Seriously. Have You TRIED the Cookies?

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 7: Build-A-Blade

I've never thought of a starship as warm before.

That's not what they usually are. They're metal coffins with thrusters attached, rattling through the void while every atom of the galaxy tries to kill you. The only difference between cozy and catastrophic is a few centimeters of durasteel hull and the good graces of a navicomputer.

But after Ilum? After trudging through frozen tunnels, numb fingers clinging to an ice-cold crystal that was supposed to define the rest of my life? Yeah. I'd take a coffin in space over that freezer any day. At least here, when you exhale, your breath doesn't crystallize in front of your face.

The Crucible hummed around us as we filed off the transport and into its belly. Not the shiny white halls of Coruscant, oh no. If you want to make a lightsaber just right, you want to be as close to the stars as possible. Which, of course, means you need a spaceship.

The interior was bronze, almost burnished with age, like the whole ship had been polished by generations of Jedi boots. Pipes ran openly along the walls. Everything thrummed with power, like a heartbeat you could feel in your chest.

Ahsoka gave a soft "whoa" beside me. "It feels… old."

"That's because it is," a voice said — mechanical, crisp, and just a little bit smug.

And there he was.

Professor Huyang.

Imagine if someone had taken the driest old librarian in the Jedi Archives, stretched him out into a spindly metal frame, given him a voicebox that sounded halfway between "lecturing historian" and "polite assassin droid," and then told him to live forever. That was our host.

"Padawans of the Ilum Gathering," Huyang intoned, striding down the central aisle with all the pomp of a king addressing peasants. His photoreceptors swept over us one by one. "For six millennia, I have instructed initiates in the construction of their first lightsaber. From the earliest forgers of Ossus to the High Republic artisans of Starlight Beacon. I have taught warriors who became Knights, Knights who became Masters, and Masters who guided this very Council."

I leaned toward Ahsoka. "Six thousand years, huh? He doesn't look a day over five thousand, nine hundred."

Her montrals twitched as she smothered a laugh.

Unfortunately, the droid's audio receptors were perfect.

His glowing eyes flicked toward me, utterly unimpressed. "I have been called far worse things by Padawans who later became Council members. But your wit, young Kryze, is disappointingly pedestrian."

Ouch. Shot down by a robot grandpa.

"Guess I'll have to up my game," I muttered.

"Please do," he said, and kept walking.

Okay. New goal: get the droid to laugh. Or, failing that, at least short-circuit from exasperation.

We followed him deeper into the ship, our footsteps echoing in time with the Crucible's pulse. I noticed Maris Brood hanging back, her crystal clutched in both hands. She hadn't said much since Ilum—not that she ever said much compared to me or Ahsoka—but she was watching everything. The ship, the droid, even the way the walls seemed to vibrate like they remembered every saber ever built inside them.

Huyang must've noticed too, because when she suddenly blurted, "You've taught every saber-builder for six thousand years?" his tone actually warmed.

"Indeed, youngling. Every Jedi who has constructed a lightsaber since the days of the Old Republic has passed through my hands. Their triumphs, their mistakes, their innovations—I remember them all. And so shall you benefit from their legacy."

Maris's eyes widened. She ducked her head, embarrassed, but I caught the ghost of a smile.

Well, good for her. Someone needed to balance my constant need to mouth off.

Huyang stopped us in a wide chamber where the walls were lined with benches, toolkits, and strange contraptions that looked equal parts blacksmith forge and starship engine room.

"This," he declared, "is where the true test begins. You each carry a kyber crystal, a piece of the Force itself, attuned to your essence. It is not merely a power source. It is your partner. Your reflection. Your future."

He clasped his long hands behind his back.

"But first… history."

Oh no.

"Long before the Jedi Order as you know it, the earliest Force users crafted blades of plasma bound within archaic cells, cumbersome and unstable. The protosabers of Tython, ignited with external packs and heavy cords—"

I leaned to Ahsoka again. "Translation: flashlight with a car battery."

"—eventually evolved into the refined weapon you shall soon create. The lightsaber. Both weapon and tool, defender and destroyer, symbol and reality. And it is you who shall carry its legacy forward."

I raised a hand. "Do we get a quiz after this?"

Without missing a beat, Huyang said, "Yes."

The entire class groaned. Even Ahsoka shot me a glare that said Look what you did.

I shrugged. "Hey, knowledge is power."

"Spoken like someone who has very little of either," Huyang said dryly.

…Okay, maybe I liked this droid.

Still, as he moved on to describing the ritual of "bonding with the crystal," I let my mind wander. My hand brushed the small pouch at my belt where my kyber rested. Green, faintly pulsing, as though alive. Not the black I'd secretly been hoping for—I mean, come on, "Ben Kryze, Wielder of the Darkblade" had a nice ring to it—but green was fine. Green was my favorite color anyway.

Besides, the Darksaber was still out there, and one day it would be mine.

But for now? I'd build my own. A Ben Kryze Original.

Huyang's voice droned on about focusing the mind, steady hands, the dance of crystal and emitter. I barely caught half of it, too distracted by the way the ship seemed to buzz with history. Ahsoka was practically glowing, soaking up every word like it was gospel. Maris still held her crystal tight, as though she was afraid to let it go.

And me?

I grinned, because this was it. The moment I'd been waiting for since the Temple crèche. Not the lectures, not the rules, not the thousand "Attachment is forbidden" speeches.

A lightsaber.

My lightsaber.

And nothing — not the Council, not the Sith, not even this snippy six-thousand-year-old droid — was going to keep me from making it my own.

...​

The workroom aboard The Crucible was silent but for the soft groan of ancient durasteel and the pulse of the hyperdrive beyond the bulkheads. Huyang preferred that silence. It carried weight. A hush sharpened focus far more than chatter, and lightsabers deserved nothing less than reverence.

The initiates stood in a line before him, each clutching the crystal they had wrested from Ilum's heart. The stones were still raw with the echo of the trials, humming faintly in their hands. To the younglings, they were prizes. To Huyang, they were promises.

He reached out his spindly hands, servos whirring with familiar precision, and gestured for the first crystal.

Ahsoka Tano stepped forward, her montrals tilted slightly in that mixture of confidence and nerves he had seen countless times before. She placed her shards in his palm. Huyang rotated them delicately beneath the glow of the workroom's lamp, his photoreceptors adjusting their spectrum until the crystal's inner light bloomed.

"Disciplined," Huyang intoned, his vocoder lending the word a metallic gravity. "Balanced. This crystal, though split, resonates evenly across its lattice. It belongs to a mind that seeks harmony, even when pressed."

Ahsoka exhaled, shoulders easing. Pride radiated off her in the way of all initiates—subtle to them, glaring to him. Huyang had learned not to chastise such pride. The crystal would do it in its own time.

He set her shard gently into a resting cradle. "It will serve you well, Padawan Tano. If you serve it as faithfully."

The Togruta bowed her head in respect before retreating.

Next, Maris Brood. She hesitated—he noted the flicker of her gaze toward the floor, then toward her peers. At last she stepped forward, small hands tight around her prize.

Huyang extended his palm again. "Courage, young one. No crystal bites."

She offered it, and he felt the tremor of her grip. The shard settled against his plating, and immediately his sensors registered the fluctuation. The crystal's resonance did not hum in one clear tone—it stuttered, thrumming irregularly like a heartbeat caught between panic and defiance.

"Ah," Huyang murmured, rotating it gently. "Potential, certainly. Strong, even. But turbulence clouds its lattice. Unresolved energies will challenge its master. Handle with care."

Maris's head bowed, respectfully. Her cheeks colored faintly, shame tightening her lips.

Huyang did not soften the truth, but he adjusted its shape. "Remember, young one—many great Jedi began with crystals far more volatile than this. The blade you forge will temper it, as discipline tempers the self."

She looked up at that, only slightly, but enough. She placed her hands back at her sides and stepped away.

Then came the last.

Ben Kryze swaggered forward with all the subtlety of a rancor in a meditation chamber, crystal pinched between his fingers as though it were a toy rather than the heart of a Jedi's weapon.

"Careful," Huyang said, extending his hand.

"I am being careful," the boy muttered, though he tossed the shard onto Huyang's palm rather than placing it.

The droid adjusted his grip instantly, catching the crystal without a scratch. His photoreceptors focused, scanning the lattice. The hum reached him first—lower than most, uneven, yet strangely… resonant.

He turned it, measured its harmonics, and then leaned closer, adjusting a spectral filter. Inside, the lattice was fractured, yes, but not broken. Two distinct frequency peaks overlapped within its core, creating a dual harmonic resonance that should not, by any measure of crystal growth, exist.

Fascinating.

"Unstable," Huyang finally declared. He let the word hang, watching the boy's reaction.

Ben raised an eyebrow. "Unstable? Like… gonna explode unstable, or moody-teenager unstable?"

The droid did not dignify that with a reply. "Not defective," he continued instead. "Rarer still—this shard possesses a dual harmonic resonance. Few crystals in six millennia of my instruction have done so. Intriguing."

Ben folded his arms. "Translation, please? Because all I'm hearing is that my rock is temperamental, apparently."

Huyang turned his head slowly until both photoreceptors fixed on the boy. "Your comprehension lacks refinement. Still, perhaps… not entirely inaccurate."

Ben smirked as if he'd won something.

Huyang placed the crystal into its cradle with greater care than he had the others. "It will not build itself, Initiate Kryze. When you attempt to channel its energy, you may find it… resistant. Remember this: the bond you form with it will shape your blade—and your path—far more than your jesting."

"Noted," Ben said breezily, though Huyang detected the faint tightening of his jaw.

The droid folded his hands behind his back, stepping away from the row of crystals. Three stones rested now upon the bronze worktable, each vibrating with their own tenor of possibility.

Six millennia, and yet each time felt new. Each youngling believed themselves at the center of the galaxy, and perhaps, in their way, they were—for a single lightsaber at a time.

"Prepare yourselves," Huyang said, voice carrying like a bell through the chamber. "The act of assembly is not a task of hands alone. It is meditation, commitment, and revelation. Fail to respect the process, and the process will fail you."

...​

If the Crucible was old and humming with the ghosts of a thousand Padawans, the Forge was practically singing with them. The room glowed, literally, with a low plasma light that seemed to radiate from the walls themselves. Ancient machinery churned in the background—massive contraptions that looked like they'd been built when the galaxy was still figuring out how to hammer two bits of metal together without blowing themselves up.

The heat wasn't stifling, exactly, but it had a weight to it. Like walking into a story older than you were meant to touch.

All right, Kryze. This is it. My very own lightsaber. A weapon, an heirloom, a calling card. A declaration that I'd arrived. The moment the Force, history, destiny, and my own smug sense of style all came together in one humming blade.

And I had absolutely no idea what it was supposed to look like.

Everyone else seemed to, though.

Ahsoka sat at her workstation like she'd been born in one of these seats. She laid her pieces out with a surgeon's precision, every component perfectly aligned. When she slotted the emitter matrix into the casing, her hands didn't even shake. I don't think her heartbeat even sped up.

Maris, though… her hands were trembling so hard she nearly dropped her focusing lens. She hunched over, shoulders curled in, as though the wrong twist of a screw would set the entire Forge to self-destruct. Her lips moved soundlessly—probably reciting Huyang's instructions word-for-word like some kind of spell.

And me?

I was staring at my pile of parts like they were going to assemble themselves if I glared hard enough. I've seen Starkiller do it. There's precedent.

… yeah, that's not happening. Okay, okay! I'll build it. Just… where to start? The hilt's design?

"Classic," I muttered under my breath. "That's the way to go, right? One-handed, clean lines, Jedi-chic. Very I'll slice you in half, but politely."

But then… I mean, Dooku had a curved handle. Count Swirlycape himself. Elegant. Practical. I think? It was pretty good at dueling. I could try that.

Or I could do Ezra Bridger's weird blaster-saber combo. Very hipster, very off-brand Jedi, very what do you mean I can't shoot AND slice you at the same time?

Crossguard? No. Never. Stupidest design I'd ever seen. The guard wouldn't guard anything. A lightsaber would shear through it in half a second unless you made the whole thing out of Beskar. And if you had Beskar, why waste it on the guard? Just make the whole saber out of it!

Or a knife at least!

Wasteful.

Meanwhile, Ahsoka had already soldered her first connection. She looked so serene she could've been meditating while building.

Maris's hand slipped and her focusing crystal rolled dangerously close to the edge of her bench. She lunged after it, almost spilling half her parts across the floor.

I sighed. Fine. For once in my chaotic little life, I wasn't going to mock someone.

"You know," I said loud enough for Maris to hear, "if you drop the lens again, the Forge spirit is legally required to appear and curse you with eternal flat hair." Well… maybe a little mocking.

Her head jerked up, startled. Then, to my relief, a tiny, reluctant laugh escaped her. Just enough to steady her hands again.

Score one for Ben Kryze, morale officer.

I turned back to my parts. Still no clue. Still no design.

"Instructions," I told myself, "are more like… guidelines than actual rules."

I grabbed the power cell, shoved it into the casing. A snug fit, maybe too snug. The wires didn't line up properly, so I twisted them until they did. The emitter matrix didn't quite want to click, so I encouraged it with the handle of a screwdriver.

The crystal chamber? Well, the little Force-rock was supposed to slide neatly into the slot. Instead, it buzzed angrily like it was offended at my lack of craftsmanship.

"Don't look at me like that," I told it. "You're just a rock that glows. You don't get a vote."

It continued glowing with intense judgment.

Sparks flew when I tried to connect the emitter to the power cell. Real, honest-to-Force sparks that hissed and spat across the bench. I yanked my hands back a half second before the whole assembly discharged with a sound like an angry gundark.

A searing beam of raw plasma cut clean through the air and scorched the corner of my workbench.

"Whoa!" I yelped, jerking back.

Before the half-formed saber could turn me into Ben à la Charcoal, a flickering blue shield shimmered between me and my would-be suicide project.

Huyang didn't even look up from where he was supervising another initiate across the room. His hand twitched once, activating the shield with the grace of someone who'd saved a thousand clumsy Padawans before breakfast.

He walked over with the patience of an academic who'd seen everything. Which, to be fair, he had.

"Improvised assembly," he said, peering down at my crackling hilt. "Imprecise. Rushed. And yet…" He tilted his bronze head to the side, photoreceptors gleaming. "…interesting."

"Again? Really?" I asked, waving away the sparks. "I get we have a whole cryptic mythicism thing to live up to, but come on. All I'm hearing is my rock is moody, my handle's a death trap, and I'm never going to survive to Padawan. Which, okay, fair. But not helpful!"

"Very well. Then allow me to say this," Huyang said, "your saber reflects your path. Beware too much shadow if you walk the light. Beware too much light if you court shadow."

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the galaxy.

I blinked at him. "Right. Of course. Why say something useful, like fix the power cell before you explode, when you can drop a cryptic fortune-cookie riddle instead?"

Huyang didn't even twitch. "Padawans have called my wisdom many things. None have survived long if they ignored it."

"Wow," I said. "That sounded suspiciously like a threat."

"An observation," he corrected. Then he returned to his patrol of the forges, cloak swishing behind him like he was some kind of Jedi librarian Batman.

He doesn't even need that cloak. He's a droid! Droids don't get cold. Do they? I wonder if their circuits freeze—focus, Ben!

I glared down at my half-built saber. It glared back. Or maybe that was just the glow of my crystal, pulsing faintly with an almost alive rhythm.

Great. My first lightsaber, and it already hated me.

"Sorry." I apologized to my crystal, feeling ridiculous for apologizing. But it needed to be said.

It said nothing. Because it was a rock.

"I know I'm being difficult, I just…" I sighed. "I want to do this right. Work with me here. Please?"

It continued to say nothing. But, since it's not trying to blind me anymore, I think I could take its silence as acceptance.

"Okay. Let's try again… with the instructions."

...​

The chamber seemed to hold its breath.

All around her, the initiates stood in small, uneven lines, sabers newly forged and cradled in careful hands. The air still smelled of heated metal and plasma, of oil and ancient machinery cooling down after long use. A dozen crystals pulsed faintly, waiting.

Then Huyang's voice cut through the silence, even but carrying weight:

"Now," he said. "Ignite them."

One by one, they obeyed.

The first snap-hiss cracked like thunder in the stillness, followed by the low, steady hum of a newborn blade. Then another joined it—higher-pitched, almost singing. Soon the chamber was alive with sound, each saber a different voice in a strange and luminous choir.

Maris's breath caught. She had heard lightsabers before, of course. But this—this was different. This wasn't masters dueling in the Temple sparring halls. This was them. The children she studied with, trained beside, argued with in the dormitories. The sound filled her chest like a heartbeat, all uneven and clashing and somehow harmonious.

Ahsoka stepped forward, and when her blade came alive, Maris had to squint. The green shone so bright it almost dazzled, casting a clean, steady glow over the walls. Its hum was perfectly balanced—no flicker, no warble. Strong, confident.

Huyang inclined his head, just barely, but Maris caught it. Approval.

Of course Ahsoka's would be perfect. Ahsoka always followed instructions, always listened. Maris felt a sudden, irrational tightness in her throat.

Then it was her turn.

Her thumb trembled over the ignition switch. She pressed it down. For one terrible second, nothing happened. Then—crack! A jagged line of blue light shot out, unstable, sputtering like a flame in wind. Maris's heart sank.

It's wrong. It's all wrong, I messed it up—

But then the blade steadied. The hum grew firm. Its glow smoothed into a proper line of light, quivering only faintly at the edges.

Maris exhaled, realizing she had been holding her breath the entire time.

Ahsoka smiled at her, and Maris tried to smile back. But she couldn't ignore the unease prickling in her stomach. The others' sabers had sung with confidence. Hers… hers had stuttered.

No matter, she thought quickly. It's stable now. It works. That's what matters.

But her hands still shook faintly as she lowered the weapon.

Then Ben stepped forward.

Maris braced herself. He would either succeed spectacularly or blow something up. Possibly both.

The blade ignited with a sound unlike any other in the chamber.

It didn't sing or hum. It growled. A low-pitched, guttural sound, like the snarl of some sleeping beast disturbed from its rest. The green glow filled the chamber, steady and solid, yet carrying a weight that felt older, heavier, than the other sabers. Beautiful, yes—but unsettling, too, as though the color was the only familiar thing about it.

The room reacted instantly. A few initiates leaned forward, curious. Others recoiled, unsettled.

Maris's pulse jumped. She didn't know why it scared her, only that it did.

Even Huyang seemed… moved. His glowing eyes narrowed slightly as he tilted his head.

"In six millennia of training Jedi younglings," the droid said, "I have never heard one quite like that. Make of it what you will."

Ben, naturally, just grinned. "So what you're saying is, I'm special. Finally, some recognition."

Maris rolled her eyes. Typical.

Before anyone could blink, Ahsoka twirled her blade up into a ready stance. "Show-off."

Ben's grin widened. "Takes one to know one."

The two blades clashed together with a crash of sparks. The other initiates gasped. Huyang's photoreceptors flared red.

"If you lose a limb before you even leave this chamber," he barked, "I am not reattaching it!"

Neither of them seemed to hear. Ahsoka's strikes were quick, testing, playful. Ben blocked sloppily at first, then swung back harder, forcing her to skip backward, laughing. Their blades hummed and clashed, adding wild new notes to the chamber's song.

Maris stood at the edge, saber idle in her hands.

She told herself she didn't want to join. That it was better this way. That the Code said attachment was forbidden, and it was good she didn't share the same easy… closeness those two had. It wasn't jealousy. Of course not.

She wasn't lonely.

She had the Force. And the Force was all she needed.

Then Ben glanced over his shoulder mid-swing, grin bright and wicked. "Maris, you getting in on this?! Come on, I need some backup here! Ahsoka actually exercises for fun!"

Her hearts jolted.

"It's good for your heart, Ben!" Ahsoka retorted. Human problems, in Maris's opinion. Personally, she had two hearts, and she couldn't sit still for anything other than meditation. Adrenalin was too… addictive.

"Then why does it make me feel so miserable?!" Ben argued back. "Maris! Hurry! Save me!"

A dozen thoughts fought in her head at once—It isn't proper. It's dangerous. I don't belong in that kind of bond. Attachments are forbidden. Forbidden. Forbidden.

But her hand was already tightening on the hilt. Her thumb pressed the switch.

The blue blade sprang to life again, flickering at the edges—but steady enough.

"Yes, please," she breathed, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

And she stepped forward.

...​

The Crucible had gone quiet for the night. You'd think a ship that old would creak or groan or rattle when left to itself, but it didn't. It just… breathed. At least, that's what it sounded like to me as I lay on my bunk, staring at the ceiling. A low hum in the walls, steady as a heartbeat.

My lightsaber sat on the blanket beside me. My lightsaber. Mine.

It hadn't left my sight since we'd left the Forge. I'd carried it through supper, kept it propped against the table leg like it might leap up and scurry off if I wasn't watching. Ahsoka teased me about it, of course—"Careful, Ben, you're going to wear the paint off with all that staring"—but I didn't care. Let her laugh. Let them all laugh. They didn't understand.

Now, with the others asleep and no Master Huyang hovering like a judgmental hawk, I picked it up. The hilt was cool in my palm, heavier than it had any right to be. Not just metal and wire anymore. Something deeper thrummed inside, faint but alive. I thumbed the activator.

Snap-hiss.

Emerald light spilled across the walls. Shadows stretched away like they were running from it. The blade growled—low, steady, almost pleased.

"Now you're mine," I whispered, grinning at the ceiling. "My precious."

The words slipped out before I could stop them. I froze, then snorted. Oh Force, really? That's what I came up with? My precious? Somewhere out in the galaxy, some ancient, hunched gremlin was probably suing me for plagiarism.

Still, the words felt… right. Wrong, but right. A private little joke between me and the saber. My saber.

I rose, letting it hum as I gave it a few practice swings. Slow at first, just feeling the weight, then faster, sharper, until the air itself whistled. It wasn't just balance or craftsmanship—I could feel it responding. Not like a tool, but like a partner. Every shift of my wrist, every adjustment of my stance, the crystal sang back to me.

It was alive.

No, more than alive. Aware.

For a heartbeat, I felt its focus brush mine—like being stared at through a keyhole. Not hostile, not friendly. Just… watching. Waiting.

A chill ran down my spine. Huyang's words replayed, dry and too-late: In six millennia, I have never heard one quite like that. Make of it what you will.

I deactivated the blade, the growl dying with a hiss. The cabin plunged into darkness. Only the afterimage of green burned in my vision.

"Don't start spooking yourself," I muttered, dropping onto my bunk again. "It's just a crystal. Just a weapon. Nothing more."

I tried to believe that.

But as I lay back, the hilt resting on my chest like a heartbeat that wasn't mine, I couldn't quite shake the thought that maybe—just maybe—it had chosen me as much as I had chosen it.

And that was fine. Perfectly fine. Absolutely fine. The wand may choose the wizard—even the space wizard—but it was the wizard who was in control.

I was in control.

…wasn't I?

...​

Short answer? Yes.

But, is it something that's going to keep him awake for the rest of the night until he realizes that? Also yes.

By the way, the growl wasn't literal, but have you ever noticed that some lightsaber make different sounds than others? It's the subtle difference of a hum. Even when just igniting it. Like, Sith lightsabers have this distinct hiss, and the Darksaber has this kind of melodical sound. It's an interesting quirk. I thought Ben's could operate on the same way.

Symbolism, baby!

Stay tuned for tomorrow's chapter. Or, screw that. Go check out my Patreon, and read ahead, link below:

My Patreon

 

[Stelarwand030]

I really enjoy this story.

 

[HoxShorelight]

The last Lightsaber that make a growl like sound when ignite i can remember belong to Savage Opress
What does Ben's Lightsaber looks like anyway ?

 

[lancelot]

I leaned to Ahsoka again. "Translation: flashlight with a car battery."

Click to shrink...

"What the fuck is a car?"

 

[Elmoslayer5]

By the way, the growl wasn't literal, but have you ever noticed that some lightsaber make different sounds than others? It's the subtle difference of a hum. Even when just igniting it. Like, Sith lightsabers have this distinct hiss, and the Darksaber has this kind of melodical sound. It's an interesting quirk. I thought Ben's could operate on the same way.

Click to shrink...

Mauls saber* in the new show is probably the closest to the growling that i can think of, was kinda hoping it'd look like fire also like mauls saber.

Good chapter made me laugh

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 8: Lessons in Hitting Things (With Lightsabers)

The training hall smelled faintly of metal polish and ozone, the scent that clung to every surface in the Jedi Temple. The floor gleamed in the morning light that spilled through tall windows, perfectly swept and perfectly ready to be scuffed up by a dozen younglings about to learn how to hit each other with glowing sticks.

Master Tyyvak stood at the front, her towering Wookiee frame casting a long shadow across the mats. Her bowcaster was slung across her back as always, though Ahsoka had never seen her fire it. She didn't need to—her sheer presence was enough to make even the rowdiest younglings shut up. Well, most of them.

On another note, why did she have a bowcaster and not a lightsaber? She's a Jedi. That's kind of their thing. Unless… the chamber of the bowcaster is the hilt of the lightsaber! That's so cool! And… probably really difficult to assemble, actually. Ahsoka's much happier with her twin blades, thank you very much.

"We begin today," Tyyvak rumbled in Shyriiwook, her growl warm as always. "Your first supervised sparring matches."

A ripple of sound passed through the gathered class—gasps, nervous whispers, a few muffled laughs. Ahsoka's Montrals twitched with a mix of excitement and nerves. Finally. This was it. The real test. Not katas in neat little rows, not balance drills, not moving stones around with the Force until her head hurt. This was a chance to prove herself. To show she wasn't just some scrappy kid from Shili that the Jedi had scooped up. She was ready. She could do this. She had to.

Beside her, Ben practically vibrated with anticipation, rocking on the balls of his feet as if the mats themselves were too slow for him. He wore a grin so wide Ahsoka was sure it had to hurt.

"Ohhh, here we go," he whispered, too loudly. "The moment of destiny. The showdown of legends. The grand melee of—"

"Quiet," Ahsoka hissed at him, though her own lips twitched. He was impossible sometimes.

Ben mimed zipping his lips. That lasted about three seconds before he leaned back toward her, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Remember, children," he muttered in a singsong imitation of Huyang's precise accent, "don't point the glowy end at your face. Training sabers may be non-lethal, but they are still very sting-y."

A couple of younglings nearby snorted. Even Ahsoka bit back a laugh, though she elbowed him in the ribs for good measure.

Across the line, Maris Brood stood with her arms folded, the edge of her dark Padawan tunic brushing her boots. She didn't laugh. She didn't even roll her eyes. She just fixed Ben with a look so flat and unimpressed it could have been carved from stone. The faintest tilt of her chin said everything: You're going to die, clown.

Ahsoka noticed—because she always noticed—that Maris had grown more comfortable around them lately. She spoke more, sat closer during lessons, even teased in her own quiet, sharp-edged way. But apparently, with Maris, being mean was affection. Ahsoka couldn't help but smile at the thought.

Master Tyyvak raised one massive paw, and silence fell again.

"You will spar with your new lightsabers. On their training setting," She continued. "These settings are mandatory, and are designed to teach without maiming. But pain will still teach. You may not lose a limb, but each strike landed will hurt. Do not fear it. Learn from it."

Her growl deepened, echoing through the chamber.

"Control is the heart of a Jedi. Without control, you are nothing more than a danger to yourself and others."

Ahsoka swallowed. Her palms itched with the need to prove she had that control. That she was ready.

Ben, meanwhile, whispered under his breath like it was a game: "Control, control, you must learn control…" He stopped just short of humming a dramatic score.

Ahsoka smacked his arm again.

Maris smirked this time. Just barely.

Master Tyyyvak walked each initiate through the process of using their training setting, silver hilts gleaming as she passed down the line. Each student's face lit with awe—or in Ben's case, smug delight—as their weapons ignited.

Ahsoka's heart hammered in her chest when her saber hit her palm, cool and solid. She thumbed the activator, and a blade of shimmering green burst to life with a snap-hiss. It buzzed faintly, humming with energy, vibrating all the way down to her bones. Her breath caught.

She wasn't just imagining it anymore. This wasn't practice with a stick. This was real.

Ben spun his lightsaber like a baton, nearly clipping one of their classmates before he caught it, waggled his eyebrows, and gave an exaggerated bow.

Maris sighed. "You are going to die."

...​

Master Tyyvak's voice carried across the training floor, calm as ever, but I swear I felt a chill.

"Today," she announced, "you'll be sparring not only with one another, but also with some of the Temple's Padawans. They've generously volunteered their time."

The room buzzed instantly. Younglings shifted on their feet, some excited, some pale. Me? I was half thrilled, half terrified. Mostly thrilled, because if there was one thing better than swinging a lightsaber around, it was swinging one at someone who knew what they were doing.

Probably.

Names were called, pairs arranged. Then my ears caught two I actually recognized.

Aayla Secura—tall, blue, ridiculously graceful—was assigned to Ahsoka. I heard my friend's tiny gasp, and saw her eyes go wide as if she'd just been told she'd spar against a holo-drama star. Honestly, same.

You know, if the Jedi really want to enforce this whole unspoken rule of celibacy thing, they may want to consider less… revealing outfits. Slave Leia had more modesty.

"Padawan Skywalker, you'll spar against Initiate Kryze."

The sparring floor was suddenly a lot less fun.

Oh boy.

The crowd of younglings erupted in little gasps and whispers, like someone had just announced free cafeteria nerf nuggets. Even Ahsoka tilted her head, eyes going wide. Skywalker. The legendary hotshot. The prodigy. The Jedi Temple's equivalent of the kid who was so good at gym class dodgeball you started pretending you had asthma to sit out.

I tried to play it cool. "So," I said, twirling the training saber hilt between my palms, "this is what it feels like to be offered up as a sacrifice."

Anakin, all cocky grin and easy swagger, stepped into the ring. He looked like he belonged there—broad shoulders, confident smirk, that whole I'm-already-the-main-character aura. He gave me a nod that was somehow both friendly and patronizing.

"Don't worry, kid," he said. "I'll go easy on you."

"Great," I shot back. "I'll go hard on you."

A ripple of laughter from the other younglings. Even Tyyvak's mouth twitched, though he quickly smoothed it back into stern Jedi neutrality.

We took our positions. Anakin dropped smoothly into Form V's classic Djem So stance—blade angled up, posture aggressive but balanced. I, meanwhile, copied something I'd read about Vaapad. Which is to say, I held the saber in a way that looked dramatic and tried not to trip on my own feet.

If Mace Windu could beat Palpatine with this, then surely I could beat a prequel-era Anakin. Right? Right.

Focus. Calm. Rely on your training. All good advice. All useless against Anakin Skywalker. He was the Chosen One, the Hero With No Fear. And given his dad was the Force, a total nepo baby… yes, I see the irony in me saying this.

In my defense, my mom still refuses to let me refer to herself as anything other than Auntie Satine. Plus she handed me off to the Jedi. That's got to be the Star Wars equivalent of leaving your kid on an orphanage's doorstep. I have none of the perks of being a nepo baby.

Anakin has all of them.

He's skilled with a lightsaber. He's a Goliath in the Force. Totally OP. But I had one advantage. Back on Earth, I had relentlessly devoured the Star Wars franchise. I'd seen Anakin at his best. At his worst. At his most vulnerable. I knew his one weakness.

"Pocket sand!"

I hurled the handful from my robes straight at his face.

Don't ask me where I got it. You have no idea how hard it is to find sand on Coruscant. It's worse than looking for water on Tatooine. Let's just say a few decorative planter boxes in the Temple gardens are now mysteriously emptier.

"Ah! It's so coarse, rough, and irritating!" Anakin recoiled, actually whining, blinking furiously as he rubbed at his eyes. The gasps from the crèche became shrieks of laughter. Even Aayla Secura, across the room, cracked a grin.

For a glorious instant, I was a god among children.

I pressed the advantage, charging forward with the kind of reckless overconfidence that makes Jedi Masters sigh deeply into their hands. My blade smacked against Anakin's, forcing him back a step.

"Fear me, Skywalker," I declared, grinning wide. "I am the Sandman."

The other younglings howled. Maris Brood actually snorted.

For two whole seconds, I was winning. Two. Whole. Seconds.

Then Anakin adapted.

With blinding speed, he pivoted, locked my blade, and shoved me backward. My arms jolted like I'd tried to block a landspeeder with a broomstick. He wasn't smiling anymore—now his expression was half amusement, half… curiosity. Like he'd just discovered a new bug to dissect.

"Unorthodox," he said, voice low. "But sloppy."

Uh oh.

What followed was less a duel and more a demonstration. Anakin flowed into Djem So with terrifying efficiency. Every swing hammered down like a meteor. Every parry jolted my arms numb. I tried a fancy Vaapad spin—he batted it aside like I was waving glowsticks at a concert.

The smugness drained right out of me. This wasn't a duel. This was survival.

I backpedaled furiously, grasping for new tricks. Fake stumble. Switch hands. Shout "Look, it's Senator Amidala!" to distract him. Nothing worked. He cut through my improvisations like they were training remotes.

At one point he disarmed me entirely, sending my saber clattering across the floor. Before I could panic, he kicked it back toward me. "Pick it up," he said. Almost kindly.

Which somehow felt worse.

I scrambled, ignited it again, and tried one last gambit—rolling low, attempting a clumsy leg sweep. He hopped over it easily, tapped my back with his blade, and sent me sprawling face-first into the mat.

The sparring ring erupted in cheers and groans.

Anakin deactivated his saber, extending a hand to help me up. "Not bad," he said, voice tinged with genuine respect. "You've got guts. And… creativity." His eyes narrowed just slightly, as if cataloging me. "But guts and pocket sand won't get you far."

I groaned, accepting his hand, my pride limping behind me. "So what you're saying is… Vaapad plus sand equals still losing?"

"Exactly." He grinned now, flashing the charm that would one day drive half the galaxy insane. "But don't stop trying crazy things. Sometimes, crazy works."

Master Tyyvak called the match. The younglings applauded. Ahsoka caught my eye from across the floor, giving me a mix of encouragement and what-were-you-thinking.

Answer: I wasn't. But it was totally worth it.

Because for two glorious seconds… Anakin Skywalker was afraid of sand.

...​

The clatter of training sabers echoed across the sparring chamber, accompanied by the gasps and cheers of younglings too enthralled to remember they were supposed to be quiet. Obi-Wan Kenobi remained standing at the back of the hall, hands folded neatly within his sleeves, face composed in the dignified stillness that came with long practice.

In truth, his jaw was tight enough to ache.

Ben had just hit the floor for the third time. Sand sprayed across the mat like so much glittering evidence of desperation, and though the boy scrambled gamely to his feet each time, the outcome was never in doubt. Anakin was too strong, too fast, too confident. A storm contained within the shape of a teenager.

Perhaps Obi-Wan trained him too well.

But Ben—his Ben—was stubbornly trying to fight the storm with a bucket and a grin.

"Interesting boy you've got there."

Obi-Wan didn't need to glance aside to recognize the smooth, amused drawl. Quinlan Vos leaned against the nearest column, arms folded, dark eyes alight with mischief as he watched his own Padawan whirl through her match on the opposite side of the room. Aayla Secura was cutting down initiates in clean, fluid arcs, her movements as precise as they were graceful. The girl fought like a dancer who had decided the floor was littered with enemies.

"She's performing admirably," Obi-Wan said evenly.

Vos smirked. "She is. Meanwhile, yours seems determined to turn the duel into a comedy routine."

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly through his nose. He would not rise to the bait.

Vos leaned in anyway. "Tell me, is it standard in your lineage to encourage sand-throwing as a valid combat technique, or is that a… Kenobi innovation?"

"He's not in my lineage." Obi-Wan's lips thinned. "I've merely offered a word of two of advice, as we all should." He may have to offer more, as well. He had noticed the sand. Force help him, he'd noticed everything. The cheek, the irreverence, the utter lack of restraint. And yet—

Yet, the boy had lasted longer against Anakin than half the Temple's initiates would have dared. Clever, reckless, utterly inappropriate…but inventive.

A familiar, treacherous warmth tugged at Obi-Wan's chest. Force help him, he really is his mother's son. If a tad more… eager for action.

Across the mat, Anakin disarmed Ben for the final time with a neat twist and sent the boy sprawling in a heap. The younglings erupted in cheers. Anakin offered Ben a hand up, and though Ben accepted it, he ruined the gesture by saying something irreverent as always.

Though, judging by Anakin's answering grin, his padawan took no offense. Good. It's… nice, to see them get along so well. Obi-Wan was worried that Ben may take defeat as bitterly as Anakin. Or that Anakin's pride may be more wounded by such underhanded tactics.

He should have known better. Anakin employed the unorthodox far more than even Qui-Go dared.

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. Quinlan barked a laugh.

When the sparring matches ended, the initiates broke into clusters, voices high with chatter. Aayla accepted the admiration of several wide-eyed younglings with a nod as calm as any Knight's. Ben, by contrast, trudged toward his friends like a soldier returning from defeat, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

Maris Brood, a recent friend of his s—of Ben, was the first to greet him, her smile sharp. "You lasted, what, four minutes? Impressive. Most younglings only take three to humiliate themselves in front of the entire Temple."

Hmm. Ben should look into finding more supportive friends.

Ben groaned. "Thanks, Maris. Remind me to send you a thank-you note for your support." Great minds think alike. Like father, like—no. Not like father, Obi-Wan… you have not earned that.

She smirked. "Oh, you'll get one—from the healers when they're done stitching your pride back together."

Before Ben could retort, Ahsoka bounded to his side, montrals bouncing, eyes bright with something far more earnest. "I thought you were great," she blurted. "Brave, even. I mean—going up against Anakin Skywalker? You didn't stand a chance! But you tried anyway, and that's… that's something."

Obi-Wan liked her. If he didn't already have his eyes on Ben, he might've tried to snatch her up as his next padawan. If he can teach Anakin, he can teach anyone. As it was, perhaps he'll pass along a friendly reminder to Plo Koon.

Ben's shoulders eased, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. "Thanks, Snips."

"Snips?" Ahsoka tilted her head.

He shrugged. "It fits."

Obi-Wan cleared his throat before Maris could cut in again. "Ben. A word."

The boy froze, then offered Ahsoka a helpless little grimace before trudging over. He stopped before Obi-Wan, head bowed just enough to suggest guilt, though his eyes still carried that incorrigible spark.

Why did he find that so endearing?

From the sidelines, Quinlan leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging his mouth. "Better you than me, old friend."

Obi-Wan didn't so much as twitch. "Quinlan," he said, voice smooth as polished stone. "If you'd be so kind as to take your running commentary elsewhere, I would like a private word with my—" He caught himself, and the pause was audible. "…with the boy."

Vos snorted. "Ah. Privacy. I see. Don't worry, Kenobi—your secret fatherly pride is safe with me."

"Quinlan."

"Fine, fine. I'm going. Force forbid I get between you and your heartfelt lecture."

He sauntered away with that maddening swagger of his, and Obi-Wan, for his part, allowed only the smallest of exhales before turning back to Ben.

...​

I could tell by the way he said my name—low, precise, each syllable clipped like it was being filed down with a whetstone—that I was in trouble. Not Temple-rule-breaking trouble. Worse. Obi-Wan Kenobi trouble.

"Ben."

He gestured toward the hallway with that perfect, infuriating calm of his. Like he wasn't walking me to my doom, but simply suggesting a nice little stroll. My feet, the traitors, followed.

We stopped in one of the side chambers, quiet and dim, the hum of training sabers replaced by the buzz of my pulse in my ears. Obi-Wan folded his arms. That was never a good sign.

"So." He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. "Would you like to explain what that was?"

"Uh… innovative?" I tried, plastering on my best grin. "Creative problem-solving? A stunning display of tactical genius?"

His brow arched so high I thought it might detach and float away.

"All right, all right," I said quickly. "Maybe I got a little carried away with the sand trick. But you have to admit—it worked. For a while."

"That is precisely the problem." He stepped closer, and his voice softened—but that softness was somehow worse than shouting. "Your creativity is a strength. I will not deny that. But without restraint, it will destroy you."

The words landed like a blow. I tried to laugh them off, but the sound died halfway out of my throat. "Destroy me? Bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"Is it?" His gaze didn't waver. "Today you faced a sparring match with a friend. Tomorrow it may be an enemy with a blade that cuts deeper than training sabers. Tricks and flourishes will not save you if you lack discipline. If you gamble with lives the way you gambled today—"

He stopped.

Drew in a breath. Then, softer still, he said, "I wanted you to succeed, Ben. I did. But not like that. Not by endangering yourself just to prove you could."

I blinked at him. That… that was new. Obi-Wan didn't admit things like that. He corrected, instructed, lectured—but this was something else. Something dangerously close to personal.

A thousand answers fought their way to the surface. Sarcasm. Defiance. A joke about him sounding like my dad. But none of them felt right, not with the weight in his eyes.

And I hated that part of me—some traitorous, quiet part—was warmed by it.

"I…" My voice cracked. I coughed, tried again. "I wasn't trying to—look, I just wanted to show I could keep up. That I belong here. I thought if I did something big enough, you'd… notice."

His expression softened in a way that made me feel both seen and stripped bare.

"I notice," he said. Simple. Certain. "Far more than you realize."

The room tilted, or maybe that was just my head trying to make sense of the stew of feelings bubbling inside me—annoyance, embarrassment, a little bit of pride, and something dangerously close to relief.

I looked away, muttering, "Force, you're making this really hard to hate you, you know that?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. Just barely. But it was there. "Good. That suggests I am doing something right."

I wanted to argue. I really, really did. But for once, I didn't.

It's genuinely hard to stay mad at someone like Obi-Wan Kenobi. Was he perfect? Of course not. Nobody is. But the thing about him is… he tries. Always. Relentlessly. And not because it's convenient, or glamorous, or makes him look good. He just does the right thing because it's the right thing.

Can you imagine being that selfless? I can't.

Think about it—who else do you know who'd throw his whole life into protecting some politician he barely met, just because the Code said so? Or take on training a volatile kid just because his dying master asked him to? Or march headfirst into leading a galactic war, not for glory, but because someone had to step up so fewer innocents would suffer? That's Obi-Wan. That's just… who he is.

He wasn't there when Korkie and I were born. But I can't pin that on him. It wasn't selfishness, or him trying to run from family. It was the opposite, really—he was bound up in a duty that stretched far beyond one person, or even one world. He carries that weight, every single day, and still somehow keeps walking.

So how can I hate him? The truth is, I can't. I admire him too much. I wanted to be him. I wanted to walk like him, talk like him… I even copied his accent. Not that anyone could tell; I picked it up on Mandalore anyway.

I do kinda wish he'd just call me "son", though. Having one parent in denial was more than enough, thank you. But, who knows? As a wise old gremlin once said, "Always in motion, the future is."

...​

Ben was hunched over his workbench again, the glow of the tools painting his face in harsh blue lines. His half-finished lightsaber lay in pieces before him, guts of crystal housing and emitter coils splayed out like an autopsy. He muttered under his breath while he adjusted the wiring.

"Needs an upgrade… countermeasures… built-in failsafe for when some nepo-baby thinks their midochlorian count makes them untouchable."

Ahsoka leaned against the doorway of their shared dorm, her left foot tapping absently. He hadn't noticed her yet. He rarely did when he got like this. His jokes carried the same cadence as always, sharp and irreverent, but she'd started to notice the difference. The humor was his sword, his shield, and his armor, and when he wrapped himself in it this tightly, it usually meant something had cut deep.

He'd shrugged off Obi-Wan's reprimand earlier like it was nothing, but Ahsoka could see the weight he tried to hide. Where she had learned to trust the Temple, to let herself be shaped by it, Ben seemed determined to fight it at every turn. She wondered if he even knew why.

She thought back to Maris in training that day—quiet, withdrawn, but never oblivious. Her eyes had followed Ben more than once, sharp and unspoken. Ahsoka wasn't sure what Maris saw in him, but she knew it wasn't just the clown act he put on for everyone else.

"Going to stare all night, or are you going to help?" Ben finally said without looking up, the corner of his mouth twitching in a half-smile. He sensed her presence. Just as she sensed his. Which is why she knew he was hurting more than he let on.

More than bruises. Deeper than pride.

Ahsoka didn't answer right away. She crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite him, resting her chin on her hand. "You ever think about the future?" she asked.

Ben smirked. "Sure. All the time. Usually involves me with a cloak dramatically billowing in the wind."

"Ben." She let his name hang between them, weighty.

For a moment, his smirk faltered. Just a flicker—but she saw it. He bent back over the saber with exaggerated focus, pretending her question had never been asked.

Ahsoka sighed and leaned back, letting her gaze drift to the ceiling. The truth was simple enough: where she felt at home here, Ben felt cornered. She loved the Jedi path, the structure, the belonging. He acted like it was a battle he could never stop fighting.

She wondered what that meant for the two of them, years from now. Would they still be sitting across from each other, friends and sparring partners? Or would the Order push him too hard, until something finally broke?

Ahsoka wasn't as sure as she'd like to be. But she hoped. Whatever happened, she'd be there. She just prayed the Order wouldn't take the choice from them.

...​

Sand is the deadliest weapon against the Chosen One.

More so than fire, lightsabers, or even lightning. Sand is the kryptonite of all Skywalkers. And now you know. And knowing is half the battle.

Speaking of, did you know that I have a Patreon where you can read ahead, right now? See the link below:

My Patreon

 

[CrimsonKing100k]

would it be possible for him to find another black crystal? finding the dark saber sure, but finding another?

 

[One-who-reads]

So, IIRC, montrals are the hollow horns that allow for hearing and a bit of echolocation in Togruta. "Head tentacles", regardless of species, are called lekku. Ahsoka's montrals would not twitch, but her lekku would.

Excellent story so far.

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thank for the cgapter