dying firelight.
Not a glow.
A flicker.
Kaelen rose.
Slowly.
Each step toward the saber was deliberate. Not relevant. Not ashamed.
Just present.
He knelt before it.
Let his knees sink into the dust and ash he'd stirred hours ago.
He didn't reach for the saber.
He just looked at it.
The emitter, still scorched. The pommel, marked with the glyph he'd carved—unfinished. The symbol is not of a warrior or a Jedi.
But of a man still choosing.
Kaelen whispered—not in demand.
Not in apology.
Just in truth.
"A blade means nothing
if it doesn't speak for who you are."
The saber didn't flicker.
Didn't hum.
Didn't judge.
It simply existed.
Waiting.
Kaelen's hand hovered over it for a moment, then fell back to his side.
He turned and sat cross-legged on the floor beside it.
Shoulder to hilt.
Breathe steady.
Eyes closed.
The Force didn't stir.
The air didn't move.
But the crystal pulsed once.
Barely noticeable.
Like a heartbeat.
Or a nod.
Or a whisper that said:
When you're ready… I will be too.