Seriously. Have You TRIED the Cookies?

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 1: Twin Suns of Mandalore

I maintain that if Korkie hadn't looked at me like that, I wouldn't have done it.

It was the smugness. The little arch of the brow as he scooted his seat closer to the table. The sanctimonious way he reached—reached—for the fruit bowl like he hadn't just called me a "gremlin with jam on his face" five minutes ago. Which I was. That's beside the point.

He wanted the meiloorun. The big one. And I wasn't about to let him have it.

So I did what any emotionally well-adjusted four-year-old with mysterious telekinetic powers would do: I lifted the entire fruit bowl off the table with my mind and hovered it just out of his reach.

Korkie froze mid-grab. His fingers curled around empty air. His mouth stayed open like he forgot how to finish the sentence "Auntie will hear of this." To be fair to him, he's four. His language skills aren't that developed.

Not calling him dumb. Just saying, it's not like he reincarnated into a baby, full memory in tact. Did he?

Stare.

"Ben!" he squawked, swiveling toward me like I'd kicked a puppy.

I put on my best innocent face—wide eyes, sticky cheeks, hands folded like I hadn't just summoned the power of the Force to win brunch.

"I didn't do anything," I said sweetly. "Maybe you just didn't want it badly enough."

The bowl hovered gently behind me, untouched and spinning ever so slightly like a trophy on display.

Bo-Katan was across the table nursing her morning caf like it was the only thing holding her together. She stared at the levitating fruit, blinked once, then took another long, slow sip without breaking eye contact.

"Mmm," she said blandly. "Just like his father."

I'm pretty sure she meant Obi-Wan, even if she still refused to say it. But she always said it in that tone—the one that meant "This is why I drink."

And for the record, I don't think she's the mother. Despite whatever claims "Auntie Satine" wants to make. Bo-Katan would have been like fifteen by the time we were born. Which… okay, biologically speaking could be possible. But thankfully, me being Force-Sensitive puts the horrifying implications of that theory to rest.

No way Bo-Katan would ever sleep with a Jedi.

Korkie slammed his tiny fists on the table like a baby senator delivering his first filibuster. "That's not fair! He's using—he's doing weird stuff again!"

"It's called strategy," I said, trying to scoot the bowl closer without wobbling it. "Also, he called me a gremlin. Which is rude and speciesist."

"You are a gremlin!"

"You're a nerd."

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Ben, put the bowl down before I throw you out an airlock," Bo-Katan muttered, still not looking up from her caf. "And Korkie, stop tattling. If he wanted to hover produce in defiance of natural law, that's between him and his future therapist."

"She means Jedi," Korkie whispered at me accusingly.

I stuck my tongue out. "Does not."

"Does too."

"I will set this fruit on fire with my brain."

"You can't do that!"

"…Yet."

The bowl trembled slightly, enough that a bright yellow jogan apple rolled to the edge. I reached to catch it—physically this time—but it slipped through my fingers and thumped onto the floor.

Look—space magic isn't as easy as they made it look. I'm doing my best, here.

Bo-Katan sighed, set her mug down with a clink, and finally looked at me.

"You know this is how it starts, right?" she said. "One minute it's breakfast levitation. Next thing you know, you're declaring yourself ruler of the Outer Rim in a cape made of wookiee pelts."

"That sounds amazing," I said with awe.

She rubbed her temples. "I should've let Death Watch take you."

I grinned. She didn't mean it. Mostly.

Korkie looked between us, equal parts scandalized and smug, like he was calculating whether telling on me would score him enough points with Aunt Satine to get extra dessert.

I popped a meiloorun slice in my mouth. "If you're gonna tell, at least wait until I finish chewing."

"I'm telling."

I held up a sticky hand and waved the fruit bowl just out of his reach again, smirking.

"Then I'm hovering."

...​

Obi-Wan Kenobi was not nervous.

He had passed his Trials. He had been knighted. He had a padawan of his own. He had stopped an arms smuggler ring two days ago without so much as a burn mark on his robes. He had also, recently, grown a beard. All the hallmarks of maturity.

He was not nervous.

Except he was also standing on Mandalore. In front of her. And they had kids. Two of them. Twins. Small, terrifying ones. And he was reasonably sure one of them had caused the Force anomaly they were sent here to investigate—by levitating a fruit bowl, if the report was accurate.

Truly, he could only blame the Will of the Force for it. How did he always find himself in the most awkward position in the most inopportune time? Simple. The cosmic energy that binds and penetrates the entire galaxy has it out for him.

Shockingly unsurprising.

He cleared his throat and straightened his tunic. "Duchess."

"Knight Kenobi." Satine's voice was calm and cool and perfect, as always. Her back was perfectly straight. Her hands were perfectly folded. Her eyes were a little too dry.

He hated how well he knew her tells.

"It's not often the Jedi Order comes knocking unannounced," she said, voice sharp as a vibroblade wrapped in silk. "I suppose we should be honored."

"This isn't a diplomatic visit," Obi-Wan said, doing his best to keep his voice level. "We detected a significant Force signature in this region. Untrained and… erratic. We traced it to your estate."

"And what a surprise, it turned out to be a member of my household," she said, arching a brow. "A child, no less."

"Yes, quite the coincidence," Obi-Wan replied stiffly. "As the… not-father of these children—"

"Yes," Satine said crisply. "Because that would be absurd."

They stared at each other.

Bo-Katan, leaning against a pillar behind them, let out an exaggerated sigh and muttered into her cup, "I'm going to become a terrorist out of spite."

"I heard that," Satine snapped.

"You were meant to."

Ben and Korkie were a few meters away, sparring with sticks. Well, Korkie was sparring. Ben was making lightsaber noises and spinning wildly, eyes alight with glee.

Obi-Wan watched them for a moment. The smaller twin—Ben—was practically vibrating with energy. He was grinning like he'd invented happiness. Korkie, by contrast, looked like he had memorized the Art of War and resented being pulled into such chaos without proper planning.

"I'd like to evaluate the boy," Obi-Wan said, clearing his throat again. "We'll need to confirm the strength and source of the signal we detected."

Satine nodded, tightly. "Of course."

"You can use the courtyard," Bo-Katan said lazily. "It's already scorched from last week's training accident. Ben tried to make a rocket out of caf beans."

"He succeeded," Satine muttered.

...​

They gathered in the courtyard. Ben plopped cross-legged on the ground and immediately began humming to himself. Korkie stood nearby, arms crossed, watching like a disapproving uncle.

Obi-Wan knelt before the boy and produced a small device from his belt. "This is a kyber resonance reader," he explained gently. "I want to see how your energy interacts with it."

Ben tilted his head. "Are you gonna do the glowy hand thing?"

"Not unless I have to," Obi-Wan said with a small smile.

"You're old," Ben observed. "But not like old-old. Just regular boring-old."

"I see your manners are well-developed."

Ben beamed. "Bo taught me sarcasm."

Bo-Katan raised her cup. "You're welcome."

Obi-Wan turned the reader on. It hummed—then whined. Then sparked. The display blinked red and shut down with a sad little chirp.

"Oh," Obi-Wan said.

"Told you I'm awesome," Ben said smugly.

"That thing broke last time too," Korkie said, shrugging. "He touched it and it caught on fire. I think he's cursed."

Ben rolled his eyes dramatically and reached behind his back to yank a meiloorun slice from his pocket like it was a reward snack. "I'm not cursed. I'm gifted."

"Gifted in chaos," Korkie muttered.

"Well, you are Mandalorian," Obi-Wan said under his breath, then immediately felt Satine's gaze burn two holes in his skull.

"I heard that," she said.

"You were meant to," he muttered back.

...​

The formal "tests" lasted all of ten minutes before Obi-Wan gave up.

Ben knew where objects were without seeing them. He nudged a pebble across the ground just by scowling at it. At one point, when asked to focus on a sphere hovering above his palm, he accidentally burst it. Into confetti.

Not literal, mind you. He quite simply rendered a solid metal sphere into shreds.

"This is going splendidly," Obi-Wan muttered.

"I like the Jedi stuff," Ben said. "Will I get a lightsaber?"

"Eventually," Obi-Wan replied. "After training."

Ben nodded, chewing on his fruit. "Cool. Can I have a black one?"

"That's… rare."

"Cooler, then."

Korkie crossed his arms. "They're monks. You're gonna have to shave your head."

Ben froze.

"What," he said flatly.

"Jedi all have bald heads. That's what monks do. Bo said so."

Ben narrowed his eyes. "You're lying."

"Nope. No hair. Not even eyebrows."

Bo-Katan, smirking, let her own thoughts on that matter be known. "This is so much better than breakfast."

Ben looked at Obi-Wan. "Is this true?!"

Obi-Wan opened his mouth—and then Ben lifted Korkie three feet into the air.

The Force surged around him like a gleeful ripple. Korkie yelped, flailing his arms as he floated above the courtyard like an offended balloon.

"Ben!" Satine called, half-panicked.

"I will not be bald!" Ben shouted. "I look weird without eyebrows!"

Bo-Katan snorted caf through her nose.

Obi-Wan reached out with the Force and gently brought Korkie back to the ground. "Ben," he said, as calmly as he could. "That's not how Jedi resolve conflict."

Ben frowned. "Then how do they?"

"Through diplomacy. Wisdom. Patience."

"I like the floating better."

"I can see that."

...​

Obi-Wan stood beside Satine on the veranda, watching Ben dart around the courtyard in circles while humming something rather sinister, though he certainly couldn't place it.

"He's strong," Obi-Wan said quietly.

"I know."

"He should be trained."

"I know."

They stood in silence for a while.

Then Satine said, too softly, "You'll look after him?"

Obi-Wan hesitated. "As much as I'm permitted."

"You're not his father," she said, with a small, sad smile.

He turned to her. "Of course not. That would be… absurd."

Below, Bo-Katan kicked a helmet off the steps and muttered, "I swear, if I have to co-parent another Jedi, I will blow something up."

...​

The walls were quiet again.

Not just the stone—cool and polished in the Mandalorian tradition—but the silence beneath the silence. No boots scuffing down the hall. No bickering twins. No Bo-Katan cursing under her breath. No Jedi Knight hovering in her orbit like a ghost from an unfinished past.

Satine closed the door behind her and rested one hand against it.

She stayed there a long moment, simply breathing.

She hated quiet. Hated what it gave her the space to remember.

Her quarters were modest by noble standards. A darkwood desk against the far wall, one stack of reports still open. A tall narrow window allowed the suns to cast angled light across the floor. Shelves lined with datapads and legal texts and framed holos—none of which featured her children. That had always seemed… safer.

And there, on the low reading chair by the hearth, sat the plush tooka toy Ben had dragged around since he was three. Its left ear had long since been gnawed flat. Bo-Katan had threatened to vaporize it once, during a diplomatic summit.

Satine crossed the room, sat down, and picked it up.

It smelled faintly of dust and fruit jam.

She held it to her chest like it was something fragile and precious, and let her mask fall.

...​

They had been young. So young.

The galaxy had been on fire, and she and Obi-Wan had somehow thought they could outrun it.

They'd spent weeks moving between safehouses, sleeping with a blaster between them and the door. She had braided his hair once, just to see if she could. He'd complained bitterly, then refused to take it out. When she asked him why, he said, "Because you put it there."

And yet, they had never spoken the words aloud. Not then. Not even later, when she'd stood in front of the High Council and smiled like her heart hadn't been shattered three times over.

Obi-Wan had bowed, then turned his back.

She didn't blame him. Not really. He had chosen his path.

And so had she.

But then there had been the sickness.

The birth.

The miracle.

Twins. Unexpected. Unplanned. And for the first time in her adult life, Satine Kryze had been utterly unprepared.

Ben hadn't cried right away. He had come into the world silent and still, like he was already listening. The medics thought he wouldn't survive. They were wrong. By the next morning, he had knocked over an entire tray of instruments without touching them.

It had been Bo-Katan who said it first, cradling the squirming boy in one arm while Korkie chewed on her sleeve.

"He's his father's child," she said, softly.

Satine hadn't answered.

...​

She traced the worn fabric of the tooka's nose with one thumb. It was frayed from years of affection.

"He always has to win, you know," she said to the empty room. "Even when it doesn't matter. Especially then."

Ben would be leaving. Soon. Perhaps by nightfall. She had given her blessing—what else could she do? They would take him to Coruscant, to the Temple, to the Jedi. He would learn discipline. He would learn restraint.

But he would also learn distance. Detachment. The same cold, noble masks that had turned Obi-Wan's love into silence.

She feared what the Jedi would make of him. Not because she didn't trust them—but because she did. Because they were so good at molding children into ideals.

And Ben was not made for ideals.

He was bright and burning and wild. He belonged to Mandalore in ways Obi-Wan never had. He screamed when he was angry. He laughed with his whole chest. He ran too fast and tripped too often and loved things before understanding them.

He would either break the Jedi or be broken by them.

Satine closed her eyes.

"I thought we'd have more time," she whispered.

...​

The door buzzed. Once. Twice. She didn't answer.

Bo-Katan let herself in anyway.

Her boots were loud—deliberately so—and she paused only long enough to glance at the tooka in Satine's lap before she spoke.

"They're loading the ship."

Satine nodded.

"Obi-Wan's hovering."

Satine did not look up.

Bo-Katan sighed and walked over to the window. "You going to say goodbye?"

"I said what needed saying earlier."

"He's four."

"I know."

There was a pause.

"Do you want me to—?"

"No," Satine said quietly. "You'll only make it worse."

Bo-Katan leaned against the windowsill, arms folded. "He won't forget you."

"He'll be trained to."

"No," Bo said, more firmly now. "He won't."

Satine finally looked up. "He's not like Obi-Wan."

Bo-Katan huffed. "No, he's not. He's not like you, either."

"Then what is he?"

Bo-Katan smirked. "Yours."

Satine smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I just hope he keeps his hair."

"You know he's going to come back with a dramatic cape and an attitude problem."

"That's our boy."

Bo-Katan snorted. "I give it ten years before he tries to conquer a star system out of spite."

Satine set the toy down, smoothed its ears. "Then I hope it's a good star system."

Bo-Katan's voice softened. "He'll be fine, you know."

Satine said nothing.

Bo-Katan crossed the room, placed a hand on her shoulder.

"He's going to terrify the Jedi."

Satine finally smiled for real.

"Good."

...​

Okay, so here's the thing about Jedi transports: they're cool, but not that cool.

They don't shoot lasers. They don't have rotating plasma turrets or atmospheric thrusters that flip upside down mid-battle. They definitely don't have flamethrowers. Or a rear-facing cannon mount. Or a kitchen. I asked.

This one just looks like a big sad metal egg with a light-up ramp.

I'm supposed to be excited about it—this whole "You've been chosen by destiny to be a peace monk in space" thing—but mostly I'm just wondering if Jedi get to wear capes. I'm four, not stupid. Priorities.

Bo-Katan walked beside me, and by "walked," I mean stomped like the ground had personally offended her. I think she was hoping if she glared hard enough, the shuttle would combust from fear and she wouldn't have to say goodbye.

"I told Korkie you'd cry," I said.

"I don't cry," she snapped, not looking at me.

"You sniffled that one time during the holodrama with the sad Loth-cat."

"I had allergies."

"To emotions?"

She glared down at me. "Say one more word, and I will become a terrorist."

I grinned. "You always say that."

"Because no one believes me."

"Korkie says if you haven't done terrorism by thirty, it's just a phase."

Bo-Katan narrowed her eyes and muttered, "Not a phase. Just waiting for the right target." She didn't even deny it this time. Progress!

The shuttle was still powering up, humming softly as Jedi people with important robes pretended not to watch me. I waved at one. He flinched. Excellent.

Bo-Katan stopped at the edge of the landing platform and crossed her arms. That was her version of "I'm feeling things and refuse to let them out except in the form of property damage."

I kicked a rock toward the ramp. "So, this is it."

"Apparently."

"You gonna miss me?"

"No."

"Liar."

"Tiny gremlin."

"Angsty space bat."

"You're lucky I don't believe in corporal punishment."

"I'm lucky you love me and are terrible at hiding it."

She looked at me for a long second—then snorted, rubbed a hand over her face like I gave her a migraine, and crouched down to my level.

She didn't say anything at first. Just looked. Like she was trying to memorize me in case the Jedi tried to give me a personality transplant.

"You don't have to be like them, you know," she said eventually.

"The Jedi?"

"The quiet ones," she said, gesturing vaguely at the nearest robe cluster. "The ones who never laugh. Who wear beige on purpose."

I squinted. "What color is beige again?"

"The color of sadness."

"Ah."

She reached into a side pouch and pulled out something small, metal, and very illegal.

My eyes lit up. "Is that a—"

"A vibroblade," she said, pressing it into my hands. "Deactivated. No power cell. Don't tell the Jedi."

"Sweet!"

"Think of it as a Mandalorian keepsake. Or a last-minute act of extremely poor judgment."

I turned it over in my hands reverently. It was slightly too big for me, but it felt right. Like it belonged.

"Are you sure I can take this?" I asked.

"No," she said flatly. "But I'm not your real mom, so it doesn't count."

I grinned. "You said it! You admitted you're not my mom. Oh, I'm so telling Satine."

"I was fifteen when you were born!" she snapped. "It was a dumb lie, anyways!"

It really was. If Satine really didn't want to admit she slept with a Jedi—which if we're being honest is pretty fair—she should have just said we were adopted. We're actually super supportive of that here on Mandalore.

This is the way.

Of course, so is messing with your family.

"Then who's our real mom, huh? Duchess Satine and Obi-Wan the Jedi definitely never—oh wait, yes they did."

She groaned. "If I hear one more person whisper that I'm the mother, I will punch a senator."

"You already punched two."

"Harder."

I laughed and tucked the blade away into my satchel. Bo-Katan stood up again, hands on her hips like she wanted to fight destiny itself.

"You'll come back, right?" she asked, but very casually, like it didn't matter.

"Obviously," I said. "I have to show you my cool lightsaber."

"Don't make it beige."

"I'll make it black."

"Good."

We stood there a minute.

Then, softer, she said, "Aliit ori'shya tal'din."

I blinked. "Family is more than blood."

She nodded once. "Make some friends while you're gone. Tell me about them when you come home."

"…You'll want names and tactical weaknesses?"

"Exactly."

I looked up at her. The wind tugged at her hair. The sky was too blue.

"If the Jedi mess you up," she added quietly, "I'll take it personally."

"Even if they mess me up in a character-building way?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I'll build your character with explosives."

I threw my arms around her legs.

It was quick, and I played it off like it didn't mean anything, but I felt her hand settle gently on my head before she ruffled it hard enough to make me yelp.

"Get out of here, brat," she said.

I walked toward the ramp, the vibroblade in my bag and my chest feeling too full. Just before stepping inside, I turned back and yelled:

"Bye, Mom!"

Bo-Katan's whole soul left her body.

"Say that again and I'll blow up a planet!"

"You better pick one with a good name!"

...​

The inside of the shuttle smelled like metal and floor polish.

Not exciting, legendary floor polish. Not "wiped-down-after-a-duel" kind of polish. No lightsaber scorch marks. No blaster pockmarks. No bones. Just smooth floors and boring chairs and weird humming from somewhere in the wall that was probably normal but sounded like a depressed gundark.

I sat near the viewport with my forehead against the transparisteel, watching Mandalore shrink below us.

It didn't look like home from up here. It looked like a coin. One you'd forget in a pocket and only find later, after it'd already been through the wash.

Korkie was down there somewhere, probably throwing a fit. I hadn't even said goodbye.

Mostly because he said if I did, it meant I wasn't coming back.

So obviously I had to skip it. For narrative tension.

Also, I wanted him to be dramatic about it. Maybe write a manifesto. Or a tragic poem. Or a play. The Tragedy of Korkie Kryze, Whose Twin Ditched Him for the Space Monks. I'll read it at his wedding someday.

Bo-Katan had stayed until the very last moment, arms crossed and eyes like she was memorizing me just in case. Then she walked off without a word. Classic.

Satine hadn't come.

…Which was fine.

Totally fine.

She was busy. Duchess stuff. Definitely not crying in her room with a cup of tea and one of my stupid stuffed toys. Nope. That would be weird.

The ramp had hissed shut behind me and I hadn't looked back.

Because I'm brave. And independent. And I don't cry in front of Jedi.

Mostly because this one might actually be my dad.

...​

He was sitting two rows over. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Knight of the Jedi Order. High-functioning disaster.

He was doing the "brooding in a tunic" thing that I think came standard with the beard. Like he was trying to be mysterious, but just looked constipated with feelings. His arms were folded. His eyes were closed. But every thirty seconds, he peeked.

I know because I counted.

"Hey," I said.

He didn't open his eyes.

"Yes?"

"You don't blink a lot."

He cracked one eye open, slowly. "Jedi discipline."

"I think it's a medical condition."

He huffed. "You're very observant."

"I know. I'm going to be the most powerful Jedi ever. Or something. I'll figure it out. I'm still workshopping."

That got the tiniest twitch of his mouth. Not a smile. More like a tiny hostage note from the muscles on his face.

I shifted in my seat and pulled my knees up. "Do you think I'll get a cool title?"

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. "A title?"

"Yeah, like—'Ben the Blade,' or 'Wrath of Mandalore.' Something with dramatic flair."

"You'll be given a name when you become a Knight."

"I'm four."

"Yes, well. Let's take it one step at a time."

I looked out the viewport again. Mandalore was just a speck now. Like a freckle in space. A memory.

"Hey," I said quietly. "Do you miss her?"

There was a pause. Then:

"Who?"

I turned to look at him with the most unimpressed expression a child could possibly muster. "Don't make me say it. We both know the game."

Obi-Wan looked away.

After a moment, he said, "More than I can explain."

And that was the most honest thing anyone had said all day.

...​

The rest of the ride was quiet.

The other Jedi chatted softly in the background. Someone passed around ration bars. I took two and stuck one in my bag next to the (definitely legal) vibroblade Bo-Katan gave me. I wasn't planning to stab anyone. Unless the cafeteria food was bad. Then we'd talk.

I didn't fall asleep, even when they dimmed the lights. Just watched the stars smear past like slow-burning fireworks.

The galaxy was big. Way bigger than I thought.

And somehow, it felt like I was already chasing something. I didn't know what.

Power? Family? Purpose? Probably all of it.

I just knew I wasn't done yet.

I pressed my forehead to the window one last time.

Mandalore was gone. Out of sight.

"I'll be back," I murmured. "With drama… And possibly a cloak." I grinned to myself, heart weirdly heavy and full at the same time. "I really hope a cloak…"

...​

Hi there, hello!

If you like what I write, please feel free to read ahead, and support me on my Patreon, link below:

My Patreon

 

[Synfth]

nice!

 

[Ghostcraft19]

Interesting

 

[Smurfpapa]

Watched with great interest.

 

[PepeDeLosPalotes]

I cant wait for him to meet anakin, maybe knowi g his master dealt with the same emotionsas him,añbeit in a different way, might help anakong come clean and avoid Vader, also could open the door to learn about Siri tachia nad all the adventures his jedi lienage had.

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 2: Wookie Mama

So here's what nobody told me about the Jedi Temple:

It smells like… soap.

Not good soap. Not "I just punched someone and now I'm fresh and dangerous" soap. No, it smells like… rules. Clean floors. Fresh linen. Order. The kind of soap that implies no one has had a good lightsaber fight in years.

Which is ridiculous, because this is the home of the Jedi.

You'd think there'd be at least one broken statue or a scorch mark somewhere. Something to give the place character.

Instead, I'm standing in the world's largest, most peaceful marble hallway, holding my bag of definitely legal belongings and staring up at a ceiling so high it might count as its own zip code.

I'd ask Obi-Dad what to do next, but he left already. Classic Jedi move: deliver the child, vanish emotionally.

The onboarding team was nice enough. The medical droid scanned me (twice), the healer gave me a fruit chew (I asked for five and got two), and someone gave me a tiny beige uniform that looks like someone took all the color out of "fun" and sewed it into a shirt.

And then I was guided—no, herded—down a hall, through an arch, and into the crèche.

...​

The crèche is big.

Like really big. Big enough that if I ran in a straight line yelling, I could cause at least three minor incidents and maybe one full evacuation.

Which means I'm already in love.

There are kids everywhere. All kinds—Togruta, Twi'lek, Rodian, some sparkly one I'm afraid to look directly at. Everyone's laughing, running, talking, or—surprisingly often—floating. There are balls made of light zipping overhead, training drones hovering around like confused seagulls, and little meditation pads scattered like someone tried to summon a minimalist demon and gave up halfway through.

And in the middle of it all is a girl.

She's standing on top of a cushion stack with her hands on her hips, yelling at a Nautolan twice her size.

"No, you listen!" she's saying. "It's not a fair game if you keep using your head tentacles to trip people!"

"It's not tripping if they fall on their own!" the Nautolan argues.

She jabs a tiny finger in his face. "That is exactly what tripping is!"

I like her already.

I take two steps in and a soft voice says, "This is your stop."

I turn around just in time to see the Knight who guided me here disappear down the hall like he's allergic to follow-up questions. Rude. But I guess helping others is the path to the Dark Side.

Fine. First impression time.

I sling my bag over one shoulder, puff out my chest, and march straight into the chaos like I was born here. (Technically I was born in a Mandalorian war bunker during a thunderstorm, but that's a story for another day.)

"Hi!" I say, approaching a small circle of kids who are trying to stack blocks using only the Force. "I'm Ben. I'm new. And yes, I do come with accessories."

They stare at me.

One of the blocks topples and hits a kid in the forehead. Another sneezes and levitates a cushion by accident. Someone behind me drops a tray of ration cookies.

"I'm also charming and mysterious," I add.

Still silence.

Well, fine. Time to impress them with skill.

I spot a training ball sitting nearby. One of those little floaty spheres used for light reflex drills—perfectly round, perfectly smooth, and—if the Force is with you—perfectly tossable.

I stretch out a hand, squint just a little for dramatic effect, and reach out with the Force.

The ball trembles.

Someone gasps.

It floats. It spins.

It rockets upward at warp speed and slams directly into a hanging chandelier.

There's a crash. A shatter. An extremely awkward silence.

A few crystals clatter to the ground.

A Togruta boy screams.

"…Oops."

The next thing I hear is a sound like a krayt dragon gargling gravel.

A very large Wookiee emerges from behind a meditation curtain, and I mean emerges like someone summoned her with the ancient rite of "noise." She's huge, covered in cinnamon-colored fur, and wearing simple Jedi robes stretched over broad shoulders. I didn't even know Wookiees wore clothes, so this was surprising. Her eyes lock onto me like I just gratified the Temple steps.

"RRWAAHHHRRHHH!"

Everyone goes dead silent.

Even the training drones stop.

I blink up at her, trying to look innocent. "Uh…"

"WRAHHHHRHHHHAAAHHH!"

"Oh," I say quickly, nodding. "Yes. Very wise. Of course."

The other kids exchange glances.

"That means don't run indoors," says a Twi'lek girl nearby.

"Right," I nod solemnly. "That's what I said."

The Wookiee Jedi narrows her eyes.

She crosses the room in four massive strides, scoops up the training ball and one of the fallen chandelier crystals, then turns to me and points.

I raise a hand. "In my defense, I was trying to demonstrate natural Force talent. Which I did. The target just happened to be… gravity. And also lighting fixtures."

"RAWWWRRHHH."

"Did… did she just challenge me to a duel?"

"Ben," the Twi'lek girl whispers. "That's Master Tyyyvak."

"Oh."

"She runs the crèche."

"Oh no."

"She's the kindest Jedi ever, but she has zero patience for nonsense."

I glance at the shattered chandelier, then back up at the looming Wookiee matriarch who is still pointing at me like I owe her money.

"…Well, this has been educational."

Tyyyvak growls again, then gestures sharply toward the pile of meditation cushions. I scurry that way without complaint. Behind me, the circle of kids starts whispering—some amused, some impressed.

I plop down on a cushion and try not to explode from embarrassment.

The girl from earlier—still perched on her stack of cushion thrones—glances over at me.

She smirks.

Not mean. Not mocking. Just… entertained.

I give her a little two-finger wave.

She raises an eyebrow.

Challenge accepted.

...​

Ahsoka wasn't sure what she expected when they said a new youngling was coming today, but it wasn't… that.

She'd seen him from across the room—short, scruffy, too confident. He strolled into the crèche like he already owned it, said something dumb to a group of kids, and then promptly launched a training orb into the chandelier.

There was a crash, a scream, a dramatic Wookiee roar.

And then he tried to pretend he understood Master Tyyyvak like that made it better.

"Did… did she just challenge me to a duel?" he asked.

Ahsoka nearly snorted fruit chew out her nose.

She hopped off her cushion tower, padded across the room, and took a better look at him. He wasn't tall—none of them were yet—but he carried himself like he was twice his size. His hair stuck out in a hundred directions, and his tunic was already wrinkled like he'd been wrestling it before arriving.

Mandalorian. Definitely Mandalorian.

And he had attitude.

She was going to like him.

Or possibly kick him.

She hadn't decided yet.

...​

Outside, the training yard was sunlit and wide, its edges lined with soft sparring mats and padded corners for safety. Dozens of younglings were scattered in clusters: some working through the basic katas, others chasing practice orbs. A group of tiny Rodians were stacked in a pyramid for some reason. One had a traffic cone.

Normal day.

Ahsoka stretched, tail twitching, and watched the new boy as he wandered out, trying to look casual while very obviously casing the area like he planned to conquer it by lunch.

She followed.

"Hey, chandelier boy," she called out.

He turned. "Oh hey, tentacle girl."

"I'm a Togruta."

"I'm Ben."

"Not what I asked, but thanks for the update."

He tilted his head, curious now. "You're the one who yelled at the Nautolan."

"He tripped three kids with his head tails."

"I respect that."

Ahsoka crossed her arms. "You want to fight?"

Ben blinked. "Like, real fight, or pretend 'I'm testing your reflexes' fight?"

"Yes."

He grinned. "Awesome."

...​

They started slow.

Force tag was a crèche tradition, somewhere between a game and low-stakes sparring. Rules were simple: if you got touched by the Force, you were tagged. Shields up, senses sharp.

Ahsoka ducked left. Ben tried a push. She felt it coming and rolled under it.

"Close," she said, springing up behind him.

"Wasn't trying."

"Sure."

She flicked her fingers, and the Force nudged him off balance. He yelped, windmilled, and landed square on his butt.

"Tagged," she smirked.

Ben groaned. "Alright. No more Mr. Nice Jedi."

"You were being nice?"

"No. But now I'm gonna be dramatic."

It escalated fast.

Ben started leaping off training blocks like a tiny acrobat, flinging himself through the air and trying to catch her mid-sprint. Ahsoka flipped over a floating droid, doubled back, and force-tripped him into a foam wall.

"TAG," she shouted as he hit the mat.

"You used stealth," he accused.

"It's not stealth. You're just loud."

A Force tug whizzed past her ear. She dodged, slid across the polished floor, and countered with a pulse strong enough to make him skip like a stone.

"You've trained before," he puffed, scrambling upright.

"I listen."

"I wing it."

They were both panting now, hair flying, limbs sore. Other younglings had gathered in a loose circle, watching the chaos unfold like it was better than Temple holovids.

Ben vaulted off a bench and reached for her shoulder.

Ahsoka ducked, spun, and—

"WRRAAAHHHHHRRRHHH!"

The sound hit first. Then the Force.

Tyyyvak descended like an angry thundercloud in a robe. One swipe of her massive arm and both initiates were swept off their feet, pinned gently but firmly by the invisible weight of an experienced Jedi Master's Enough Is Enough technique.

Ben landed face-first in a foam ring.

Ahsoka bounced twice before settling in a heap, montrals flopped over her eyes.

"RRRHHHWWWAAARRRRRRR!"

Enough. Training is not an excuse to break half the courtyard. Also, that droid is not a launchpad.

Ahsoka peeled a leg off her shoulder. "Sorry, Master Tyyyvak."

Ben rolled over with a groan. "I declare it… a tie."

"You fell in a bucket."

"It was strategic."

Ahsoka smirked. "You're ridiculous."

"You tripped me into a wall."

"You liked it."

"I really did."

Tyyyvak sighed, deep and long. Then she walked away, still muttering something that sounded like "Loud ones. Why is it always the loud ones?"

Ben sat up, hair sticking out wildly in every direction, and looked at her like he'd just been hit by lightning and decided it was a personal challenge.

"So," he said. "Are we best friends now, or mortal enemies with unresolved tension?"

Ahsoka tilted her head.

"…TBD."

He grinned. "Cool."

...​

Here's the thing about Jedi education:

It's terrifyingly organized.

The classroom wasn't even a room. It was more like a giant, circular meditation pit, lined with cushions and gentle humming panels that probably pumped in calming Force vibes. There were no datapads on the floor. No snacks. No knives.

Zero stars. Would not recommend.

I flopped into my assigned spot beside Ahsoka and immediately started taking mental notes:

No windows. Prison vibes. Cushions = deceptively soft. Floor hums. Either meditation field or very large cat. Investigate later.

Ahsoka is sitting suspiciously upright. Possibly possessed.

"Why are you so serious?" I whispered to her.

She didn't look at me. "Because Master Tyyyvak is about to speak."

"What, like in words or in—"

A deafening roar echoed through the chamber like a rancor with a megaphone.

"RAAAAAWWWWRHHHHHRRAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

Tyyyvak stepped into the circle like a majestic, extremely hairy judgment cloud. Her robes rustled. Her claws gleamed. The room fell utterly silent.

I straightened up immediately and tried to look innocent. This took effort.

Tyyyvak cleared her throat with a rumble that sounded like a landspeeder failing to start.

Then she began her lecture.

I had no idea what she was saying.

But I pretended I did.

It started strong. She made a sweeping gesture toward the stars and growled something long and emotional.

I nodded solemnly. And copied Ashoka's notes.

"The Force surrounds us, connects us. Be mindful." Right. Yes. Classic.

Then she slammed one paw against her chest and snarled.

"The Jedi are protectors of peace. Even when it's hard." Deep stuff. Possibly traumatic. Moving on.

She raised a finger like she was about to deliver the thesis statement of the universe.

"RWAAAHHHHHHHHRRRRRAAHHH!"

And I wrote in my notebook, "Don't eat your enemies. Even if they deserve it."

Ahsoka leaned over to read my notes.

"That's not what she said."

"You sure?"

"She said the path of the Jedi requires patience and compassion."

"That's what I said."

"No it isn't."

"She used very aggressive body language."

Ahsoka rolled her eyes and went back to listening like the teacher's pet she absolutely was.

I continued to write, scribbling down what I felt the lesson was probably about:

Ben's Jedi Notes, First Edition

• The Force is like air but moodier.

• Compassion is a weapon? Maybe that was metaphorical.

• Meditation involves breathing, but like, seriously.

• Life Day is a Force ritual (probably).

• Attachment is bad, unless it's to snacks.

• Master Tyyyvak has very sharp teeth.

Halfway through the lecture, Tyyyvak turned and pointed directly at me.

"RRAAWWWRRHHHHH!"

Everyone stared.

I glanced at Ahsoka. "Translation?"

"She said you should let go of your attachments."

I nodded wisely. "Cool. I'm letting go of my math homework. Emotionally."

Another roar.

"She's proud of me."

"She's confiscating your notebook."

"What!?"

A massive paw landed gently but firmly on top of my datapad. Tyyyvak took it and held it up to the light like she was considering whether to vaporize it or archive it as a warning to others.

I looked mournfully at Ahsoka.

"You betrayed me."

"You betrayed yourself."

"You encouraged me!"

"I watched you write 'Force Lightning is probably just spicy empathy.' I chose peace."

Tyyyvak tucked the datapad into a pouch that was, frankly, way too small for such violence. Then she grunted again, one short bark followed by a huff.

Ahsoka translated with zero sympathy: "She says you'll get it back when you show 'respect for the living Force.'"

"…That could mean anything."

"Probably means stop drawing lightsabers with fangs in the margins."

The lesson continued.

To my credit, I listened harder after that. I mean, I still didn't understand any of the words—but the energy was there. You could feel it when she talked. Like her voice pulled the Force itself into the room and made it pay attention.

That's the weird thing about Jedi stuff. It's not all about rules or codes. Sometimes, it's just sitting still, breathing slow, and pretending that you don't want to throw a cushion at the nearest Nautolan.

It's boring.

But it's… also kind of peaceful.

And Tyyyvak—she's scary, but she cares.

You can tell.

She doesn't roar at just anyone.

Class ended with a brief, rumbling hum and a soft tap of her claw against the floor.

The kids filed out in silence. Even me.

I bumped Ahsoka with my shoulder on the way to the door.

"So, how'd I do?"

"You survived."

"I call that a win."

"You made up at least five Jedi rules and invented a holiday."

"Thank you."

She sighed. "You're lucky she likes you."

I nodded. "That's the plan."

Behind us, Tyyyvak roared one final word.

"RAAAAAWWWRHHHHHHHH!"

Ahsoka smiled faintly. "And she kindly requests you stop guessing what she's saying."

"Yeah," I said under my breath, "that's fair."

...​

I'd been at the Temple for three days.

In that time, I'd (1) set off a floating orb alarm, (2) invented a new Force maneuver called "accidental backflip into a plant," and (3) gotten my notebook back from Tyyyvak, complete with fur-covered sticky note that read:

"Try again. With fewer disruptions."

Progress.

I had also, apparently, made a reputation for myself—which, look, wasn't intentional. But when you're from Mandalore and your general vibe is "small chaos goblin with Force powers," people start expecting things. Like unpredictability. Or commentary.

Which was why, on day four, we were told to gather for our first meditation-focused lesson—and I was specifically placed next to Ahsoka, who had been specifically instructed to keep me "quiet."

She was not thrilled.

...​

The meditation room was dim, quiet, and smelled like incense and responsibility. Light streamed through tall windows, catching the edges of soft floor mats and polished stone. There were no distractions. No training balls. No obvious things to throw.

Suspicious.

Master Tyyyvak sat in the center of the room like a fluffy statue of judgment and wisdom. She raised one massive paw.

The room went silent.

"RRRAAHHHHHHHHHHRRRHHHHH."

Yeah, I still couldn't understand her, and the Force isn't Duolingo. What I did have was a data pad, with the Sci-Fi, Temple approved equivalent of Google Translate.

Today, we begin our study of the Jedi Code.

She let it hang in the air like an ancient riddle. I could feel the other kids tense up with excitement or fear or both. I, personally, was 70% excited and 30% bracing for disappointment.

Sure enough, she growled the first line with reverence:

There is no emotion, there is peace.

I waited a beat.

Then whispered: "Unless it's funny."

Ahsoka elbowed me so hard I nearly shifted dimensions.

"RRRRAWWWWRHHHHH!"

Tyyyvak didn't look at me. She didn't have to.

I coughed. Sat up straighter. Tried again.

"There is no ignorance, only… underpaid archivists."

Another elbow.

Another growl.

A kid across the room started to sniffle.

"Okay, okay," I said quickly. "I'm done. I'm focused. I'm ready to learn the Sacred and Very Serious Code of Not Laughing Ever."

Ahsoka muttered, "You're going to get Force-choked in your sleep."

"Not by her. She likes me."

"Not the point."

Tyyyvak continued the recitation. Her roars came slow and thoughtful, translated with gentle pauses by the Temple's universal translator—or Ahsoka, when the thing glitched (which it did a lot, there's a reason they're rarely used).

"There is no passion, there is serenity."

"There is no chaos, there is harmony."

"There is no death, there is the Force."

Simple. Repetitive. Easy to memorize.

Harder to believe.

I mean, have you seen the galaxy? There's plenty of emotion. And chaos. And death. And passion. It's kind of the entire theme.

But something about the way Tyyyvak said it—like it wasn't just a rule, but a reminder—stuck with me.

Not that I'd admit that.

Instead, I mumbled under my breath: "No death? Bold take for an order with laser swords."

Ahsoka coughed, which sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh.

One point for me.

...​

We were told to repeat the Code as a group. Loud and clear. Centered. Still.

I tried. Really.

"There is no emotion…" I began.

And suddenly, I felt something.

Calm. Weightless.

For a half-second, it was like my brain stopped spinning. Like the Force itself pressed gently against my chest and said, "Hey. You're not wrong to be loud. But you don't have to be all the time."

Which, frankly, was rude.

But true.

I finished the line without a joke.

"There is peace."

Tyyyvak glanced over.

Just a glance.

But I swear she nodded.

...​

Afterward, we were told to reflect. Quietly. In our journals.

I stared at the blank page.

Thought about chaos. Thought about Mandalore. Thought about Satine's face when she said goodbye, and how Bo-Katan had pressed that (deactivated) vibroblade into my hand like it was a promise.

And I thought:

There is emotion. But it doesn't have to own me.

There is chaos. But I can be louder.

I doodled a lightsaber with wings and labeled it "inner balance."

Ahsoka leaned over to peek at the drawing.

"…You're so weird."

I smiled. "Thanks."

...​

Tyyyvak gave her final Wookiee blessing of the day—a low, rumbling hum like the purr of a starship engine—then dismissed us with a raised paw.

We filtered out in silence, or something close to it.

I waited until we were just outside before I said, "So… real talk: what do you think they'd do if I carved the Code into a training mat using only the Force and a spoon?"

Ahsoka didn't even blink. "Ask you to do it again but quietly."

I grinned.

Then walked straight into a doorframe.

Balance.

...​

The dormitory was supposed to be quiet by now.

Most of the younglings were already curled up under their thin Temple blankets, soft breathing syncing with the low hum of ambient meditation frequencies piped in through the walls. Outside the tall windows, Coruscant's endless cityscape glowed like a sleeping giant made of light.

Ahsoka was trying to sleep.

She wasn't succeeding.

Too many thoughts. Too much energy. Too much Ben.

He was lying in the bunk across from hers, very pointedly not asleep, one arm flung over his face in a melodramatic sprawl that suggested either deep suffering or severe boredom. Possibly both.

"Psst," he whispered suddenly. "You awake?"

Ahsoka rolled over, blinking. "No."

"Oh. Good."

Yes, Ben. How wonderful for her that she, an aspiring Jedi, can find no rest. Why does she hang out with him, again?

"…Wanna snack?"

She sat up.

He grinned and pulled a crinkling packet from under his pillow like a smuggler revealing contraband.

"Stole it from the cafeteria droid when it wasn't looking. I'm basically a stealth master now."

"You are the loudest child in this Temple."

"And yet somehow, always successful."

She took the snack—dehydrated fruit sticks—and leaned back against the wall beside her bunk. "This doesn't mean we're best friends, you know."

"Obviously not," Ben said, already halfway through his own pack. "We're sworn enemies with snack benefits."

She snorted. "You're weird."

"And you've said that every day since I got here. At this point, it's a compliment." He tossed her a stick, which she was quick to sink her teeth into.

They chewed in silence for a bit, both watching the soft pulse of Temple lights dim toward rest mode.

Ben broke it first.

"So," he said casually. "If you had a lightsaber… what color would it be?"

Ahsoka tilted her head. "Green."

"Ugh, predictable."

"It's a classic!"

"Exactly. I want black."

"There's only one black lightsaber," she said. "And it's missing."

"I know. That's why I want it."

"Are you planning to find it?"

"Or make a new one. Somehow. I don't know. I'm still workshopping."

She shook her head, smiling faintly. "You're going to be a problem."

"Correct."

A few bunks over, someone snored.

Ahsoka tucked the blanket tighter around her legs and looked toward the ceiling. "You ever feel… weird here?" she asked quietly.

Ben blinked over at her.

"I mean, like you're not exactly… Jedi-shaped."

He was quiet for a long moment. "I'm from a place where people wear armor instead of robes and raise kids with knives. Yeah. I feel weird."

She smiled. "Me too. Not the armor part. But I get it."

"I think that's why they stuck us together," Ben said. "Too much sarcasm for one hallway."

"Too much brainpower," she corrected.

"Too much awesome."

"Too much… 'accidentally launched a training ball into the ceiling.'"

"That was day one," Ben said proudly. "A record."

She hesitated, then glanced toward the door. No footsteps. No Tyyyvak. "You think Master Tyyyvak sleeps?"

"No."

"You think she's a ghost?"

"I think she's part of the exhibit wing. Like the old Jedi archives with bones and stuff."

"She definitely has bones."

"Yeah," Ben said. "All of them."

They both giggled.

It wasn't loud.

It didn't need to be.

...​

Ahsoka looked over again. Ben had gone quiet, staring at the glow of the lights outside like he was trying to see something further than the skyline.

"Hey," she said softly. "If we get split up someday—like, if they assign us to different Masters or whatever…"

"…Yeah?"

"Can we promise to look out for each other anyway? Even if we're not together?"

Ben didn't answer right away.

Then he swung his legs out of bed, padded over, and held out his hand.

"Sworn oath," he said. "One Force Pact of Eternal Watchfulness."

"That's not a thing."

"It is now."

She took his hand. Shook it once, firmly.

"We look out for each other," she said.

"No matter what path we take."

"No matter how annoying you get."

"No matter how green your lightsaber is."

"No matter how many chandeliers you destroy."

They smiled.

It was silly.

It was childish.

It stuck.

Ben yawned. Loudly. "Okay, sleep now. Tyyyvak said if I fall asleep during meditation again she'll roll me into the fountain."

"She didn't say that."

"She implied it. With her vibe."

He climbed back into his bunk and flopped over with all the grace of a tranquilized loth-cat.

Ahsoka lay down again, eyes drifting shut, heart a little quieter than before.

Outside, the lights of Coruscant blinked softly.

Inside, two small Jedi dreamed.

Together.

...​

Aw! It's all so sweet. Like those puppy shorts I can't stop watching. Too. Addicting! Not the typical kind of writing I'm used to, but I thought I'd try out something new for a bit. Though, with that said, this wholesome childhood imagery will more than likely end before too long, so don't get too attached. Shouldn't be a problem.

The Jedi hate attachments.

Was that foreshadowing? Who know?

If you'd like to find out the answer early, you're more than welcome to check my patreon, link below, where I have a whole bunch more chapters available. If that's not your thing, no worries, everything will still get here eventually. But if you want to show your love and support, please do! Just know that I appreciate every single one of you!

Huh?

What's that?

Sorry, I was just informed by the Jedi Council that I'm not allowed to express my feelings of gratitude. I take all of your appreciation and admiration with due diligence and indifference. You all mean nothing to me.

(Okay, they're not looking: love you guys!)

My Patreon

P.S.

Sorry for the late update. My wi-fi was not my friend today.

 

[Sceptic]

The Jedi hate attachments.

Click to shrink...

That's what they claim, but try taking away their laser sword and see how attached they are.

 

[PepeDeLosPalotes]

Thanks for the chapter

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 3: Lessons in Misconduct

The Jedi classroom was the most peaceful place in the galaxy.

Which meant it was designed to crush the soul of every child inside.

The walls were smooth and gently curved, with dimmable light panels and a full 360-degree sound field calibrated to promote "receptive learning." The seats were arranged in concentric circles like we were about to perform a ritual or be judged by a tribunal. Probably both.

The instructor was a human Knight named Master Solin, and she had the calm, focused voice of someone who had not been raised around Mandalorians, explosions, or me.

"This morning," she said, "we'll continue with galactic civics, followed by Jedi ethics, and then Temple history before midday meal."

The chorus of "yes, Master" was murmured with robotic devotion. I said nothing. I was busy balancing a stylus on my nose.

Ahsoka elbowed me.

Rude.

I dropped the stylus onto my datapad and gave her my most innocent expression.

"Pay attention," she whispered.

"I am. I'm absorbing the lesson through osmosis."

She didn't dignify that with a reply.

...​

Master Solin gestured and the holoprojector lit up, showing a calm blue map of the Republic's Core Worlds.

"Who can tell me why Coruscant holds both symbolic and practical power within the Senate?"

Hands went up. Everyone wanted to impress her.

I did not raise my hand. I answered anyway.

"Because it's the only planet where politics, money, and crime live together in a beautiful, dysfunctional space triangle."

Pause.

Solin stared at me for a second.

"Ben," she said carefully, "please only speak when called upon."

"Right. Sorry. That was just a vibe-based answer. I'll wait next time."

...​

We moved on to Jedi ethics, which, in fairness, sounded exciting—but was mostly just memorizing the same three principles in increasingly vague wording. "Service to others. Harmony with the Force. Selflessness of spirit." Which are all great concepts if you're a monk with no hobbies.

"Why don't Jedi vote?" I asked, halfway through the second slide.

Solin blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Well, like—if the Jedi are peacekeepers, and peacekeepers operate under the authority of the Republic Senate, shouldn't we vote on laws? Or at least influence policy? Seems like it'd make more sense than sitting in a tower going 'hmm yes the war is troubling.'"

Several kids gasped.

Ahsoka slapped a hand over her face.

Solin's smile stayed frozen in place like a carefully chilled dessert. "That's… a complicated question."

"It feels like a simple one."

"Well," she said slowly, "Jedi serve as neutral agents of the Force. We do not hold political positions, lest we become entangled in agendas."

"So the answer is 'yes,' we're powerful enough to make a difference, but we choose not to because it's awkward."

She blinked. "We believe in leading by example."

"Hm. Cool. Totally clear."

"Ben."

"Yes, Master?"

"…Please take notes."

...​

I doodled a senator with four arms holding four briefcases. Then gave him little speech bubbles that said "We value the Jedi's input" and "Please stop breaking our windows."

I moved on to Temple history, which was mostly a bunch of ancient names and battles with very few lightsabers involved. I tried to engage. Really. But when the question came—"What does the Rule of Two mean in Sith philosophy?"—I didn't even hesitate.

"It was invented at a party," I said.

A beat of silence.

Solin squinted. "Pardon?"

"Yeah, some old Sith Lord—Darth… Spiral or Spinach or something—got drunk on power, looked at his apprentices, and thought: 'Two's a good number. Like a buddy system, but mean.'"

Ahsoka looked ready to combust.

"That's not even close to correct," she hissed.

"It's closer than you'd think."

...​

Eventually, Master Solin stopped calling on me, which I took as a reward.

But honestly? Underneath all my nonsense, some of it was interesting. The Jedi didn't just fight—they protected trade routes, mediated civil wars, settled disputes that spanned whole systems. They were like diplomats, warriors, and therapists rolled into one… which, honestly, sounded exhausting.

And the Code—stupid as it sometimes sounded—wasn't about never feeling things. It was about what to do with those feelings. Like anger. Sadness. Or the very specific emotional experience of being four feet tall and told you couldn't have a lightsaber yet because "your inner peace is undercooked."

We finished with a short reading on Jedi lineage and the passage of teaching through generations. There was a whole bit about legacy and reverence that I totally skimmed.

"Ben," Solin called, as the class filed out for midday meal.

I paused. "Yes, Master?"

"…I appreciate your curiosity."

That was a dangerous sentence to give me.

She continued, slowly, carefully: "But I encourage you to consider the wisdom in learning before questioning."

"Oh," I said. "I question while I learn. Saves time."

She closed her eyes. Breathed very slowly.

I bowed, as respectfully as I could manage without falling over.

"Thank you for the education," I said, sweetly. "The part where I asked about voting was my favorite."

Then I sprinted for the hallway before she could assign me reflection meditation.

...​

Ahsoka caught up with me at the lunch queue, arms crossed.

"You know that someday you're going to be too tall to escape consequences."

"That sounds like a tomorrow problem."

"You're lucky Master Solin didn't feed you to the archives."

I grinned, grabbing a tray. "I don't know, I think she likes me."

"She patted her lightsaber when you said Darth Spinach."

"A show of trust."

"She muttered 'the Council's going to hear about this.'"

"A sign of admiration."

She shook her head.

But she was smiling.

...​

Ahsoka Tano took her training blade the way a warrior might accept a gift from a king: reverently, seriously, and with the mild expression of someone trying very hard not to bounce in place from sheer excitement.

She gripped the smooth hilt with both hands, let it hum softly to life—just a focused blue training beam, not a real saber yet, but still—and settled into her opening stance.

It was finally time.

Lightsaber Day.

Most of the initiates around her were still fumbling with foot placement, or shifting nervously like the saber might ignite backward and take out a kneecap. Ahsoka just adjusted her weight forward, knees bent, elbows high, jaw tight with focus.

She had been waiting for this.

Ever since arriving at the Temple—ever since hearing stories about Master Luminara's precision, or Master Windu's unbeatable form—she'd imagined the moment she'd finally hold one.

And she wasn't going to waste it.

Which was why the sound of Ben Kryze humming the Galactic Heroes theme while spinning his blade like a carnival baton was, frankly, unbearable.

"Ben," she hissed.

"What?" he asked, mid-spin. "I'm practicing flair."

"It's not supposed to twirl."

"It could. What if I get surrounded by enemies and need to distract them with interpretive movement?"

She stared.

He smiled. His lightsaber slipped out of his grip and smacked him in the knee.

Ahsoka sighed and turned back to the instructor.

Master Tyee was tall, Togrutan like Ahsoka, but older and more elegant—her montrals curled down like polished stone, and her voice cut like sunlight through still water.

"The blade is not a toy," she said, without looking at Ben. "It is not a dance partner. It is not an accessory. It is a truth."

"Yes, Master," the class chorused.

Ben raised a hand. "What if the truth has a nice rhythm?"

Tyee closed her eyes like she was asking the Force for patience.

Ahsoka didn't even bother looking at him. She just muttered, "You're going to get flung into the ceiling again."

The students fanned out into lines across the dojo floor, matched by height and experience. Ahsoka squared off with a Rodian girl who looked as serious as she felt. They went through the forms slowly—one step at a time. Guard. Cut. Parry. Guard again.

She adjusted her grip instinctively, holding her blade with the emitter slightly angled back—less defensive, more redirective. She didn't know the names of the forms yet, not really, but her hands were already learning.

Shien, a little voice whispered in the back of her head. The path of deflection. The path of return.

Across the mat, Ben was… improvising.

Ahsoka caught sight of him mid-lunge, spinning sideways with far too much enthusiasm, nearly crashing into his sparring partner—a Duros boy who promptly dropped his blade and fled sideways like a startled Tooka.

Ben froze mid-pose, one foot in the air.

"I meant to do that," he called. "That was a test of spatial awareness. He passed."

"Ben Kryze," Master Tyee called. "Form. Now."

"Yes, Master!" he chirped, dropping into a wildly exaggerated ready pose that looked like a cross between fencing and jazz hands.

Tyee rubbed her temples

...​

Later, as the class paired off again for flow drills, Ahsoka ended up across from him.

She tried to hide her smirk.

He noticed anyway.

"I have improved," he declared. "Witness my form."

He lunged again—faster than before, surprisingly fluid—then stumbled as his foot caught on his own robe.

Ahsoka grabbed his arm and yanked him upright before he could fully faceplant.

He blinked at her.

"You are the wind beneath my footing," he said solemnly.

"You're holding the hilt too low."

"What?"

She stepped behind him, adjusted his grip with both hands, and nudged his elbow up.

"There," she said. "Better balance. Less risk of smacking yourself in the face."

Ben raised the blade. Tried the move again. Slower. Cleaner.

"…Oh," he said. "That does feel better."

"Told you."

"Do I owe you my life now?"

"You owe me lunch."

"Done."

They stayed like that a beat longer than necessary. Twin sabers buzzing quietly, not yet dangerous—but full of future potential.

Ben turned to face her again, eyebrow raised.

"You're kind of good at this," he said.

She didn't smile. Not really. But her grip tightened.

"So are you," she said. "When you're not pretending you're in a holo-drama."

He grinned.

Then immediately dropped his blade again.

The Jedi Archive lecture hall was as quiet as a tomb and twice as intimidating.

Polished stone walls. A holoprojector the size of a starship engine. Rows of tiered seating built for initiates who didn't swing their legs, fidget constantly, or kick the chairs in front of them.

So naturally, Ben was all three.

Ahsoka adjusted her seat and straightened her spine. She liked lectures. They were structured. Logical. There was usually a test afterward, and she loved tests.

Ben, beside her, was already tilting sideways.

"I think I can see my soul leaving my body," he whispered, voice low and dramatic. "Tell my snacks I love them."

Ahsoka elbowed him without looking.

The doors slid open, and the room sat up straighter as a tall, robed figure entered—long beard, longer face, and the kind of forehead you could land a speeder on.

A few students gasped in awe.

Ben leaned over and whispered, "Behold, Master Forehead. He sees all. Especially droid attacks on wookiees."

Ahsoka covered her mouth with her hand and pretended not to snort.

"Good morning, young ones," said Master Ki-Adi-Mundi, bowing his head solemnly. "It is an honor to speak with you today about Jedi diplomacy, responsibility, and the moral burden of authority."

Ahsoka sat forward, ears perked. Her montrals twitched with interest. This was important. This was real Jedi stuff. She could already feel her mind focusing, drawing in the knowledge like sunlight through a lens.

Ben poked her side with the stylus he wasn't using.

"Moral burden," he whispered. "Translation: 'Oops, we accidentally caused another galactic incident.'"

"Shhh," she whispered back.

"I'm helping you internalize the lesson."

"You're going to internalize my fist."

"Compassion, Ahsoka. Jedi virtue."

Ki-Adi-Mundi spoke in long, careful sentences.

He described the role of the Jedi in planetary disputes—how they must remain impartial, even when injustice seems obvious. How the Council must weigh each intervention with solemn clarity. How peace, not politics, is the goal.

It was… inspiring, in a way Ahsoka hadn't expected.

She already knew she wanted to be a Knight, but this was more than lightsabers and stances. This was about wisdom. Knowing when not to act. The restraint to let the Force guide you.

She raised her hand.

The Master nodded.

"Yes, young one?"

Ahsoka stood, speaking clearly. "If the Jedi serve peace, but the Republic chooses war, how do we serve both without compromising either?"

A quiet passed through the room.

Ki-Adi-Mundi smiled—not the patronizing smile adults gave when kids asked a "good try" question, but something… thoughtful.

"A valuable inquiry," he said. "One that even Masters must meditate upon. The answer lies in our intent. We do not serve power. We serve balance."

Ahsoka felt the words settle in her chest.

They mattered.

Then Ben's hand shot up.

Ahsoka's eyes widened. No.

"Yes, young one?" the Master asked.

Ben stood, completely composed.

"If the Jedi Code is about principles," he began sweetly, "why are most of our rules about procedures? Like, are we wise monks… or space librarians with lightsabers?"

A beat.

A long, long beat.

Ki-Adi-Mundi's face was a lesson in composed confusion.

"…That is a… very interesting way to phrase it."

"I'm workshopping," Ben said, nodding. "But seriously—how much of the Code is the Force, and how much is committee meetings?"

Ahsoka groaned softly into her sleeve.

Ki-Adi-Mundi gave a deeply Jedi answer: "There is wisdom in tradition. But not all tradition is wisdom. What matters is the will of the Force."

Ben sat down slowly, nodding like he'd just solved mortality.

"Translation," he whispered: "'Yes.'"

The lecture wrapped after several more high-concept metaphors and historical footnotes. Ahsoka kept her eyes front and center, even while Ben continued passing her little datapad sketches—one of Ki-Adi-Mundi's head orbiting a council room like a moon, another of a Jedi duel with the caption "Emotion is forbidden, but swordfighting is encouraged."

She was going to confiscate his stylus one day.

But later. For now… she was sort of glad he was here. Even if he never shut up.

...​

After the class ended, Ahsoka was collecting her notes when Ki-Adi-Mundi approached her.

"You asked a very mature question," he said kindly. "The Temple needs minds like yours."

She beamed. "Thank you, Master."

He glanced behind her, where Ben was pretending to be tangled in his own robes. "This is most severe."

"…Is your friend always like that?"

Ahsoka didn't even pause. "Only when he's awake."

...​

There are few moments in life when one can truly say: I have peaked as a person.

One of them is sneaking into a restricted meditation chamber, rewiring the ancient swivel base of a High Council meditation chair to rotate exactly 30 degrees every fifteen seconds… and living to tell the tale.

I am a legend.

I am also trying very hard not to laugh while Master Mace Windu discusses the sanctity of inner stillness.

"This chamber," he said in his Very Serious Voice, "is a place of discipline, control, and attunement. The Force cannot speak through chaos. Only calm."

Thirty seconds passed.

His chair turned slightly.

Nobody noticed. Yet.

I breathed through my nose, zen as heck.

We were seated in a wide circle of plush floor cushions, bathed in soft natural light filtering through transparisteel skylights. Everything smelled faintly of temple incense and expectations.

Mace Windu sat in the central instructor's chair—one of those big meditative ones with the carved base and unreasonably perfect posture enforcement. Probably designed by a team of Jedi chiropractors.

The thing was ancient. And now, slightly motorized.

"You must learn to release distraction," Windu continued. "To breathe with purpose. To hear the Force not as a whisper, but a current. Always flowing."

Whirrrr.

The chair moved again.

A full thirty degrees now. He was no longer facing the class. Just… slightly to the left.

Ahsoka kicked me under the cushion.

Don't you dare, her eyes said.

I am innocent, mine replied.

Windu paused, slightly adjusting his shoulders. He didn't turn the chair back. Just kept going. Like a professional.

I was sweating from the effort of not bursting out laughing.

"Emotion is not the enemy," Windu said next. "Attachment is. The inability to let go."

I nodded sagely, like I hadn't spent the morning requiring a High Council Jedi Masters seat as a joke. If anything, my ability to let go may be a little more compromised than most.

The chair turned again. A little more noticeable this time.

Now he was at a three-quarters angle. Speaking to a wall.

No one dared comment.

A few students were visibly holding their breath.

Mace didn't even twitch. He just kept going.

"In your future training," he said slowly, "you will be tempted to act from impulse. To embrace your instincts without discipline. This is the path to failure."

I don't know, Master. Acting on my impulses seems to be working pretty well, for me.

His chair turned again.

Now he was facing the back of the room.

He didn't move. He didn't speak.

Silence fell.

I did not blink.

Slowly, very slowly, Master Windu rotated the chair back to center. By hand.

Or rather, with the Force.

He looked at each of us in turn.

Measured.

Serene.

Terrifying.

Then his gaze landed on me.

He stared.

I stared back.

This was the final duel. The arena of wills. The Force may bind the galaxy, but this—this was personal.

The seconds dragged on. Students began to squirm.

Windu didn't blink.

Neither did I.

We were locked in combat.

Somewhere, a bird called. It was probably judged.

But, it was at this point, staring directly against the Master of the Order, that I remembered this was the Jedi with the secret bullshit ability of shatterpoint. I may have chosen a poor target.

At last, Windu stood.

"I trust," he said softly, "that you will reflect on this lesson."

He left the chair slightly turned to the side.

Message received.

...​

That evening, I found a note on my bunk.

No signature. No handwriting.

Just a single line, printed with eerie precision:

You are being watched.

I taped it to my wall like a trophy.

"Worth it," I whispered.

...​

Obi-Wan stood silently at the back of the room, arms folded behind his back, posture carefully neutral.

Just observing.

Not interfering.

Absolutely not checking in on the child he had definitely not fathered during a deeply inadvisable offworld affair with a Mandalorian duchess during their late teenage rebellion years.

He was simply… present. A supportive presence. For morale.

Master Solin, seated cross-legged at the front of the class, continued her lecture on the intersection of Jedi philosophy and planetary law. The initiates around her listened attentively, datapads balanced on their laps.

Well.

Most of them.

Ben Kryze was seated off-center, one knee tucked under the other, his pad held diagonally like it had personally offended him. He appeared to be doodling a lightsaber duel between two Senators.

Ahsoka Tano—smaller, straighter, sharper in posture—kept glancing between her notes and Ben's sketchpad like she was silently weighing the merits of homicide.

Obi-Wan allowed himself the faintest twitch of a smile.

They balanced each other. Force help them all.

"…And in systems where local marriage law conflicts with the Republic standard," Solin was saying, "Jedi neutrality must be maintained. You are not arbiters of morality—only of peace."

Ben raised a hand.

Solin hesitated.

"Yes, Initiate Kryze?"

Ben looked entirely innocent. That alone should have been cause for alarm.

"So. Not to, like, derail the entire class. But—hypothetically—what happens if a Jedi does get married?"

Obi-Wan stopped breathing for exactly one second.

Solin blinked. "They… don't. Jedi are forbidden from forming attachments."

"Right, right. That's the rule." Ben nodded, faux thoughtful. "But what if the marriage happens before they join the Order? Like, baby wedding. Weird, but legal in some systems."

Ahsoka sighed so hard montrals twitched.

"Also," Ben added, "what if it happens offworld, under a different name, and no one tells the Council? Would that still be attachment? Or is it just… aggressive privacy?"

Solin was staring like her soul had briefly exited the building.

"I—Initiate—"

"Or," Ben continued, "let's say two Jedi fall in love, but they never marry. A proxy does it. Technically it's a union. Does that count? Do they have to divorce? Do we even have divorce paperwork?"

Ahsoka's head hit the desk with a gentle thunk.

"I swear," she muttered, "this is your third loophole question this week."

"I'm a scholar," Ben said.

"You're a menace."

Obi-Wan rubbed the bridge of his nose, face angled just enough to remain hidden behind a decorative pillar. He was pretty sure his ears were red. Which was impressive. For someone with a beard.

Solin attempted a response: "The Jedi Code—"

Ben cut in cheerfully, "—is mostly interpreted by the Council, right? So, technically, if the Council allowed it—"

"Stop," Ahsoka begged.

"—then it's not a violation. It's an exception. In fact, what about the legend I heard of Master Ki-Adi-Mundi's wives—"

"Rumor!" Ahsoka snapped.

Ben blinked. "What?"

She turned to him, exasperated. "It's a rumor about Master Mundi having a harem, not a legend! How could you have a legend about someone who's still alive?!"

Ben leaned in, solemn. "Ask Mickey Mouse."

Ahsoka blinked. "Who?"

Ben stared at the ceiling. "The most powerful being in the universe. But we're getting off topic."

Solin had begun blinking very fast. Obi-Wan suspected she was dissociating.

Ben sat up straighter, undeterred. "All I'm saying is—if love is forbidden, but marriage is legally binding, where's the line? Couldn't two Jedi marry under local law, live in separate systems, and just… emotionally detach about it? What are the rules, here?"

Obi-Wan looked up at the ceiling and said a prayer to the Force.

It didn't answer.

Of course it didn't.

The lesson ended shortly afterward.

Solin dismissed the class with what was clearly a fabricated excuse—"self-study hour," she called it, but it had the tone of "I need a nap and a drink and maybe to scream into a pillow."

The initiates filed out quietly.

Ahsoka gave Ben a sideways shove as they passed him.

"You're going to get us banned from lectures."

"I'm helping us all learn," Ben said, grinning.

"You are not."

Obi-Wan watched them go. He couldn't help it.

Ben glanced up as he passed.

Their eyes met.

Ben gave a subtle, raised-eyebrow look that said I know.

Obi-Wan gave a subtle, exasperated nod that said No you don't.

Then Ben winked.

And Obi-Wan Kenobi—Jedi Knight, galactic peacekeeper, veteran of the Melida/Daan and Naboo crisis—swore under his breath.

"Force help me," he muttered. "He's mine."

...​

I think questioning the Jedi Order's stance on marriage and sex is completely valid, as they definitely seem to gloss over it every time someone asks. Their general policy is love is good, attachment is bad, and certain species have more privileges than others, if Master Forehead's harem of wives is anything go by. Heck, baby Yoda's dad is the Grandmaster of the Order.

Lot of double standards, here.

Makes you wonder, if Anakin was more open about his marriage, would there have even been any consequences?

The Chosen One already got the nepo-baby privilege of being a late-in-life Jedi, after missing the drop-off age. Chances are pretty good that he would have just gotten a pass on this, too. Must be nice having the Force as your dad.

But, I digress. Thank you all for reading! Stay tuned for tomorrow's chapter.

Or, if you despise waiting, you can always check out my Patreon, link below:

My Patreon

 

[Despacitoleo]

Haha he has to raise his bastard sone he sired

 

[HoxShorelight]

The day Ben meet Anakin Skywalker is the day the light side is gonna cry while the Dark side will rub his hands like Mr Burn and crackle "excellent"

 

[Rustic]

The day Ben meet Anakin Skywalker is the day the light side is gonna cry while the Dark side will rub his hands like Mr Burn and crackle "excellent"

Click to shrink...

What if.... The council makes an exception and both are Anakin Skywalker Padawans.

 

[HoxShorelight]

What if.... The council makes an exception and both are Anakin Skywalker Padawans.

Click to shrink...

Then Sky Guy might turn to the Dark Side faster than canon by 2 years

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thanks for the chapter. Great so far, we need Anakin POV

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 4: Letters from Home

Meditation was a sacred Jedi discipline, meant to center the soul, still the mind, and banish distraction.

I was currently hiding behind a statue of an ancient Jedi Master with half her nose chipped off, typing as fast as possible on a datapad I had most definitely not borrowed permanently from the Temple Archives.

So yes. I was technically meditating. On the consequences of being raised in a political lie.

And maybe also on regional unrest.

With a side of passive aggression.

Encrypted Message: Outbound / Level-2 Disguise Layer: Academic Inquiry

TO: Duchess Satine Kryze, Mandalore (allegedly my aunt)

CC: Korkie "Technically My Twin, Even Though We're Not Identical" Kryze, Age 7, Aspiring Political Martyr

FROM: Temple Student "Ben" (Codename: Definitely Not the Child of a Jedi and a Duchess, That Would Be Ridiculous)

SUBJECT: Regional Ethics and Mandalorian Domestic Law, or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Start Hacking the Archives

Dear Aunt Satine,

Meditation is going great. I'm very centered. Enlightened, even.

Today's lesson was about surrendering emotional attachments to achieve true peace, and nothing says inner serenity like pretending your own family doesn't exist.

We also studied the concept of legal non-involvement in planetary conflict. I raised my hand and asked if that extended to family civil wars. Master Windu blinked slowly and told me to reflect on my silence. I found that very meaningful.

Also, unrelated question: If someone hypothetically trained me in diplomacy and gave me an heirloom vibroblade, what kind of message would that send?

Asking for a me.

The screen blinked at me, waiting for more.

I shifted, knees folded beneath me on the cold marble floor, one hand tucked in my sleeve so I could hide the datapad if someone walked by. My cloak was bunched up behind me like a nest. I called it strategic camouflage. The archivists called it "a tripping hazard."

From beyond the statue alcove, I heard footsteps and a distant lecture voice droning about "unified balance in posture." The other initiates were doing their actual afternoon meditation. I was doing emotional recon and encrypted intergalactic communications.

Everyone has their role.

"You know you're the worst at hiding," Ahsoka's voice whispered.

I didn't jump. I almost jumped, but I didn't.

She crouched down beside me, montrals twitching slightly under her hood.

"You weren't followed, right?" I whispered dramatically.

"Obviously," she said. "I used the baby Rodian decoy plan. She lives to cause distractions."

"Nice."

"Also, Master Tyyyvak thinks you're in solo meditation. I may have implied you were working through inner shame."

"Even better."

"Did you at least write something poetic and angsty?"

I showed her the datapad.

She squinted. "'How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Start Hacking the Archives.' Seriously?"

"What? It's catchy."

"You are so lucky Jedi can't get grounded."

...​

She leaned her head against the statue, watching me edit.

"You miss her?" she asked.

I didn't answer right away.

Instead, I kept typing:

Korkie,

If Bo-Katan actually blew up a mining cruiser this time, you are legally required to describe it in detail and include the splash radius.

Also, if she says she's not your mom again, she's right. Stop arguing with her. She legally couldn't have twins at fifteen, and this whole plan to blame everything on her is falling apart.

I know "aunt" Satine says we're her nephews, that's because she probably doesn't want to admit she's our mom, but still wanted us to live with her. It's not that complicated. I really don't know what you want me to say. Maybe you should be more likable if you want that parental recognition?

It's fine. I'm fine. Enlightenment, et cetera.

"I miss all of them." I admitted. "But my place is with the Jedi."

For now.

Ahsoka sighed. "You really think they'll read between the lines?"

"Oh, definitely." I smirked. "Satine loves subtext. It's how she communicates. That and pretending everything is diplomatic procedure."

"Sound familiar."

I ignored her.

From the hall, a soft set of boots approached.

Ahsoka's posture straightened instantly. "Someone's coming."

I flipped the datapad under my cloak and crossed my legs like I had always been meditating and wasn't hiding behind a statue illegally texting a Duchess.

The approaching figure turned the corner.

A Knight. Human. Tall, tired, not too observant.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Everything alright here?"

"Yes, Master," Ahsoka said smoothly. "Ben's in personal reflection."

The Knight looked at me. I made my most serene face.

"I'm meditating on the consequences of regional unrest," I said.

Ahsoka kicked me.

The Knight gave us a look that screamed I don't get paid enough for this, nodded, and left.

We exhaled.

"I can't believe that worked," I whispered.

"I can't believe you said that," Ahsoka muttered.

We huddled back down. I resumed typing.

P.S. Please tell Bo-Katan that if she wants to join a violent insurgency, fine. But I want royalties on the family scandal if it ever gets turned into a holodrama.

P.P.S. Master Tyyyvak says to be mindful of one's breathing. I would like to add: easier said than done when your lungs are full of unresolved childhood questions.

Ahsoka peeked over my shoulder again. "You're going to get caught eventually."

"Probably."

"And then what?"

I shrugged. "I'm seven. What are they going to do? Arrest me?"

"You'd probably talk your way into juvenile Sith detention and like it."

"I'd unionize it."

"Ugh. Just finish your secret manifesto, idiot."

I grinned.

Final lines:

Mandalore may be neutral, but my feelings aren't.

I hope the revolution is interesting.

Please don't let Korkie touch any explosives. He means well, but he's also Korkie.

With restrained affection,

—Ben

P.S. (Last one) Tell the guard who reads this that she has nice hair. But also, this message self-erases in 30 seconds. Just so everyone knows I'm serious.

I hit send.

The datapad blinked twice, encrypted transmission dispersing across six offworld relays.

Gone.

Ahsoka leaned back, arms behind her head. "You're lucky I like you," she said.

"Don't lie," I said. "You like the drama."

She smirked. "I am the drama."

We stayed there behind the statue for a few extra minutes.

Meditating, maybe.

Just a little.

...​

The datapad screen flickered to life under Korkie's pillow. He squinted at it, then pulled it out with the air of a spy receiving urgent orders. The encryption cracked itself open with a satisfying chirp, and there it was.

Ben's message.

Korkie sat up straight in bed, ignoring the muffled sounds of arguing adults from the palace hall and the faint crump of something exploding somewhere on the lower levels. (Hopefully not the laundry room again.)

He tapped open the message, read it twice—snorted—and immediately opened a reply window. The dim light cast dramatic shadows across his face, which he did not notice but would have appreciated.

His fingers flew across the screen:

TO: Jedi Temple Student "Ben" (Codename: Still Probably My Brother)

FROM: Korkie Kryze, Official Heir to Satine's Passive-Aggressive Legacy

SUBJECT: RE: Your Pathologically Calm Correspondence

Dear Ben,

Bo-Katan did not blow up a mining cruiser. She blew up a mining shuttle. It was only mildly explosive. She says it was "a precision strike" and not "a mood." I said maybe her mood should involve fewer concussions. She threatened to enroll me in a live-fire exercise.

Anyway, she's been wearing this black and red armor lately, which she says is "the aesthetic of serious intent." I think it looks like she lost a bet. But don't tell her I said that or I'll have to write my next message from the ceiling ductwork.

Korkie paused and added a crayon-sketched map—messily scanned and digitally attached. It had HERE THERE BE TRAITORS written across one corner and a stick figure labeled "Bo?" holding a lightsaber and a mug.

Included Map: "Where I Think the Revolution Is Probably Happening"

(Note: May not be to scale. Or geographically accurate.)

So. Updates. Satine's been doing the whole "I'm too dignified for emotions" thing lately, which means she's either going to cry or declare a planetary summit. Possibly both.

Also, I saw what you said last time, and no, Satine is definitely our aunt. She told me, and she never lies, except about snacks. And bedtime. And her actual feelings. But not about this.

So if we're twins, which we are, and Satine is our aunt, which she is, that means Bo-Katan is our mom. It's basic math, Ben. I don't know why you keep making it weird.

Outside his bedroom, something thunked against the wall. Korkie didn't flinch.

He added a new paragraph:

Bo says I should focus less on "conspiracy theories" and more on "survival training." I said knowledge is survival. She muttered something about training you both to be Mandalorians anyway, if the Jedi don't "muck it up." Then she threw a vibroknife into a table leg. It was very cool. I clapped.

I tried asking her if she's ever stolen a baby. She said I was being "unhelpful" and then grounded me. Not that grounding works when you have a datapad, and a network, and a deeply encrypted comms relay installed in your wall sconce. Which she still doesn't know about.

From the doorway, a faint voice called, "Korkie! Lights out!"

"Already did!" he shouted, and then dramatically hit dim mode. The screen lowered its brightness like a conspirator.

He finished with flourish:

Anyway, tell your Jedi friends that if they give you a buzzcut I will personally write a speech about hair freedom and read it on the Senate floor. I think we're still technically royalty, so I'm allowed to do that. I have a sash.

Stay safe, don't join the Sith, unless it's for infiltration purposes, and remember: if you go dark side, I call dibs on being your dramatic foil.

With definitely platonic brotherly affection,

—Korkie

...​

In a quieter corner of the palace, lit only by moonlight through a tall pane of crystalglass, Satine Kryze sat reading the letter on her own tablet.

How her son—nephews thought he could get away with encrypting anything under her roof, was a mystery beyond her, and most parents.

She didn't laugh. But the corner of her mouth twitched.

When she reached the line about being a war criminal, she closed her eyes for a long, deep breath—and then gently tucked the tablet away inside the folds of her robe.

She didn't answer aloud.

But later that night, her personal aide noticed that the Duchess requested a diplomatic communique "with embedded cultural queries" to be drafted for Coruscant.

One that included a footnote on the Jedi Order's stance on attachment. And a second on whether Jedi children were allowed to correspond with "extended family."

...​

Obi-Wan Kenobi was not one to check flagged Temple communications. That was the work of droids, archivists, and the occasional overzealous Knight with too much time on their hands.

But the alert had come through a discretionary filter—anonymous tip, high-priority keyword match, "external correspondence." It wouldn't have drawn his attention, if not for the name embedded in the encryption header:

Kryze, Satine.

His hand hovered above the terminal. The message hadn't been fully decrypted yet. He didn't know who had sent it. Not officially.

But he knew.

He exhaled quietly and slid his access card through the reader.

The Temple hallway behind him was quiet, dim in the late evening. Most initiates were in their dormitories. Most Masters in meditation or review.

He tapped the screen.

A message began to unfold.

Encrypted Outgoing Transmission

Origin: Temple Crèche Subnet / User Alias: "Ben"

Disguise Layer: Academic Inquiry – Mandalorian Domestic Law

Attached Metadata: Timestamp, relay trace, emotion tag (masked poorly)

Primary Recipient: Duchess Satine Kryze

Secondary Recipient: Civilian – Kryze, Korkie

Content Preview:

"…if Bo-Katan wants to join a violent insurgency, fine, but I want royalties if this ever gets adapted into a holodrama…"

"…tell the guard who reads this she has nice hair. But this message self-erases in 30 seconds…"

Obi-Wan closed his eyes.

Of course it was Ben.

He hadn't seen the boy for several days—not closely, not outside his regular updates from Master Tyyyvak and the crèche instructors. Ben had been… stable. Energetic. Argumentative. Brilliant. Troublesome in that very specific way that left instructors shaking their heads and muttering, "He's got so much potential."

And now he was writing letters to Mandalore's ex-leader. To Satine.

No. Not "to." He was writing to her. Not as a political figure.

As something closer.

Obi-Wan closed the access log. He didn't read the entire message.

He didn't have to.

The metadata said enough.

Ben had been communicating with her for a while. Carefully. Encrypted. Slipping through Temple systems just cleverly enough to avoid daily detection—until now.

The system only caught it by coincidence: an anonymous report from a cranky protocol droid who flagged the term "violent insurgency" during a random scan. Lucky. Or not.

Obi-Wan rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

The hallway was too bright.

His chamber was simple. Clean. Empty in the way that Jedi quarters always were: uncluttered, unassuming. A meditation mat. A shelf of texts. One plant he forgot to water. A lightsaber hilt on the table.

He keyed the door shut behind him and sat.

He let the silence settle.

Then pulled up the message again.

Not the text this time. Just the header. The encryption trail. The metadata.

A youngling had no business knowing how to route through offworld relays.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

"You're too clever for your own good," he muttered.

It wasn't just the message.

It was the intent.

Ben knew the Code. He'd been raised in it, lectured in it, recited it—badly, rebelliously, but often. And yet he was still doing this. Still reaching back toward home. Still writing.

Still attached.

The Jedi taught that attachment led to suffering. That clinging invited fear. That even love—particularly love—was a path to chaos.

But what about the ones born from it?

What about the ones left behind?

Obi-Wan remembered Satine's voice as they watched the children, playing in the courtyard.

"You said the Jedi take them young," she whispered, after her sister left earshot. "You didn't say how young."

"I never wanted to worry you." He whispered back. "We don't have to take him. He can still be raised here. With you."

"It's not about me." Satine's hands had shaken. "It's about what's best for Ben. He needs help. The kind that I can't give him. But you can. He needs you. Be there for him. Please."

She hadn't cried.

Not then.

But Obi-Wan remembered thinking she might.

He looked back at the terminal.

The message sat waiting. Flagged. Archived. Labeled for report.

He hovered his fingers above the alert window.

Then closed it.

He deleted the security flag. The message itself? He left untouched. Just… archived.

For now.

He would not report it. Not yet. But he would keep an eye on Ben. More than before. More than the usual careful Jedi watchfulness.

This was not detachment. It wasn't indulgence, either. It was something else.

Responsibility. Maybe even… guilt.

A chime echoed faintly in the corridor outside—lights dimming for night cycle.

Obi-Wan sat motionless.

Then, slowly, he turned off the terminal.

The chamber smelled like dust and clean steel. The ventilation hummed softly overhead. Somewhere in the distance, someone was arguing over shipping permits. Satine barely registered it.

She sat at her desk, posture regal, datapad in hand—held at just the right angle that a passing guard might think she was reviewing a diplomatic report. That was what she'd told them, after all.

"Routine foreign update. Communications from Coruscant. Standard trade brief."

Not technically a lie. There was a trade brief embedded in the footer.

But her eyes were on the message above it.

For the fifth time.

TO: Duchess Satine (Aunt Extraordinaire, Ruler of Reasonable People)

FROM: Definitely-Not-Your-Son (Codename: Jedi Hopeful, Chaos Edition)

SUBJECT: Political Memo (Definitely Not Personal)

Dear Duchess Satine,

Please note that your recent remarks on Republic infrastructure were not well-received by the eight-year-old Senator I'm being forced to study. He called you "intense." I called him "unqualified to comment on Mandalorian policy." Master Tyyyvak made me mop the hallway.

The Jedi say attachment leads to suffering, but I think they've never read one of your speeches. I reread your comments on regional unrest while pretending to meditate. If Master Forehead asks, I was contemplating the Force. Or maybe agriculture. Something boring.

Temple life remains strange. The robes itch. Ahsoka beat me at Force tag. Again. The archivist droid hates me. (Not because of what I did. Because of who I am.)

If Bo-Katan tries to blow up another ship, please remind her I want royalties.

Yours in absolute legal compliance,

—Ben

The words were pure Ben.

Sharp-edged, clever, full of half-jokes and exaggerated deflections. Reading it hurt. It reminded so much of his father… and herself.

Satine blinked once, slowly, then reached for a stylus and began composing a reply—aloud.

For the benefit of the guard still standing near the entrance.

She didn't look at him, of course.

Merely kept her voice even.

TO: Initiate Ben (Jedi Temple)

FROM: Duchess Satine Kryze (Officially Your Aunt)

SUBJECT: Re: Political Memo / Diplomatic Clarifications

Ben,

Your insights into senatorial literacy are—as always—provocative. I recommend caution when critiquing Republic representatives, especially those who cry easily. Diplomacy demands both restraint and tact. Though, I concede, mopping does build character.

Your meditations on the Force (and/or agriculture) are noted with interest. In future communications, feel free to expand upon your theories on regional stability, or at least include footnotes. I'm told the archivist droid appreciates proper citation.

Bo-Katan has been informed of your concerns. She laughed. Then muttered something about napalm. I'll… keep you posted.

Strength is not silence. You are not alone.

Yours, in accordance with all Republic protocol,

—Satine

She tapped the send key, and the encryption folded the message into its layered mask of political formality.

When the datapad blinked its green confirmation light, she finally exhaled.

Her fingers remained pressed to the screen.

"You're still pretending," she murmured, almost too quiet to hear. "Still pretending to be someone else, my child."

The words slipped from her like breath—half-smile tugging at her mouth.

Four years wasn't long. Not in galactic terms. Not in war. Not in policy. But for a mother…

…For a mother, it was a lifetime.

Even if no one called her that.

If only she told Obi-Wan how much she wanted him to stay. Both of them. Would they be able to raise their boys together? Would Satine have had the family she so desperately craved, and needed. Especially after the tragedies hers has endured already.

But one could spend a lifetime looking back. It was a curse to imagine "if only". Obi-Wan has his duties. She has hers. And Ben will have his, too. Though, perhaps, if she truly believed that, she would not be responding to his messages.

… everyone can be a little hypocritical sometimes.

...​

The blanket over my head made it hard to breathe, but at least it muffled the glow of the datapad. The Force teaches patience, serenity, inner peace.

I had none of those right now.

I tapped the screen again. Just once more.

TO: Initiate Ben (Jedi Temple)

FROM: Duchess Satine Kryze (Officially Your Aunt)

SUBJECT: Re: Political Memo / Diplomatic Clarifications

Ben,

Your insights into senatorial literacy are—as always—provocative. I recommend caution when critiquing Republic representatives, especially those who cry easily. Diplomacy demands both restraint and tact. Though, I concede, mopping does build character.

Your meditations on the Force (and/or agriculture) are noted with interest. In future communications, feel free to expand upon your theories on regional stability, or at least include footnotes. I'm told the archivist droid appreciates proper citation.

Bo-Katan has been informed of your concerns. She laughed. Then muttered something about napalm. I'll… keep you posted.

Strength is not silence. You are not alone.

Yours, in accordance with all Republic protocol,

—Satine

I stared at that last line.

Strength is not silence. You are not alone.

That wasn't a diplomatic line.

That was her.

That was mine.

"Still up?" A voice mumbled near my elbow.

Ahsoka shifted next to me, half-asleep and warm. She always curled like a loth-cat in winter, fists tucked near her face, head buried under her pillow. And with the terrifying habit of sneaking into my bed. Seriously, I have the Force. How can I not sense her? Was I really that distracted?

On the bright side, now I knew she was there. But on the downside, I had to deal with her eyes blinking open under the blanket, catching the blue screen's reflection, as she stared at me, unrelentingly.

"Just… checking for regional instability," I whispered.

She squinted at me. "Is that what you call homesickness?"

I rolled onto my back and sighed. "Don't Jedi not get homesick?"

"We're not Jedi yet," she muttered. "So I think we're okay… probably. Maybe don't tell anyone."

I didn't answer. Just passed her the datapad.

She read it quietly, her mouth twitching a little at the bit about Bo-Katan. By the end, she didn't smile. She just nodded and whispered, "If she's not your mom, she's the best fake one I've ever seen."

I didn't say anything for a moment.

"Yeah. She's… trying."

...​

You know, I'm not saying if the Order just let Anakin occasionally exchange messages with his mother, that she wouldn't have been tortured and killed by Sand People. But I'm not not saying that, either. If you catch my meaning.

Not that it excuses the excessive amount of child murder Anakin went on to do.

#JusticeForSandPeople

Anyways, that's it for today's chapter. Sorry it's a little short, the next one will have a bit more content, I swear. Stay tuned to check it out, tomorrow.

Or, if you don't want to wait, feel free to support me on my Patreon and read ahead, link below:

My Patreon

 

[HoxShorelight]

I'm both want Ben to stay a Jedi until the first battle of Genosis maybe until his "aunt" almost got murder on Coruscant to quit go back home , take over Death Watch and protect Mandalore from Dooku , Pre Vizla and Maul , forge himself an armor while he at it.

 

[PepeDeLosPalotes]

Thanks for the chapter

 

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 5: Obi-Wan Kenobi and the Disappointment Spreadsheet

Obi-Wan Kenobi had faced many trials in his life: Sith Lords, galactic disputes, ankle-biting Senators. But none compared to the silent, soul-draining torment of updating the Jedi Progress Tracker.

The datapad flickered in front of him, its pristine white interface glowing like the judgmental smile of the Force itself.

He tapped the stylus against the edge of the pad. "Let's begin the pain."

The first row: Initiate: Ben Kryze

Lightsaber Forms: Intermediate progression, favored Soresu.

Meditation Log: Cryptic. (Entry 7: "The river flows upstream when you punch the stream hard enough.")

Disciplinary Actions: None—though several eyebrow raises were noted.

Recurring Question: "Can Jedi marry if it's for political reasons?"

Obi-Wan sighed, dragging his stylus over the last entry and tapping "delete." The screen gave a sympathetic chime. He didn't appreciate the tone."I am raising Satine with a lightsaber," he muttered.

The Force did not disagree.

Next row: Padawan: Anakin Skywalker

Lightsaber Forms: All of them. Simultaneously. On fire.

Meditation Log: Absent. (Excuse: "Meditation is for people who don't have rocket boots.")

Disciplinary Actions: Forty-two incidents and counting.

Notable Entry: "Confiscated pod-like speeder from lower levels. Claimed it was 'educational.' Crash resulted in minor Senate panic."

Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd only looked away for an hour. An hour.

A polite cough echoed behind him.

"Master Kenobi," came the voice of Jocasta Nu, ancient and judging. "Still logging emotional disruptions in place of actual progress?"

He gave her a bland smile, the kind that only barely concealed the internal screaming.

"Master Nu," he said, "your wisdom is, as ever, sharp enough to trim my patience."

She leaned in, peering over his shoulder with narrowed eyes. "I see Skywalker's log is… colorful."

Obi-Wan flipped the screen discreetly, revealing Ben's entries again. "Just taking a break from the fireworks."

"Mm. The younger one," she said, adjusting her spectacles. "The Mandalorian. Precocious. Tends to sit upside-down in the Archives and quote the Jedi Code backward."

Obi-Wan gave a defeated nod. "Yes, he refers to it as 'Sith-proofing.' I believe he's joking. Most days."

Jocasta sniffed. "A Jedi does not joke."

"He does," Obi-Wan muttered, scrolling down to a note labeled: Ben built a paper mâché Holocron titled "Definitely Not a Trap."

The silence stretched long and uncomfortable.

"I had to confiscate it," Obi-Wan added, in case she assumed he encouraged the behavior.

Jocasta's expression suggested she assumed it anyway. "You'll need to monitor him more closely. We've received reports of encrypted outbound messages from within the younglings' dormitory. I'm sure you're aware."

His stomach sank. "I am."

He didn't mention that he'd already seen one—had, in fact, quietly removed the flag on it. The sender was technically anonymous, but the encryption was stylized in such a way that only one small Mandalorian menace could be responsible.

The fact that Ben's encryption header included the phrase "Aunt Satine's Completely Legal Homework Assignment" was… not subtle.

Still, Obi-Wan had chosen not to intervene. Not yet. Not unless it crossed a line.

"Have any of the messages been read?" he asked, carefully neutral.

"Only the headers," Jocasta said, sharp eyes still boring into him. "But should we discover emotional compromise, the Council may be forced to reconsider certain placements."

He smiled again, brittle as a Hoth sunrise. "Understood."

Jocasta wandered off, robes sweeping the floor with the arrogance of a librarian who believed herself omniscient. Obi-Wan waited until she was out of earshot before sighing and slumping against the archive terminal like a man defeated.

He tapped his stylus again. The datapad blinked at him, waiting.

He scrolled back to Ben's file and added a new line:

General Status: Meditating. Probably scheming.

Then he walked out of the Archives, datapad tucked under one arm like a physical weight. The hallway outside was sunlit and quiet, the stone warm beneath his boots.

He didn't trust Jocasta Nu. Well—he did. In the same way one might trust a vibroblade to be sharp and placed exactly where you would sit down without looking.

The truth was, he didn't know what he was doing.

Ben was different. Smart—dangerously so. Not just bright, but aware. Like he already knew the rules of the game and was waiting for someone to catch up.

He had his mother's eyes. That terrifying blend of wit and weariness. And Obi-Wan had no idea how to reach him without either hurting him—or being hurt himself.

He stopped walking.

Then, on impulse, he opened the Progress Tracker one more time and typed a private note under a locked field.

Personal Observation (Hidden):

"Ben Kryze is highly intelligent, emotionally guarded, and prone to questions that Jedi doctrine is not built to answer. He is neither lost nor disobedient—but he is watching me, and I think he knows more than I do about how this ends. Force help me, I hope I don't fail him too."

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then, after a hesitation, he added:

"Also, confiscated a crayon drawing from Anakin titled: 'Me vs. Every Sith Ever.' His lightsaber appears to be on fire. Again. I don't think he understands how Kyber crystals work."

With a grim smile, he clicked the datapad shut.

It was going to be a long week.

...​

It started, as these things usually did, with someone bigger than me trying to hit me in the face with a training saber.

Not that I blamed him. Kylan was twice my size, all gangly limbs and righteous Padawan posture. The sort of kid who took every kata like it was life or death, and every correction from a Knight like it was a personal insult. His lightsaber style was clean, controlled, and—unfortunately for him—entirely predictable.

Which is why I ducked under his third overhead strike, pivoted past his left side, and tagged him in the ribs with a flourish that might've been unnecessary. Might've.

He stumbled back, panting. "You were taunting me."

"Incorrect," I said. "I was demonstrating superiority."

The training sabers powered down with a hiss. Master Tyyyvak let out a low Wookiee huff from across the mat, somewhere between "sigh" and "grumble." She didn't even have to say anything. Her disappointment could probably be weaponized.

"Okay," Kylan snapped. "Let's hear it. What was wrong with how I fought this time?"

"Well," I said, twirling my saber in a way I knew would annoy him, "it was competent. But also—how do I put this—embarrassingly derivative?"

"Derivative?" Kylan echoed, voice rising like I'd insulted his entire bloodline.

"Look, you're clearly doing Soresu," I said, "but watered down with Ataru footwork and Niman blade arcs. You've taken three elegant forms and combined them into a stylistic crime."

From the other mat, Ahsoka called out, "He's not wrong. You fight like a droid with commitment issues."

Kylan looked like he was about to combust. "This coming from you two?"

"I'm not saying we're better," I lied. "I'm saying we're interesting."

Ahsoka grinned at me across the sparring circle. "Speak for yourself. I am better."

Tyyyvak banged the end of her staff on the floor, a sound that echoed through the gym like a thunderclap. Even the older Padawans paused their drills. Somewhere in the rafters, a training droid beeped in alarm and powered down out of sheer instinct.

The silence was almost peaceful.

And then, the door hissed open.

Yoda entered.

That, by itself, would've been enough to make most younglings swallow their tongues. But what made it worse was that he didn't say anything. He just walked in, leaned on his gimer stick, and stared at us like we were a bad poem written on temple walls in permanent ink.

He looked from me, to Ahsoka, to Kylan. He sighed. Long. Deep. Spiritual.

Then he turned around and left.

"I feel like we just failed a test we didn't know we were taking," I muttered.

"Speak for yourself," Ahsoka said. "I've made him sigh worse. I'm a personal project."

Master Tyyyvak raised both furry arms and barked a full sentence in Shyriiwook, teeth visible, expression wild with Wookiee exasperation. Every syllable came out like thunder, low and textured and slightly singed at the edges.

Ahsoka lifted a hand to translate, then paused.

"Actually," she said, turning to me, "why don't you try translating? Let's see how much you've picked up."

Oh, great.

Okay, brain. Time to impress the only Wookiee Master who hasn't tried to throw me off a balcony yet.

I closed my eyes for a second and replayed the tones in my head. Shyriiwook wasn't a language so much as an avalanche of meaning. Pitch, volume, breath. Everything mattered. Which was cool… until you messed up one vowel and accidentally told a Wookiee their mother smelled like warm Bantha milk.

"She says," I began, cautiously, "that we fight well… but talk too much."

Tyyyvak nodded. That was a good sign.

I hesitated. "Especially me."

Tyyyvak crossed her arms. Still nodding.

"And… I can't argue."

A beat. Then she grunted a soft sound—amusement, maybe—and clapped a paw on my shoulder so hard I nearly folded in half.

Ahsoka gave me a thumbs-up from across the room. "Nice! She likes you."

"I think that was an affectionate death-threat," I whispered.

"You're learning."

Kylan groaned and sat down hard on the edge of the mat. "I still don't get how you two keep winning duels."

"It's because we're small," I said, flopping down next to him, "and low to the ground. Like chaos in compact packaging."

"It's because you get in our heads," Kylan muttered.

I looked at Ahsoka. "Should we tell him?"

She nodded solemnly. "Yeah."

We both leaned forward and said in perfect unison: "We live there now."

Kylan made a sound like a dying droid and fell back dramatically. "I give up."

Tyyyvak gave another long growl from the edge of the mat and began pointing to the next group of sparring pairs. Everyone scattered like they were fleeing a thermal detonator. Training resumed.

I stayed seated a moment longer, watching them move.

It wasn't that I didn't like sparring. I did. A lot. But sometimes, when I was still, I could hear the rest of the Temple humming—like I was plugged into something deeper than just footwork and saber arcs.

And today, something was off.

Maybe it was Yoda's sigh.

Maybe it was the way Master Tyyyvak's shoulders were just a bit too tight.

Maybe it was the knot in my stomach I couldn't quite explain.

I looked down at my training saber. The glow strip flickered gently, still warm from the spar. I ran a thumb over the emitter, thinking about how it wasn't real. Not yet. Not like the ones we'd build someday on Ilum.

Someday soon.

My gut twisted again.

"Hey," Ahsoka said, dropping down beside me, "you look like you're about to write a poem."

"Don't tempt me. I've got a whole notebook labeled 'If the Jedi Let Me Feel Things.'"

She laughed. "You okay?"

I shrugged. "Yeah. No. Maybe. Just thinking."

"Dangerous habit."

I bumped my shoulder against hers. "You're telling me."

She leaned back on her hands, squinting up at the skylight. "You know we're gonna be Padawans soon, right? Like, real ones. Chosen by a Master. Sent on missions. Given responsibilities."

I grimaced. "Don't remind me. I still can't even reach the top shelf in the cafeteria."

She snorted. "Obi-Wan's going to pick you. Everyone knows it."

I didn't answer right away.

Because the thing was—yeah. Probably.

But knowing it didn't make it safe.

And some part of me still wondered if it was a good idea. If he thought it was a good idea. Or if he was just… stuck. With me.

"Hey," Ahsoka said, nudging me. "You're doing that face thing again."

"Which one?"

"The one where you act like your brain is eating itself."

"Accurate."

I looked over at her. She was watching the other younglings train with this expression I couldn't quite read. Half proud, half sad. Like she was already somewhere else.

"You think we'll still be friends?" I asked, softly. "After we get assigned?"

She glanced at me. "Ben. We're already bonded for life by trauma and sarcasm."

That made me smile. "Good."

"Yeah," she said, her voice lighter now. "We're gonna be fine."

We both looked up at the rafters. A training droid sparked and spun in circles above us, completely unsupervised.

I thought about Ilum. About the kyber crystal calling my name.

About whatever was waiting on the other side of all this.

And I nodded. "Yeah. We are."

...​

There's a spot in the Jedi gardens where the stone paths loop around in a lazy circle, like whoever designed it got bored halfway through and just decided to copy-paste the same curve over and over. I liked it because it was quiet, shaded, and had benches you could sit on without someone judging your posture.

That's where I was heading when I spotted her.

At first, all I saw was a pair of boots hanging in the air. Just… dangling there.

It took me a second to realize there was a whole person attached, suspended upside down from a branch like a Zabrak-shaped fruit. She had her arms folded, eyes shut, horns catching dappled sunlight, and a look on her face like gravity was something that happened to other people.

Weird.

But not that weird.

Yoda once made Luke Skywalker meditate while doing a handstand. Or… he will. It's weird to reference future events in the past-tense, but who even knows if that future will come to pass. But, I'm getting off track. There's lots of ways to meditate, as long as it clears your mind. I'm not the best at sitting still, but moving katas always helps me to center myself. Ahsoka prefers the more traditional criss-cross applesauce approach, but to each their own.

So maybe this was just… her thing. Maybe some people connected with the Force better while all their blood rushed to their heads.

I leaned against the trunk. "So, uh… you okay up there?"

She didn't answer right away.

Finally, without opening her eyes, she said, "I am listening to the currents of the Force."

"Cool," I said. "I'm listening to the currents of blood pooling in your face. Who are you?"

"You don't know?" One golden eye cracked open. "You're in my crèche."

"I am?"

She blinked at me slowly, like she was deciding whether to acknowledge my existence or throw me into a bush. "You've been here for years."

"Sure, but that doesn't mean I remember anyone. Besides Ahsoka."

Her other eye opened, and now she was staring at me with both of them, which was worse. Zabraks always looked intense, but this one was weaponized intensity.

Something about her tugged at my brain. Not in the normal "I saw you in the cafeteria line once" way. No—this was the other kind of familiarity. The one that made you feel like you'd accidentally stepped sideways into a different franchise.

A presence I have not felt since… 2008.

Earth years, of course.

I have no idea what the year is in this galaxy. It's so hard to explain to everyone the concept of BBY when the Battle of Yavin hasn't happened yet. Maybe I should start using "ABN" — After the Battle of Naboo. That sounds reasonable. Ish.

What was I talking about?

Meh. I'm sure it was nothing important.

"Ben," she said suddenly. "That's your name, right?"

"Yep."

"I'm Maris Brood."

I nodded slowly. "Nice to meet you." Okay, it's seriously bothering me. Where do I know her from? Ugh. You'd think being a zabarak Jedi would have narrowed it down. Pretty sure she's the only one in the entire Order.

Don't quote me on that. I'm an initiate! I don't know everyone.

She didn't offer to shake my hand—hard to do upside down—but she gave a short, stiff nod like we'd just signed some kind of mutual non-aggression pact.

"So, Maris," I said, "is this a… regular meditation thing for you, or…?"

"I find the inversion sharpens the senses," she said, closing her eyes again. "It forces the mind to adjust to a different perspective."

"Yeah, I get that," I said. "I once did a meditation session while hanging halfway out of an air duct. Master Tyyyvak was not impressed."

Her brow furrowed slightly. "You sound… unserious."

"That's because I am," I said. "If I took the Force as seriously as it takes itself, I'd never sleep again."

That earned me a tiny smirk—just for a second, but I caught it.

I pulled myself onto the branch below hers. "So, what's your story? You've got the whole 'intense, aloof, possibly in training to overthrow the galaxy' vibe going."

She raised one eyebrow without opening her eyes. "And what vibe do you think you have?"

"Me?" I said. "I'm the guy who points out when someone's fighting style is embarrassingly derivative. Or," I added, "the guy who distracts people while Ahsoka wins the sparring match."

"Hmm." She tilted her head slightly, as if considering. "That explains the… energy."

We sat in silence for a bit. I listened to the leaves rustle, the faint hum of temple life drifting in from far away.

Finally, she asked, "Why are you here?"

"In the garden?"

"In the Temple."

"That's a big question," I said. "You first."

She didn't answer right away. Then: "To prove myself."

I snorted. "You and every other kid in the crèche."

Her eyes opened again, sharp. "Not like them."

There it was again—that flicker of something I couldn't place.

I shrugged. "Fair enough. I'm here because… well, because I'm supposed to be. And because they keep feeding me. That's really all it takes."

Her lips twitched like she was fighting another smile. "You're strange."

"Pot, meet kettle."

She shifted on the branch, flipping gracefully to land beside me, perfectly upright, not even wobbling. Her gaze lingered on me for a beat too long, like she was trying to read a page she half-remembered.

"See you around, Ben," she said, before walking off toward the inner courtyard.

I watched her go.

Yep. Definitely something off there.

The fun kind of off.

...​

Obi-Wan stood in the middle of the chamber, hands folded neatly into his sleeves, surrounded by twelve of the most powerful Jedi in the galaxy—most of whom were currently wearing the same expression: the polite but unmistakable face of someone bracing for bad news.

This was… not the most encouraging start to the conversation.

Still, he had a mission.

He'd come here intending to speak of Anakin's progress—his genuine progress. The boy had come far since Naboo, grown into his training, learned control. Well, learned some control. Enough, Obi-Wan thought, that he could begin to consider… alternatives.

The sooner Anakin was knighted, the sooner Obi-Wan could fulfill his promise to Qui-Gon and do right by his padawan. And the sooner he could turn his attention to a certain Mandalorian youngling, whose chances of aging out into the Service Corps grew with every passing year.

Ben deserved more than that. He deserved the chance to reach his potential—to be trained properly, by someone who would understand him. Someone who would not mistake sharp wit for arrogance or independence for defiance.

Even ignoring Ben's brightness, his determination, Obi-Wan made a promise to Satine that he would be there for his s—Satine's… nephew. Yes. Her nephew. And if Obi-Wan had to keep reminding himself of that, well, that was between him and the Force.

He owed it to the boy. The least he could do was train him.

Obi-Wan drew a calming breath and began.

"Masters, I wished to speak briefly regarding Anakin's development as a Padawan learner. He has shown marked improvement in the past year—"

"He stole a Republic StarCraft," Mace Windu interrupted, "and used it to 'podrace' in the lower districts, Kenobi."

Obi-Wan hesitated. "…In fairness, he did win."

Mace's eyebrow twitched.

A poor defense. Even to his own ears. But he was already in too deep. Best to double down… and this is why Jedi shouldn't gamble. As much as he adored his Master, he really did seem to pick up Qui-Gon's worst habits, hadn't he?

"And," Obi-Wan added, "he donated the winnings to an orphanage."

"That may be," Ki-Adi-Mundi said, leaning forward, "but in the process, he caused a six-speeder pileup. The pilots are still recovering."

"And," Mace said, "he renamed the craft 'Skyhopper Supreme.'"

Across the room, Plo Koon's mask shifted in a way Obi-Wan had learned to interpret as barely contained amusement.

Yoda's ears drooped slightly. "Fine line, there is, between valor and idiocy."

Obi-Wan inclined his head. "A line I am attempting to teach him to recognize. And I believe he is… gradually… learning."

Several of the Masters exchanged looks that suggested "gradually" was a charitable reading.

Depa Billaba spoke up. "We appreciate your dedication, Obi-Wan. But knighting a Jedi prematurely is dangerous. Even more so when that Jedi is…" She trailed off delicately.

"The Chosen One?" Obi-Wan supplied.

A faint smile tugged at her mouth. "Your words."

Obi-Wan kept his expression politely neutral. "If you wish my honest opinion, Masters, I believe Anakin is—"

"He also," Mace said, "attempted to negotiate peace between two swoop gangs last month by challenging both leaders to a race. Simultaneously."

"In his defense," Obi-Wan said smoothly, "that did work."

"Until," Mace said, "the gangs joined forces to try to recruit him."

Plo Koon made a low, thoughtful sound. "A certain… creative diplomacy."

Ki-Adi-Mundi pinched the bridge of his nose.

Yoda rapped his gimer stick lightly on the floor. "A Knight, young Skywalker is not. A handful, he is. Much work, still there is."

Obi-Wan inclined his head again, forcing himself not to sigh. The Council was immovable on this. They always were, until the moment they weren't—and Obi-Wan had no way of knowing when that moment would come.

Still, he couldn't help glancing at the chamber doors as if he might find Ben standing there, waiting to be told he had a future beyond the Service Corps.

One day, Obi-Wan promised silently. One day, he will make this happen.

...​

The best part about living in the crèche was that bedtime didn't mean actually sleeping. It meant piling into the communal space, sprawling across cushions and beanbags, and talking until one of the night caretakers gave up trying to enforce quiet hours.

Ahsoka sat cross-legged on the floor, enjoying her role as center of attention. She had an audience. And an audience deserved a story.

"So," she began, drawing out the word for maximum suspense, "Ben went into the gardens today and met—wait for it—" She leaned forward conspiratorially. "The weird tree girl."

Half the group gasped.

Ben, slouched in a corner with his arms folded, groaned. "This is exactly why I can't tell you anything."

"She was meditating upside-down on a branch," Ahsoka continued, ignoring him. "Like, full-on hanging by her knees. And apparently, she talked to him."

One of the younger initiates whispered, "Did she curse him?"

"No," Ahsoka said, eyes sparkling. "But she could have. Ben, tell them—didn't she give you, like, the 'I know your deepest secrets' look?"

Ben glared. "She was just looking at me."

"That's what someone under a spell would say," muttered Kavi, a human boy about their age.

Now the room buzzed with speculation.

"Maybe she's a mind-reader."

"She could be a Sith runaway."

"Swamp witch."

Ben threw his hands up. "She's in our crèche. You all see her at meals. She's just… quiet."

Ahsoka tilted her head. "You're defending her?"

"She just seemed lonely," he muttered. "Not my fault everyone here acts like they've never seen a quiet person."

That only lit the gossip fire higher.

"Oh no," Kavi gasped theatrically. "He's in love with the swamp witch."

A chorus of "Oooooh"s went up.

Ben buried his face in his hands. "I hate all of you."

"No, you don't," Ahsoka said sweetly. "You'd be bored without us."

Before he could argue, one of the night caretakers popped their head in. "Lights out, younglings."

They all groaned in unison. The gossip fizzled into muffled giggles as the room began to scatter, but not before Ahsoka caught Ben's eye and mouthed, swamp witch.

He mouthed back, never telling you anything again.

And, of course, they both knew he would.

...​

At some point, it felt like I needed a dynamic trio.

Good things come in three, after all! A few candidates were considered for this role, Cal Kestis, Barriss Offee, but I ultimately went with Maris Brood. Why? Because I was playing The Force Unleashed at the time, and she just kind of stuck. What can I say? I like goth girls.

Besides, I couldn't use Cal, we already had an orange kid. I also couldn't use Barriss, because I've heard mixed things about her age, and I don't know if she'd canonically be in their class. So, I went with a Legends au. Not the last time I'm going to do that.

But if you want to understand what that cryptic line means, you'll have to stay tuned for tomorrow's chapter! Unless you're reading this far into the future, and the next chapter's already posted, I guess. But if you're not, or you're re-reading, or whatever, you should know, that there is a way to save the ones you love—

I mean, read the next chapter.

Ahem.

Go check out my Patreon, and read ahead, link below:

My Patreon

 

[Hilight]

This update came during my break during extreme overtime. It gave me a reason to laugh today, so please keep making more. Work sad

 

[Starman25]

I'm loving the interaction between Ahsoka and Bo Kryze.

Ben Kryze's brother is, in the canon, an Easter egg hinting at a possible child between Obi-Wan and Satine Kryze.

 

[Starman25]

The MC could have Ahsoka play pranks (or jokes) on her future master.

 

[Haydos]

Very funny story. Obi-wan gaslighting himself about his fondness for Ben is pretty funny. Mace Windu seeing a shatter point in Ben is a little concerning tho...