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They didn't speak on the way in.
The corvette touched down on the landing pad with a hiss of hydraulic legs and a deep hum settling into the mountainside. Kael Varnok stood near the loading ramp as it descended, arms crossed, dual sabers clipped at his hips, cloak slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing at all—though it carried everything he wasn't saying.
The Jedi who'd flown him—Jairdain's husband—was silent at the controls, gaze flicking once toward Kael before returning to the instrument panel. No lecture. No warnings. Just a quiet look, worn and understanding, with the kind of weight that only came from years of hard-earned restraint.
Kael caught it and held it for a breath longer than comfort allowed.
That look said everything: "Watch yourself."
And just beneath that: "She's here."
Kael gave a shallow nod, the kind that could mean thanks, or I don't need your concern, or this wasn't my idea anyway. It was hard to tell with him. He walked down the ramp without a word, boots landing hard on Bastion stone, and didn't look back as the ship lifted off behind him, its hum fading into the mountain wind.
He didn't go inside right away. Didn't knock. Didn't ask for quarters or introduce himself to the caretakers of the temple. He just walked.
For hours, Kael wandered the perimeter of the Bastion—through quiet stone halls, overgrown paths, and wide-open courtyards full of whispers and the smell of old incense. The architecture here was older than most places he'd seen still standing. It wasn't sterile like Jedi temples tended to be. It had memory. Deep ones. Some of them still breathing.
He eventually found the open terrace.
It wasn't much—just a wide platform of flat stone at the edge of the compound, open to the sky above. No walls. No guards. Just wind, starlight, and silence. He sat there for a long time, back against a worn column, cloak around his shoulders, sabers within reach. Then, finally, he laid down and stared at the stars until sleep took him.
The Bastion was quiet in the early hours—too quiet for someone like Kael Varnok.
A breeze rolled lazily across the open courtyard where he had slept, threading its fingers through scattered leaves and low stone planters carved with ancient Zorrenscript. The stars had begun to fade, their defiance against dawn dimming as the first light of Eraton's sky peeled back the shadows above. Kael stirred but didn't rise—not yet.
He lay on his back atop a flat stone platform at the edge of the garden terrace, one arm draped across his chest, the other loosely curled around the hilt of one of his sabers. Not drawn. Just there. A silent sentinel clutched in sleep. His head rested on a bundled cloak that had seen more blood and dirt than most Jedi would admit owning.
Above, the stars still hung—distant, burning, indifferent. Below, in the muscles of his jaw, the stillness cracked.
His dreams hadn't been peaceful.
Kael's eyes snapped open.
Sharp. Cold. A piercing blue that didn't match the warm horizon beginning to form. His breath came slowly, deliberately, as though trying to keep something from surfacing. Something fractured. Something with teeth.
He sat up with a grunt, his boots scraping against the stone. The split in his tongue clicked unconsciously against the roof of his mouth, a quiet tic that came when his mind was still chewing on something. He exhaled hard through his nose.
Yesterday was a blur. Disembarking from the corvette, the silent nod from Jairdain's husband, the weight of unsaid things. The unspoken "take care of her" and the quieter "watch him." Kael hadn't said much. He didn't want to. Wouldn't have known how.
He hadn't asked for this visit. Hadn't wanted to come. But when a Jedi Knight disarms a fellow diplomat in front of a dozen planetary delegates because he "sensed an assassination attempt that wasn't real"—someone somewhere tends to schedule a "cooling off" period.
He was used to it by now. The observation. The whispers. The reports with phrases like "persistent dissociative tendencies" and "preference for aggressive negotiation." But even by his standards, this latest episode had been… messy.
And yet here he was. A guest among someone else's ruins.
He rose to his feet with a roll of his shoulders, muscles pulling beneath old scars and newer bruises. Cloth wraps tightened around his forearms as he adjusted them by habit, concealing the ink, the burns, the parts of his story that didn't belong in temples.
Kael turned his head, glancing across the Bastion grounds. The architecture here was old, quiet, watchful. There were no guards stationed in sight. No bars. No cells. Just open halls, faded banners, and the sense of something ancient listening.
He didn't like it. Which probably meant it was working.
Still… he hadn't tried to leave.
Yet.
He stepped to the edge of the terrace and looked up once more at the thinning stars. One hand went to the bridge of his nose, fingers pressing against the corners of his eyes like he could squeeze out whatever memory had made him scowl in his sleep.
He didn't know what the coming hours would bring—just that someone, somewhere in this Bastion, was bound to come knocking. And they'd want to talk.
Kael Varnok didn't feel like talking.
And if they asked about the outburst?
He might just give them another.
The corvette touched down on the landing pad with a hiss of hydraulic legs and a deep hum settling into the mountainside. Kael Varnok stood near the loading ramp as it descended, arms crossed, dual sabers clipped at his hips, cloak slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing at all—though it carried everything he wasn't saying.
The Jedi who'd flown him—Jairdain's husband—was silent at the controls, gaze flicking once toward Kael before returning to the instrument panel. No lecture. No warnings. Just a quiet look, worn and understanding, with the kind of weight that only came from years of hard-earned restraint.
Kael caught it and held it for a breath longer than comfort allowed.
That look said everything: "Watch yourself."
And just beneath that: "She's here."
Kael gave a shallow nod, the kind that could mean thanks, or I don't need your concern, or this wasn't my idea anyway. It was hard to tell with him. He walked down the ramp without a word, boots landing hard on Bastion stone, and didn't look back as the ship lifted off behind him, its hum fading into the mountain wind.
He didn't go inside right away. Didn't knock. Didn't ask for quarters or introduce himself to the caretakers of the temple. He just walked.
For hours, Kael wandered the perimeter of the Bastion—through quiet stone halls, overgrown paths, and wide-open courtyards full of whispers and the smell of old incense. The architecture here was older than most places he'd seen still standing. It wasn't sterile like Jedi temples tended to be. It had memory. Deep ones. Some of them still breathing.
He eventually found the open terrace.
It wasn't much—just a wide platform of flat stone at the edge of the compound, open to the sky above. No walls. No guards. Just wind, starlight, and silence. He sat there for a long time, back against a worn column, cloak around his shoulders, sabers within reach. Then, finally, he laid down and stared at the stars until sleep took him.
The Bastion was quiet in the early hours—too quiet for someone like Kael Varnok.
A breeze rolled lazily across the open courtyard where he had slept, threading its fingers through scattered leaves and low stone planters carved with ancient Zorrenscript. The stars had begun to fade, their defiance against dawn dimming as the first light of Eraton's sky peeled back the shadows above. Kael stirred but didn't rise—not yet.
He lay on his back atop a flat stone platform at the edge of the garden terrace, one arm draped across his chest, the other loosely curled around the hilt of one of his sabers. Not drawn. Just there. A silent sentinel clutched in sleep. His head rested on a bundled cloak that had seen more blood and dirt than most Jedi would admit owning.
Above, the stars still hung—distant, burning, indifferent. Below, in the muscles of his jaw, the stillness cracked.
His dreams hadn't been peaceful.
Kael's eyes snapped open.
Sharp. Cold. A piercing blue that didn't match the warm horizon beginning to form. His breath came slowly, deliberately, as though trying to keep something from surfacing. Something fractured. Something with teeth.
He sat up with a grunt, his boots scraping against the stone. The split in his tongue clicked unconsciously against the roof of his mouth, a quiet tic that came when his mind was still chewing on something. He exhaled hard through his nose.
Yesterday was a blur. Disembarking from the corvette, the silent nod from Jairdain's husband, the weight of unsaid things. The unspoken "take care of her" and the quieter "watch him." Kael hadn't said much. He didn't want to. Wouldn't have known how.
He hadn't asked for this visit. Hadn't wanted to come. But when a Jedi Knight disarms a fellow diplomat in front of a dozen planetary delegates because he "sensed an assassination attempt that wasn't real"—someone somewhere tends to schedule a "cooling off" period.
He was used to it by now. The observation. The whispers. The reports with phrases like "persistent dissociative tendencies" and "preference for aggressive negotiation." But even by his standards, this latest episode had been… messy.
And yet here he was. A guest among someone else's ruins.
He rose to his feet with a roll of his shoulders, muscles pulling beneath old scars and newer bruises. Cloth wraps tightened around his forearms as he adjusted them by habit, concealing the ink, the burns, the parts of his story that didn't belong in temples.
Kael turned his head, glancing across the Bastion grounds. The architecture here was old, quiet, watchful. There were no guards stationed in sight. No bars. No cells. Just open halls, faded banners, and the sense of something ancient listening.
He didn't like it. Which probably meant it was working.
Still… he hadn't tried to leave.
Yet.
He stepped to the edge of the terrace and looked up once more at the thinning stars. One hand went to the bridge of his nose, fingers pressing against the corners of his eyes like he could squeeze out whatever memory had made him scowl in his sleep.
He didn't know what the coming hours would bring—just that someone, somewhere in this Bastion, was bound to come knocking. And they'd want to talk.
Kael Varnok didn't feel like talking.
And if they asked about the outburst?
He might just give them another.
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