"Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will."
Azzie sat on the edge of the hospital bed, the sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to the back of her throat like a ghost that refused to leave. Her legs ached from the morning's physical therapy, muscles trembling with a weakness that didn't belong to her. Well, not really. Not the Azzie who had once scaled buildings on the run. Not the Azzie who could fight off three trained mercenaries with nothing but a pair of blades and sheer spite. That version of her felt like a story someone else had lived, and all that remained was a hollow shell trying to remember what strength used to feel like.
Every stretch and forced movement in the therapy room reminded her of what had been taken. Her body didn't obey like it used to. The tremors in her biological hand weren't from nerves anymore, but from the slow, cruel damage done. The Sith hadn't just tried to break her spirit. They'd carved into her endurance, piece by piece, like they wanted to erase the idea of resistance from her entirely. Though free, she felt shackled. Trapped inside skin that hurt to move, locked in a cycle of recovery.
Azzie stared down at the two faintly glowing crystals in her hands. One golden yellow with the energy of timeless wisdom, a gift from someone close a long time ago. The other was a blazing orange that flared with tenacious energy. They were all that was left of her former lightsabers, barely managing to be smuggled out in the Force-concealed lining of her prosthetic's hidden compartment. Darth Anthemous had been right to be suspicious of how protective Azzie had been about her cybernetic arm, even when it was damaged, malfunctioning, and causing her more harm than good while chained to a cell wall. Not because she had any full weapons—no, she'd left the shells of the blades behind so that when she was stripped of them all, they wouldn't search further and take the part of them that was most important to her.
Two protected crystals, but no lightsabers.
In all the time since she'd first stepped off the shuttle at Ilum, young and unsteady, she'd never truly built a saber fully on her own. But now, bruised in body and spirit, she no longer cared about that. Held back with plenty of unfilled time, aching limbs, and restless thoughts, she decided then to pour her energy into crafting something entirely her own. This project would be more than a distraction. It would be proof that somehow, beneath the broken muscles and rattled nerves, she still had the skill and determination to shape her own destiny.
It took many attempts inbetween physical therapy sessions before Azzie's fingers stopped cramping halfway through carving, and longer before she could hold the tools for more than a few minutes at a time without feeling the sting of weakness pull up her forearms and into her shoulders. Each etched line required control her recovering hand could barely offer. With every slow pass of the carving tool, she bled a piece of herself into the metal—patterns of Iridonian strength and survival slowly forming beneath her fingers. She made mistakes. She started over. Her muscles trembled through each effort, the tendons in her wrist pulled too tightly. What she hadn't realized was just how much the dexterity in her fingers improved as she went along.
As the different pieces came together, the time came to assemble them. Her eyes drifted closed for a moment as she reached out to the Force. Piece by piece, they took shape. Not out of ease or grace, but the courage she held starkly to fuling her soul. She wasn't rebuilding just weapons, but was reassembling another small piece of her will. She designed them for speed, to match the rapid, chaotic style she'd honed over years.
When both hilts, finally complete, lay side by side, she tested their interlocking mechanism. Giving a firm twist, the two became one saberstaff, echoing the twin-bladed Zhaboka of her homeworld. A soft smile passed Azzie's lips, sliding the ignition switch as each blade flared forward with the silence of a whisper.
Perfectly imperfect, strength and beauty, still burning.
