"Change does not speak first. It listens."
The hangar had not changed.
Its walls still bore the faded soot-lines of hundreds of retro-thrust cycles, and the reek of coolant still lingered in the lower vents. Droids whirred past in staggered rhythms, welding sparks traced arcs through the dimmer repair bays, and Jedi shuttles rested in silent rows like waiting thoughts.
Elai walked in quietly, as he always did—barefoot, with his tools held in a plain cloth satchel. His breath matched the hangar's rhythm now. He no longer looked for where to stand. He simply knew. His path curved between cargo lifts and stripped engines, over hydraulic platforms and beneath hover frames, and yet he never interrupted the flow. The hangar had learned to move around him, just as he had learned to move within it.
But today… Something was different.
He paused.
Only for a second.
Nothing had changed in the light. No droid spoke differently. No engines stuttered with new faults. But the Force—that subtle hum always layered beneath the noise of motion and metal—had shifted.
Just slightly.
Like a string drawn tighter.
Not dangerous.
No warning.
But a silence waiting to be filled.
He closed his eyes for a moment and placed a hand on the durasteel railing beside him. Cool. Unmoving. Familiar. But the quiet beneath it no longer felt idle.
A whisper—not sound—threaded through him.
Not here forever.
"Elai!" a voice called from across the bay.
He opened his eyes.
The moment passed like a breath into a breeze.
A red-armored droid clanked toward him, sputtering half-formed binary complaints in a tone laced with dramatic suffering.
"Unit C3-T4 requests clarification—again—why the small Force-sensitive biological system is being allowed near starship power cores unsupervised. Jedi presence or not, this is clearly a temple-wide malfunction."
"I'm not near the cores," Elai said without looking.
The droid slowed. Its eye-facet dimmed slightly.
"...Statement: I do not enjoy being predictable."
"Then stop being."
C3-T4 gave an offended bzzt and wheeled away, its servos muttering.
A nearby Knight watched the interaction from the upper walkway and chuckled beneath their breath. Others had begun to take notice, too. Not just of the droid's theatrical resistance—but of Elai's presence here. A child among metal and motion. No lightsaber at his hip. No braid at his shoulder. And yet—respected.
He moved to the diagnostics bay where yesterday's shuttle still rested, its outer casing peeled back like a ribcage mid-surgery. He didn't need to check the data readout. He remembered the fault lines.
A stabilizer out of sync. A pressure vent tied too close to a looped power intake. Whoever designed it had built for efficiency, not for resonance. Not for harmony.
He reached for the toolkit.
Behind him, somewhere near the docking arches, a mechanic paused mid-step, gaze lingering. They didn't interrupt.
They didn't need to.
Elai already knew the work. And he already knew this would be one of his last repairs here.
Even if he didn't yet know why.
Time passed—not in hours, but in tasks.
Elai adjusted a faulty pressure sequencer on a speeder mount, calibrated a fuel line without reference, and rewired a dorsal sensor harness beneath one of the older Temple shuttles. The motions came without thought now. Muscle memory shaped by repetition and presence. He didn't think of the tools. He used them.
But by midday, the rhythm began to fray.
It started as a single moment—one misplaced wire. A simple calibration that needed to be reversed. Minor. Fixable.
He caught the error before the system finished its cycle. But still… he frowned.
He never missed that step.
Not once in weeks.
He returned to the workbench, double-checked the schematic, and started over—quiet, calm, methodical.
And yet, it happened again.
Not the same error. A new one. This time, a power cell slotted into the wrong coupling housing. Only for a second—but enough to jolt the readout and trigger a safety flash across the holopanel.
The red-armored droid swiveled nearby, grumbling something in clipped binary.
"Observation: Possible decline in repair quality detected. Recommend reduced apprentice access until recalibration complete."
Elai didn't respond.
His hands hovered just above the console—still, precise—but there was hesitation now.
Something inside him ached. Not pain. Not fatigue.
Like tension drawn across a thread too tight.
He stepped back from the worktable and closed his eyes.
The Force was louder now.
Not screaming. Not singing. But present—insistently so. A steady undercurrent that refused to settle. He felt it in the floor plating beneath his feet. In the static charge clinging too long to his fingers. In the timing of the droids, now just slightly out of sync with the tempo he'd known for weeks.
He opened his eyes.
A Knight passed in the upper walkway, speaking quietly with a Padawan. Neither looked at him. But Elai felt it again—pulling. Not toward danger. Not away from safety. But... toward something else.
He tried to focus.
Picked up the hydrospanner.
Slide back under the vent housing.
And for the first time since his first day in the hangar—he hesitated.
Not because he didn't know what to do.
But because he knew he might not be here much longer.
Temple Interior – Upper Levels, Northern Tower – Meditation Observation Deck
The whispers had spread.
From the hangars to the library halls, from the practice rings to the walkways between dormitories. Elai had not moved in hours, seated alone upon Pad Six, the wind stirring through his robes and Seryth's thick white fur. No food. No guidance. Just the stillness of someone who had heard something others could not.
And still, no one interrupted.
He had become a shape in the Force that bent attention around itself. Not hidden. But witness.
By late evening, entire conversations broke off when his name was mentioned.
"He knew something."
"Does Master Kcaj know?"
"He's left the Temple. No one's seen him for days."
"You think this is another one of his trials?"
"Then why does it feel like ours?"
In the training halls, younglings whispered. Knights observed with narrowed eyes. Even the droids moved more carefully near the Temple's outer windows—as if something sacred had pressed close.
But not all were comforted by it.
Council Spire – Private Strategy Chamber
The light in the high room was old—filtered through crystal-paneled skylights, softened by time and silence. It painted the stone walls in diffused gold, tracing no shadows sharply, only blending them.
Yoda stood still within that light, his silhouette folded into the room's quiet geometry. He leaned lightly on his cane, though he did not seem tired—only deeply still, like stone listening for water.
Across the chamber, Mace Windu stood before a comm-terminal that had long since gone quiet. His posture was sharp, arms crossed, jaw tense, eyes locked not on Yoda, but the space just beyond him—where decisions lingered before they become actions.
"A message was received," Windu said.
He didn't need to say it again. They had read it together that morning.
Encrypted. Brief.
Not a mission update. Not a formal return order.
Just a name.
A time.
A pad designation.
And a ship whose design had not graced the Temple's hangars in over a decade.
Master Tyvokka.
The Wookiee. Council member. Strategist. Force-mystic. Known across Republic and Temple both for his calm and his silence—each more unnerving than most shouted warnings.
He had left on his own terms years ago, not in protest, not in exile. In necessity. For a mission only the Council knew.
He was not expected back.
And yet, tonight at dusk, Pad Six had been claimed.
The same platform where the child now sat.
"Elai," Windu said again, voice low. "He should not have known."
"He should not," Yoda agreed softly.
But no denial followed.
Silence filled the space between them—spacious, heavy. The kind of silence that did not need to shout to be heard.
"He is not being trained," Windu said, turning now, voice tightening. "He is becoming something else. Outside the structure. Outside the path."
"Outside expectation," Yoda murmured. "But not outside the Force."
"Structure is what holds the Order together."
"Structure," Yoda said, "or certainty?"
That made Windu pause.
He exhaled through his nose.
"You're defending it."
"No. Listening, I am. As the boy does. For what moves beneath words."
Windu approached the central table, his reflection caught faintly in the polished surface. His voice lowered, as if afraid it would carry beyond the walls.
"He sat on the pad this morning. Didn't move. As if he knew the wind would bring something we hadn't."
Yoda did not move. His eyes were far off.
"He does not guess," Yoda said. "He listens. That is why the Force listens back."
"Then what do you call this? Coincidence?"
"No. Convergence."
That word settled heavily.
Windu turned back toward the window. Dusk approached in slow amber waves. The skyline of Coruscant shimmered at its edge.
"The Temple cannot be guided by instinct," Windu said.
Yoda's voice came quieter still.
"No. But neither can it be ruled by fear of it."
They both turned their eyes to Pad Six.
It remained still.
But the Force near it had begun to stir—like dust before a storm. Like silence before an arrival.
Elsewhere in the Temple – South Tower, Archival Wing
Count Dooku stood beside the tall windows of the Archive's upper-level study wing. He wasn't reading. He wasn't studying. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his gaze pierced through glass and sky.
The rumor had reached him hours ago—delivered not in official dispatch, but in whispers. And that made it more reliable.
Tyvokka had returned.
He hadn't spoken the name aloud yet. But it danced in his mind with sharp edges.
Not because of fear.
But because Dooku respected the weight of silence.
He looked outward as the Temple's shadow stretched across the upper city, a long, cathedral-shaped whisper against the lower towers.
That the boy—Elai—had sensed it? Had placed himself on the platform before the Council even learned of the transmission?
That amused him deeply.
The child was not following rules. He was following resonance.
The Council, for all their power, had grown used to echo chambers. Not ripples. Not waves.
"So," Dooku said aloud to no one in particular, "the deep returns to meet the drift."
He moved away from the window, cloak rustling like a descending banner.
The Padawan he had chosen—he'd nearly finalized it. The path forward was supposed to be clear.
But it never was.
And perhaps, Dooku mused, clarity wasn't the point anymore.
He walked slowly through the upper corridor, ignoring the Masters who passed him with polite nods and wary glances.
They didn't understand it yet.
But the rules were already changing.
Tyvokka did not return for the ceremony. Elai did not move by accident.
And if the Force was stirring now—it wasn't to reaffirm order.
It was to test it.
Dooku smiled faintly.
He had always preferred tests.
The wind across the Temple's highest landing platforms moved with a quiet pulse—slow, even, like a drumbeat beneath stone. Elai sat cross-legged near the edge of the pad, eyes closed, hands resting lightly on his knees. He wasn't meditating in full. He was listening.
Not to the air.
Not to the city.
But to something deeper.
The pattern of arrivals.
The way the Force bent just slightly with each ship that came and went.
And then—it shifted.
A presence descended. Heavy. Grounded. Intentional.
Elai's eyes opened.
Across the landing pad stood a tall, broad figure cloaked in deep Temple blue, the ends of his braid-like cords brushing the stone floor. Master Tyvokka. Jedi Master. Wookiee. Council member. He did not radiate power. He radiated certainty.
He stood in silence for a moment.
Then he walked forward, each footstep a quiet drumbeat in the stone beneath them.
Elai didn't rise. He simply turned to face the new presence.
Tyvokka did not speak.
Not yet.
He lowered himself—slowly—to a crouch a few meters away, the great folds of his robe settling around him like mountain ridges in moonlight.
The boy studied with him.
And the Wookiee studied back.
When Tyvokka finally spoke, his voice was deep, resonant, and calm.
"You are not waiting for someone," he said.
Elai blinked, surprised. "I thought I was."
The corners of Tyvokka's mouth didn't move, but something in the air suggested a smile.
"Then we both heard the same silence."
A beat of wind curled between them.
Ships passed far above. But none landed.
Elai tilted his head.
"You knew I was here?"
"I knew where the force would gather." Tyvokka paused, his eyes sharp but not harsh. "That is where the Force calls first."
They remained still together. No rush. No declaration.
Then Elai asked quietly:
"Did you come for me?"
Tyvokka looked at him directly.
"No. I came because I was expected. But I stayed because I was drawn."
Elai lowered his gaze slightly. Not out of submission. Just reflection.
"I don't know what to choose," he said.
"Then you are not ready to choose."
"I thought I would know when it was time."
Tyvokka leaned forward.
"You will. But not with your mind." He placed a hand against the floor. "The body knows rhythm. The Force knows when. Your task is only to listen long enough not to mistake the whisper for noise."
They sat together for a few more moments, sharing that silence not as strangers, but as listeners of something deeper than either of them.
Then Tyvokka rose—not abruptly, but with purpose.
"I must speak with the Council," he said. "But we will see each other again."
He did not offer a promise.
But Elai felt its truth.
The Wookiee turned and walked back toward the inner Temple arches, his shadow long across the platform.
Elai watched him go.
The silence remained.
But now it echoed.
And for the first time in days…
He felt it beginning to shape something new.
The silence followed him.
Not like a shadow, but like steam rising after rain—unseen, but warm against the skin. Elai descended from the landing platform slowly, his steps light and unhurried. No one stopped him. No one questioned him. Not even the Temple droids.
The halls, once heavy with footfall and voices, seemed to part around him now—like a breath being held.
He moved through one of the older wings, past faded murals and quiet stone corridors, until he reached the cleansing basin near the meditation sanctum. It was a small chamber, rarely used, tucked between larger halls where most initiates gathered.
He liked this one. It never asked anything of him.
Steam curled upward as he poured the warm water over his hands and face. The scent of Temple herbs clung faintly to the stonework—rosh root, silna bark, a hint of tabanna flowers.
He scrubbed beneath his nails, not because there was grime—but because the act itself felt like exhaling.
A kind of farewell.
Fingers clean, skin dried, he folded his outer tunic and set it neatly beside his satchel. Then, barefoot, he padded into the quiet chamber beneath the western alcove, where the skylight broke across the curved wall like dawn across snow.
He sat cross-legged.
He breathed.
And he listened.
Not to ships. Not to the gossip that swirled just outside the outer ring. Not even to the Force in its full shape.
But to the small places in himself he had not looked in weeks.
The pressure from earlier—subtle, constant, tugging—was still there. But it had shifted. It no longer felt like a question looking for an answer.
It felt like a question becoming a path.
He didn't try to name it.
He let it be.
The warmth of the stones beneath him pulsed like a low drumbeat. His breath came steady, matching it—not forced, not guided. Just a presence.
A few memories floated up.
The first time he touched a severed coupling and rewired it before the Knight could blink.
The first time C3-T4 called him a malfunction waiting to happen.
The way the others stared—not with awe, but with confusion—when he asked to learn diagnostics instead of sparring.
He let each thought rise. Then let it drift.
Then came the meeting.
Tyvokka's presence still lingered. Not as a weight—but as shape. The shape of something older than answers. He hadn't come to teach. He hadn't come to decide.
He had come because something had been heard.
That was what echoed now.
The stillness didn't give Elai clarity. Not exactly.
But it gave him room.
Room to feel how the silence no longer pressed against him—it opened ahead of him.
He stayed there, unmoving, even as the Temple moved through afternoon into evening.
Even as faint ripples in the Force spread through the meditation halls like soft bells underwater.
Somewhere behind him, someone approached the room and then paused.
Did not enter.
Did not speak.
And left again.
They understood something was happening.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
But essential.
And Elai remained.
A child, newly six, with soot-stained palms and a soul drawn tight as a wire.
Waiting.
Listening.
Letting the whisper become the first note of a song still taking form.
Jedi Temple — High Council Chamber
Evening light streamed through the tall windows, casting a golden hush over the stone floor. The Council chamber was quiet—but not in meditation. This silence held weight. Expectation. Curiosity.
At the center stood Master Tyvokka, his immense frame still as mountain rock, his eyes lowered in quiet respect. His return had come without preamble, but the Force behind his presence was unmistakable.
Yoda sat in the foremost seat, cane resting across his lap, gaze steady. Beside him, Mace Windu leaned forward, fingers clasped. The other Masters—Depa Billaba, Adi Gallia, Oppo Rancisis, Ki-Adi-Mundi—formed the circle around him, attentive.
Tyvokka spoke only when all were watching.
"There is movement along the Mid Rim," he began. "A ripple growing in trade sectors, beneath neutral alliances. I do not believe it is war yet—but it is being shaped."
Mace tilted his head slightly. "And you intend to observe it personally?"
"I do. Quietly. Not as an enforcer. As a listener."
Yoda's ears twitched. "Much risk, such silence holds."
"Less than delay," Tyvokka said.
There was no challenge in his tone. Only certainty.
"But you came not only to announce departure," Mace said. "What do you ask?"
Tyvokka nodded once. "That I may take the child—Elai—with me."
Even the stone beneath their feet seemed to tense.
Depa Billaba's brow furrowed. "He is not a Padawan."
"No," Tyvokka agreed. "But he is not unready. What he lacks in form, he holds in presence. His instincts are truer than most Jedi twice his age. He listens. And where we go, listening will matter more than rank."
"Can he defend himself?" Windu asked flatly.
"I do not know," Tyvokka said. "Not yet. I ask that he be tested. Not with ceremony. With truth."
"More than trial, you request," Yoda said. "Also companions."
"Yes," Tyvokka said. "There are two others I ask to join me. Jedi Knight Qui-Gon Jinn. And Jedi Knight Plo Koon."
Several heads turned. Even Oppo shifted in his seat.
"Why those two?" Adi Gallia asked.
"Because they see what others dismiss," Tyvokka said. "Because they will question when others obey. And because this path will not welcome tradition."
"Plo Koon is off-world," Mace said.
"He will return before I leave," Tyvokka answered. "He has already sent word."
"And Qui-Gon?" Depa asked.
"He has not yet been called. But he will come."
A silence settled.
Then Yoda tapped his cane lightly. "Test, we will, the child. Observe, we must. For risk, great it is—to bring one untrained beyond the Core."
"I do not fear risk," Tyvokka said. "Only apathy."
The Council exchanged glances. Quiet agreement passed like a breeze between minds long attuned.
"Approved," Yoda said at last.
Tyvokka waited.
Tyvokka bowed his head once.
Approval had been given. Tyvokka had made his request. The child would be tested.
But by whom?
The Council did not move immediately. It wasn't hesitation—it was calculation. Each name that came to mind brought with it a weight. A history. An angle.
Ki-Adi-Mundi spoke first. "It cannot be a Master with ties to him."
Mace Windu nodded. "Nor anyone who's trained him. That rules out Kcaj. And anyone too close to Jinn."
Adi Gallia leaned forward slightly. "It also can't be someone who will turn it into a performance. No grand display. No audience."
"Then we need someone with experience," Depa Billaba said. "Someone who's tested more younglings than half this chamber combined."
Mace turned toward her. "You have a name."
She didn't hesitate. "Fy-Tor-Ana."
There was no reaction at first.
Then Oppo Rancisis gave a low hum. "She's still active?"
Depa nodded. "She never stopped. She just stopped teaching in public spaces. She's taken over private trials. Quiet ones. The tests no one volunteers for."
Adi Gallia gave a short exhale. "She never asks for approval. She doesn't need to. The Trials Office sends students to her when no one else can get a clear read."
"She's difficult," Windu said. "Even for Knights."
"She's accurate," Depa replied. "She never teaches twice the same way. She watches how they move, how they react. She doesn't score based on tradition—she scores based on whether the student responds honestly."
"Hundreds of children," Ki-Adi-Mundi said slowly. "And no complaints filed."
"Because no one questions her results," Depa said. "If she says a child's ready, they are. If she says they're not, they aren't. No one wants to argue with someone who's been right that many times."
Yoda finally opened his eyes. "Trusted, she is. Predictably, she is not."
Tyvokka gave a single nod. "That is why she should be the one."
"She has no bias," Depa continued. "She doesn't get attached. She doesn't bend to Council pressure. She won't try to shape the boy. She'll just see what's already there."
"That's all we need," Windu said. "A clear measure."
Adi Gallia glanced toward Yoda. "She doesn't adjust based on age."
"Nor should she," Mace said. "If the boy isn't ready, she'll say so. But if he is—there'll be no question."
"Send it to her," Tyvokka said. "I'll wait."
"She'll come," Windu replied. "She never turns down a test."
There was no further comment. The matter was decided.
But even as the Council shifted—gathering holos, reviewing exit protocols for Tyvokka's planned departure—a quiet sense of gravity remained in the room.
Not because of Elai.
Because of her.
Fy-Tor-Ana didn't draw attention. She ended arguments before they began. Her tests didn't include speeches, and she didn't offer praise. But Knights remembered their assessments with her. Some remembered bruises. Others remembered the look in her eyes when they finally showed something real.
And in the Temple's long memory, one thing remained consistent:
When Fy-Tor-Ana entered the room, excuses stopped working.
The Council moved forward.
The test had been set.
And for the first time since the meeting began, every Master in the chamber looked toward the center—toward the space Elai had never stood in.
Because by tomorrow, they would finally know what kind of line he could draw… when the blade was in motion.
Jedi Temple — Outer Courtyard, Northern Spire
Evening
The sun had already dropped beneath the skyline of Coruscant when Qui-Gon Jinn returned to the Temple.
He didn't arrive through the main hangars. His transport had docked at a quiet pad reserved for off-schedule returns—usually diplomats, sometimes healers, rarely warriors. He stepped out alone, robes marked by dust from a mid-rim outpost, his travel pack slung casually over one shoulder.
No droids met him. No Padawan waited. His last mission had been short but unwelcome—a Senator's request, a negotiation doomed before it began. He hadn't intended to return before dawn.
But something had pulled him back early.
Not urgency.
Curiosity.
He passed through the outer corridors in silence, his boots making little sound on the polished stone. Most of the Temple had already quieted. Lights dimmed. Younglings in dormitories. Training halls cleared. The night shift droids monitored maintenance cycles.
Yet a pulse ran under it all—a subtle ripple.
He felt it long before he saw the figure ahead.
Tyvokka stood beneath the arch of the north tower garden entrance. He hadn't moved. He didn't need to. His presence was enough to alter the entire energy of the space. He faced the garden but tilted his head slightly as Qui-Gon approached.
"I didn't expect you," Qui-Gon said.
"I did," Tyvokka answered.
That earned a quiet smile.
"You sent for me?"
"I asked for you. I did not summon you."
"Which means I came by choice."
"Yes."
Qui-Gon stepped beside him, folding his arms. They stood for a moment in silence, watching the last light fade between the garden columns.
Tyvokka turned toward him.
"Elai may be leaving the Temple."
Qui-Gon didn't react immediately. His gaze stayed forward.
"Not with a Master," Tyvokka added. "With me."
That drew a slow breath—not surprise, exactly. More like consideration.
"And the Council approved that?"
"They did."
"Because you asked?"
"Yes."
Now Qui-Gon looked at him. "Why?"
"Because he listens."
Qui-Gon gave a dry huff of amusement. "So do archivists."
Tyvokka didn't smile. "Archivists do not walk where the next fracture is forming."
That quieted the air between them.
"And where is that?" Qui-Gon asked.
"Mid Rim. Small worlds. Uneven treaties. A pattern starting to tighten."
Qui-Gon nodded slowly. "And you believe he's needed."
"I believe the Force is watching. And Elai is one of the few who knows how to notice that."
"He's six," Qui-Gon said.
"He's listening," Tyvokka repeated.
Another pause.
Then: "Can he fight?"
Tyvokka's voice lowered slightly. "That is what we are testing."
Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. "Who asked for that?"
"I did."
"And the Council agreed?"
"Only once Fy-Tor-Ana was named."
Qui-Gon gave a faint chuckle. "They didn't choose her lightly."
"No. But she accepted without hesitation."
That seemed to amuse him more than anything else. "I imagine she was bored."
"Or interested."
"And you're not concerned she'll be too hard?"
"If she is, he won't break. He'll learn."
Qui-Gon exhaled through his nose. "You're already speaking as if he's coming."
Tyvokka turned to look at him. "Because I trust what I felt."
"But not what you saw?"
"There wasn't anything to see," Tyvokka said. "Only what's arriving."
That silenced them both again. Above the garden, the wind caught a chime near the spire rim—one of the old alert chains for wind shift. They listened. Not for warning. Just for tone.
Then Qui-Gon turned.
"You said there's trouble coming."
"Yes."
"How close?"
"Not a war. Not yet. But a ripple. Quiet, and spreading. The kind of thing no one takes seriously until it sharpens."
"And Elai will help with that?"
"No," Tyvokka said. "But he will understand it. And when the time comes, that may matter more."
Qui-Gon nodded once, not in agreement—just acknowledgement.
"I'll watch the test," he said.
Tyvokka didn't move. "Don't interfere."
"I never do."
"That's not what Fy-Tor-Ana says."
Now the corner of Qui-Gon's mouth twitched. "She also said I ask too many questions."
"She wasn't wrong."
"I'll be there anyway."
Tyvokka nodded. "Good."
They stood a while longer, both watching the night deepen between the towers.
Jedi Temple — Private Instructor Quarters, South Training Wing
Night Before the Test
Fy-Tor-Ana had never needed introductions.
She wasn't on the holoboards. No rotating schedule of classes bore her name. Yet anyone who'd trained in the Temple's southern wing knew the weight of her instruction. Her tests were not listed—they happened. Quietly. And when they were done, children either emerged sharper… or left with reason to reflect.
She didn't ask for gratitude. She didn't need reverence. What mattered was clarity.
Tonight, the datapad in her hand showed her anything but.
The name on the request: Elai.
The file attached to the name? Barely more than a whisper.
She frowned. Not out of emotion—just irritation at inefficiency. She had evaluated thousands of initiates. She had reviewed training logs that spanned decades. But this… this child had no clan. No formal designation. No training sequence. No saber construction log. Not even a meditative aptitude profile.
Just fragments.
A note from Master Coleman Kcaj. Short. Vague. Something about presence, resonance, potential.
She scoffed quietly. Potential was the word Jedi used when they didn't know what to write.
Below it, three short entries from Knights in the Temple hangars. Observations of the child diagnosing starship faults before senior technicians. Rewiring sensor clusters. Speaking droid binary without formal instruction.
Impressive, perhaps. But it wasn't a combat record.
Fy-Tor-Ana leaned back in her chair, arms folded.
They wanted her to test him. Not for ranking. Not for placement. For something else.
She tapped the edge of the datapad again, flipping through what little remained—no birth world, no genetic lineage, no archives of sparring drills. His Force alignment score hadn't even been input into the central Temple system.
She wasn't frustrated. But she was unimpressed.
"This is what I'm being sent? A child with no record, no weapon, no context?"
Yet she had agreed. Of course she had. Not out of obligation—out of instinct.
She didn't need a file to test a child. She needed the child.
Still, her mind worked through the shape of it.
"He's unranked. That means I don't test him like a Padawan."
She began building the framework in her head.
"Initial motion trial. No blade. Basic posture. Single-step reaction."
If he couldn't track a probe droid's arc, there was no point continuing.
Phase two. Short-range reflex grid. Close-quarters lateral pressure. Progressive variation on speed.
She would watch the eyes. That told her more than bladework ever did.
And then?
One-on-one sequence. No true aggression. No feint traps. But enough to gauge if he can track an intent line.
She could escalate from there, but only if he earned it.
Then her eyes narrowed.
It wouldn't be a clean test.
She knew the Temple too well.
Already, she'd overheard it in the practice corridors. The whispers.
"That's the one who rewired the shuttle in seconds."
"The one who can hear Force patterns before a Knight speaks."
"The one Tyvokka asked for."
That name changed everything.
Tyvokka didn't request it lightly. And when he did, the Temple noticed.
She knew by morning the observation deck would be half-filled. Not just instructors. Not just knights.
Masters.
Spectators.
Worse—critics.
She closed her eyes for a moment, not out of reflection, but calculation.
A test like this should be quiet. Controlled. Just the subject and the task. Instead, it'll become a stage. And when the floor turns to a stage, everyone forgets why they stepped on it.
That irritated her more than anything.
The test wasn't for them. It was for him. And for her.
She didn't care who approved of the outcome. She only cared that the outcome was true.
So she would proceed as planned.
No ceremony. No opening words. No modification for who might be watching.
She would test the child like any other.
And if he failed? Then he'd know why.
And if he didn't?
Then perhaps the Temple would learn something, too.
Jedi Temple – Meditation Alcove, Pre-Dawn
Elai didn't sleep that night.
He didn't meditate, either.
He sat with his back to the stone wall, knees drawn close, Seryth asleep beside him. The Temple hadn't spoken. Neither had the Force. But when the first light touched the alcove walls—
The system did.
[SYSTEM NOTICE – QUEST UNLOCKED]
Title: Measure the Blade, Shape the Path
Type: Singular Trial – Combat Evaluation
Parameters:
– Respond without hesitation
– Apply full instinctual awareness
– Use all learned forms, skills, and internal clarity
– No restraint unless required
Note: Observation is inevitable. Perform for truth, not for audience.
Recommended: Treat this as real.
All resources available. No holding back.
[REWARD – UNDISCLOSED]
(Classified by System: Resonance-based Development Trigger)
Outcome may alter foundational parameters.
Elai blinked.
Not from surprise—but recognition.
This wasn't just a test.
It was a door.
And if he stepped through—
He wouldn't come back the same.