Relationship Status: It's Complicated
The cantina on Jutrand had been carved into the basalt long before it earned a name. Its walls still held the heat of the planet, a slow and steady warmth that bled through stone and into bone. Low amber lights traced the curves of the chamber, reflected in polished obsidian tables worn smooth by decades of use. Music hummed from an aging speaker array that favored rhythm over melody, something old enough to predate fashion and stubborn enough to survive it. The air carried the mingled scents of spice liquor, scorched grain, and ozone from a faulty power conduit that no one bothered to fix.
Gerwald Lechner sat alone near the back, his cloak folded with care rather than discarded. He had chosen the seat deliberately, with a clear view of the entrance and just enough shadow to avoid drawing attention. A heavy glass rested near his hand, already half empty, its contents dark and bitter and honest. He did not drink quickly. He drank with intent. Tonight was not about escape or indulgence. It was about memory, and about the rare indulgence of letting a past version of himself sit at the same table as the present one.
Torvald was late, which did not surprise him. His old mentor had always arrived on his own terms, as though time itself were something to negotiate rather than obey. Gerwald did not summon him through the Force or send a message to hurry him along. Some moments deserved patience, especially those rooted in debt rather than command.
It had been Torvald who taught him how to stand his ground when standing meant pain. He had learned how to fight before he learned how to lead, and much of that education had been delivered without ceremony. Blades had been placed in his hands before he understood their weight, and lessons were measured in bruises rather than praise. Torvald had never softened the truth for him. Survival came first. Discipline followed. Respect was earned only after both had been proven. Gerwald had cursed him for it more than once in those early years, though he had never forgotten a single lesson.
Those teachings lived in him still, buried beneath titles and command codes and the expectations of an empire. Every calculated movement, every controlled strike, every refusal to retreat without purpose traced back to those days. Gerwald knew the man he had become could not be separated from the one who had been shaped in Torvald’s shadow. Tonight was not about reliving that past, but about acknowledging it, glass by glass, until the line between teacher and student blurred into something closer to equals.
When Torvald finally stepped through the doorway, the night would properly begin, and the bottles would not survive it.
