The cell was dark.
Not the kind of darkness that unsettled a mind—but the kind Shade had learned to breathe in since childhood. Cold stone, narrow walls, a faint hum of power restraints threaded through the air like distant static. She sat on the floor with her back to the wall, hands resting loosely on her knees, posture still and unbothered. Her pulse never shifted. Her breathing stayed even.
When they came for her—Lysander most often, sometimes silent attendants—she followed without resistance. There was no point in fighting without information. Assassin training taught her many things; patience was chief among them.
Interrogation never rattled her.
Lysander's questions were not the crude probing of torturers or zealots. They were sharp. Focused. Intent on carving truth from silence rather than pain.
Why abandon the Jedi?
"What makes you think I ever belonged to them?"
What do you fear the most?
"What every survivor fears—that stillness is a lie."
Do you seek power or survival?
"Neither. I seek precision. It keeps me alive."
What truth do you hide?
Shade's eyes lifted at that one, crimson and steady. "The truth is a weapon. You don't hand it to the first one who asks."
Days passed—or perhaps it was only hours. Time blurred, and she let it. The less they believed her rattled, the more they revealed in their attempts to unmake her.
Eventually, the questions shifted. Not toward her past. But toward her choices.
Lysander watched as she studied the floors, the walls, and the guards. How she never attempted escape despite mapping every path. How she corrected an acolyte's grip during an escort when the fool nearly dislocated his wrist trying to impress his superior.
Something else changed then—something she recognized. Evaluation. When he asked what she wanted, she answered without embellishment. "Access. Information. And the ability to prove I am more useful standing than locked in a box."
He did not mistake her honesty for submission. Nor her composure for loyalty. She did not claim to want the Sith, the Brotherhood, or some grand crusade. But she understood the rules of these people—those who lived by power, blood, and boldness.
So she laid the truth precisely where it needed to be. "I'm not here to serve you or become one of your people." A pause. "But I can be sponsored. Trialed. Watched. Whatever term your order prefers."
He asked why she'd bother.
Shade met his gaze, steady. "Because captivity is wasted potential. And you are not a fool—you already know what kind of asset I could be if pointed at the right target."
Silence stretched.
Finally, Lysander's decision came—not spoken as pardon, not offered as trust, but delivered with the weight of a provisional judgment. A sponsorship. A trial of usefulness under his oversight. Freedom to move within designated grounds—restricted, conditional, but more than prisoners were ever afforded.
When the door unlocked, and she stepped into the Academy courtyard for the first time, the students stared. They saw a Chiss assassin walking freely among them. Some whispered. Some doubted. A few reached for weapons. Shade didn't spare them a glance.
She stepped onto the training grounds with the same controlled precision she had shown in captivity, the same stillness that had unnerved interrogators and guards alike. Fog clung to the wet stones; shifting floors and grinding columns filled the air.
A voice cut across the courtyard.
"Pair off."
Shade did not look back toward the one who had granted her provisional freedom, but her posture shifted—not submissive, not grateful, but acknowledging the weight of the opportunity.
She took her place among the others.
A prisoner no longer.
A test subject. A provisional asset. And a hunter disguised as a student.
Where she excelled. Always.
Not the kind of darkness that unsettled a mind—but the kind Shade had learned to breathe in since childhood. Cold stone, narrow walls, a faint hum of power restraints threaded through the air like distant static. She sat on the floor with her back to the wall, hands resting loosely on her knees, posture still and unbothered. Her pulse never shifted. Her breathing stayed even.
When they came for her—Lysander most often, sometimes silent attendants—she followed without resistance. There was no point in fighting without information. Assassin training taught her many things; patience was chief among them.
Interrogation never rattled her.
Lysander's questions were not the crude probing of torturers or zealots. They were sharp. Focused. Intent on carving truth from silence rather than pain.
Why abandon the Jedi?
"What makes you think I ever belonged to them?"
What do you fear the most?
"What every survivor fears—that stillness is a lie."
Do you seek power or survival?
"Neither. I seek precision. It keeps me alive."
What truth do you hide?
Shade's eyes lifted at that one, crimson and steady. "The truth is a weapon. You don't hand it to the first one who asks."
Days passed—or perhaps it was only hours. Time blurred, and she let it. The less they believed her rattled, the more they revealed in their attempts to unmake her.
Eventually, the questions shifted. Not toward her past. But toward her choices.
Lysander watched as she studied the floors, the walls, and the guards. How she never attempted escape despite mapping every path. How she corrected an acolyte's grip during an escort when the fool nearly dislocated his wrist trying to impress his superior.
Something else changed then—something she recognized. Evaluation. When he asked what she wanted, she answered without embellishment. "Access. Information. And the ability to prove I am more useful standing than locked in a box."
He did not mistake her honesty for submission. Nor her composure for loyalty. She did not claim to want the Sith, the Brotherhood, or some grand crusade. But she understood the rules of these people—those who lived by power, blood, and boldness.
So she laid the truth precisely where it needed to be. "I'm not here to serve you or become one of your people." A pause. "But I can be sponsored. Trialed. Watched. Whatever term your order prefers."
He asked why she'd bother.
Shade met his gaze, steady. "Because captivity is wasted potential. And you are not a fool—you already know what kind of asset I could be if pointed at the right target."
Silence stretched.
Finally, Lysander's decision came—not spoken as pardon, not offered as trust, but delivered with the weight of a provisional judgment. A sponsorship. A trial of usefulness under his oversight. Freedom to move within designated grounds—restricted, conditional, but more than prisoners were ever afforded.
When the door unlocked, and she stepped into the Academy courtyard for the first time, the students stared. They saw a Chiss assassin walking freely among them. Some whispered. Some doubted. A few reached for weapons. Shade didn't spare them a glance.
She stepped onto the training grounds with the same controlled precision she had shown in captivity, the same stillness that had unnerved interrogators and guards alike. Fog clung to the wet stones; shifting floors and grinding columns filled the air.
A voice cut across the courtyard.
"Pair off."
Shade did not look back toward the one who had granted her provisional freedom, but her posture shifted—not submissive, not grateful, but acknowledging the weight of the opportunity.
She took her place among the others.
A prisoner no longer.
A test subject. A provisional asset. And a hunter disguised as a student.
Where she excelled. Always.
