Private Faith in the Ruins

[Lyra Ventor]

The distress beacon had been weak—barely a flicker against the static hum of the Outer Rim's comm lanes—but Lyra had learned long ago that weak signals often meant opportunity.

She dropped her freighter through the moon's thin cloud cover, hull rattling as the atmosphere peeled away layers of ash and ice. Below, a column of black smoke marked the crash site. Even from orbit, she could see the debris field stretching wide, glittering under the wan sunlight like scattered glass.

"Not a total loss," she murmured to herself, flicking switches and guiding the ship toward the edge of the wreck. Her sensors pinged faint energy readings—power cells, engine coils, maybe even some military-grade tech. A lucky day, if no one else had found it first.

The landing struts bit into the hard soil, and Lyra stepped down into air thick with the smell of scorched metal and ozone. Her boots sank slightly into the ashen dirt as she adjusted the strap of her blaster and began to move. The wrecked transport loomed ahead—Republic markings half-charred, one wing sheared off and embedded in a nearby ridge.

And then the silence broke.

Blaster fire cracked across the wreck. She dropped low behind a fragment of hull plating, scanning the ridge. Shapes moved—scavengers, half a dozen of them, armed and eager to carve the ship apart before it cooled. Her hand hovered near her blaster, mind racing.

This wasn't her fight. She could circle back once the vultures were done.

But as she shifted for a better view, movement caught her eye—a flash of armor, a human figure dragging someone from the burning wreck. A Republic officer, maybe a Jedi by the way he carried himself, even through exhaustion and grit. They were pinned down, outnumbered, and—judging by the fire creeping toward the engine core—running out of time.

"Damn it," Lyra muttered, exhaling sharply. She'd come for scrap, not a rescue. But her feet were already moving before she'd made up her mind, instincts overriding profit.

She sprinted toward the wreck, ducking low, returning fire at the scavengers just long enough to buy a moment's cover for the survivors.

"Hey!" she shouted over the chaos, voice cutting through smoke and static. "If you're still alive in there, now's your chance to move!"

The moon's winds howled across the ridge, carrying the scent of fire and ionized air. Lyra didn't know who was still breathing inside that ship—but she knew one thing for sure. This wasn't going to be a salvage run anymore.

Taelen Velara

 

[Taelen Velara]

Lyra Ventor
​

The wreck was still burning when Taelen Velara came to.

The air was smoke and blood and the shrill whine of damaged power cells. He pushed himself up on shaking arms, boots slipping against scorched durasteel, and felt the sting of fresh burns along his side where his tunic had fused to armor weave. The ship's forward compartment was gone, nothing left but a crater of twisted metal and shattered transparisteel. The others… the others hadn't made it. He didn't let himself look long enough to count.

The Force hummed faintly through the haze, warning him before the first blaster bolt struck the hull beside him. Scavengers. He could sense them, half-desperate, half-hungry for what little remained of the wreck. They moved like carrion birds circling a carcass. Taelen's hand went instinctively to his belt; his saber was still there. He thumbed it alive with a crackling green hiss that cut through the smoke like a living thing.

The shots came faster now, splintering metal and throwing sparks across the ash-gray dirt. He deflected one, two, three bolts in quick succession, each parry sending shudders up his already-bruised arms. His breath came sharp, uneven. The crash had left him half-conscious; his connection to the Force felt ragged, like trying to breathe through cloth.

Then he saw movement, a flash of light through the smoke, a figure breaking cover. Not one of the scavengers. Someone else.

The voice cut through the chaos. Female. Confident. Close. Taelen hesitated for a heartbeat, uncertain if this was another trap, but then the Force flared again, bright and insistent. Not danger. Intention.

He caught sight of her then, ducking behind a chunk of hull plating, firing short, efficient bursts into the ridge. She was military? Too confident to be a civilian. A smuggler, maybe, or a scavenger who'd changed her mind. Either way, she'd bought him seconds he didn't have to spare.

Taelen didn't think. He let the Force push him forward, closing the distance, voice hoarse from smoke.

"Your timing is perfect. I owe you big time!"

 

[Lyra Ventor]

Lyra ducked low behind the twisted hull, her blaster spitting short, controlled bursts that forced the scavengers to hesitate. Sparks and scorched metal flew with every shot, and smoke stung her eyes, but she moved with a practiced fluidity, using the wreckage itself as cover. She glanced at him over her shoulder, tone clipped but steady.

"Don't thank me yet," she called, rolling to another shard of metal as a bolt ricocheted near her shoulder. "Stay close, and keep your head down. These things aren't waiting for manners."

She fired again, then crouched low to check the ridge ahead, blue eyes scanning the haze. "I'm Lyra. And whoever made that mess won't care who you are—they want the parts."

The Force—or whatever thread of instinct kept her alive—warned her of every subtle movement: scavengers shifting, calculating, desperate. She didn't hesitate. She moved with precision, firing, ducking, and signaling with small gestures, a silent rhythm forming between them. Each step brought them closer to the heart of the wreckage, each short burst of blaster fire carving a safer path.

"You can keep up, right?" she called over the din, a faint grin tugging at her lips despite the smoke and chaos. "Because if you stumble, we're both in trouble."

Even amid burning metal and scorched durasteel, her presence was calm yet sharp, a counterpoint to the chaos. For a moment, it almost felt like survival wasn't impossible—just dangerous.

Taelen Velara

 

[Taelen Velara]

Lyra Ventor
​

Blaster fire cracked past his ear as Taelan slid in beside her, boots skidding across scorched sand. The heat of the wreckage radiated against his back, but the Force moved cool and clear through his veins, sharpening the chaos into something he could navigate, something he could survive.

"I'm with you!" he called, igniting his lightsaber with a snap-hiss that cut through the noise. The green blade flared, catching a volley of incoming bolts and sending them scattering in molten arcs of light. Each deflected shot lit his focused expression, jaw tight, breath measured.

He matched Lyra's movements without needing to think, shifting when she shifted, covering where she left space. She'd roll to new cover, and he'd step forward, blade angled just right, absorbing the fire that would've caught her on the move. The scavengers pressed from the ridge, eager, frantic, climbing over debris like carrion-beasts, but Taelan met them head-on.

"You weren't kidding," he muttered, stepping out to redirect another barrage. "They're relentless."

A scavenger charged too close, vibroblade raised. Taelan pivoted, catching the blow on his own blade, steam hissing where the weapons clashed, then swept low, disarming the attacker and sending him tumbling back down the embankment.

"Parts aren't worth dying for," he shouted toward the ridge, though he knew none of them would listen.

"Don't worry about me," he said with a quick grin, breath sharp but steady. "I can keep up."

Another bolt struck his blade and illuminated the sweat on his brow, the determined set of his eyes.

 

[Lyra Ventor]

Lyra didn't waste breath answering at first. She was too busy firing, shifting, firing again—her movements sharp and economical, each shot placed with the kind of precision born from years of having to make every bolt count. The scavengers kept pressing high on the ridge, their silhouettes jittering through smoke and dust, but Taelan's saber carved bright lines through the chaos that bought her the seconds she needed.

"You can keep up?" she shot back, rolling behind a chunk of collapsed fuselage just as a bolt blasted a plume of molten dust where her head had been. "Great. Try not to get flashy about it."

She popped up from cover, returned fire in three tight bursts that sent two scavengers scrambling, then dropped again before the next volley hit. Heat from the burning transport pulsed against her side, sweat stinging her eyes, but her mind was cutting cleanly through the noise. She tracked the ridge, their angles, the way they were shifting.

"They're trying to box us in," she called to him, reloading with a practiced slam of the power cell. "If they get around that far cluster of plating, we're done."

A scavenger crested the ridge too quickly—only for Taelan's saber to flare and send the attacker stumbling back. Lyra took the opening, firing low and catching another scavenger as he rushed the flank.

"Parts aren't worth dying for?" she echoed, breath punching out in a humorless huff. "Out here? Parts are worth everything. They'll fight until the ground's empty."

She swept her gaze over the smoldering wreck, the engine core whining higher and higher as heat built inside its cracked casing. Bad. Very bad.

"Engine's unstable," she said, voice tightening. "We don't have long before this whole thing blows. We need to move—now."

Another bolt hissed close; she ducked, pressed her shoulder against his for half a heartbeat, then separated again as the chaos demanded.

"But hey—" she added, dry and quick despite the danger, "—if you're really set on keeping up?"

She rose into a crouch, sighted the scavenger with the heavy repeater digging in at the far ridge, and fired before he could anchor the gun.

"Then start by not getting vaporized."

The explosion from the repeater's power pack lit the ridge in a wash of orange.

Lyra didn't wait to admire it.

"Push left on my signal!" she barked. "We break them before they regroup!"

Her pulse thrummed, instincts aligning sharply.

This wasn't what she'd come for.
But she was in it now—and she wasn't leaving him behind.

Taelen Velara

 

[Taelen Velara]

Lyra Ventor
​

Taelan's breath came steady despite the smoke clawing at his lungs. The hum of his saber drowned out the distant roar of the burning wreck, a steady, grounding rhythm amid the storm. He heard her words, sharp, commanding, layered with that dry edge, and they struck something in him that steadied his resolve more than the Force ever could.

He adjusted his stance, feet anchoring into the scorched ground, blade held low and ready. Each movement was measured, deliberate. She wanted him to keep up? He would. He was no reckless youngling chasing glory, every parry, every deflection was an act of control, of focus. Sparks hissed where plasma met metal fragments, the heat close enough to singe his cloak.

When she barked her next order, he didn't hesitate. His body moved before thought caught up, responding not to fear but to trust, the kind born from surviving chaos side by side. He pressed forward through the haze, saber cutting through a falling panel that threatened to block their path. The vibration in his grip, the smell of ozone, it all blurred into one pure, instinctive pulse of purpose.

He could feel the pressure mounting, the unstable thrum of the dying engine behind them, the chaos ahead. But in that pressure, clarity formed. He wasn't just reacting anymore, he was adapting, syncing with the rhythm of the fight, with her momentum.

Taelan's jaw set, eyes narrowing on the way forward. "Push left," So he would. No hesitation. No fear.

He raised his saber in silent readiness, the green blade casting light through the smoke as he exhaled once, calm and centered. Whatever came next, he was ready to meet it head-on.

 

[Lyra Ventor]

Lyra didn't have time to admire how smoothly he matched her pace—not when the wreck groaned behind them like a beast about to detonate, not when scavengers on the ridge were peppering them with blaster fire like they were worth more dead than whatever tech lay smoking in the dirt.

The moment Taelan shifted into position beside her, blade low and steady, she felt the fight click into a cleaner rhythm. He wasn't flailing. He wasn't panicking. He was reading the field as fast as she was—and that meant she didn't have to waste time second-guessing him.

Good. Great. Someone who could keep up was a rare blessing in a job like this.

"Push left!" she barked, already moving before the words finished leaving her mouth. And he moved with her. No hesitation. No delay. Like her voice had slotted into the same pattern as his breathing.

Lyra dove behind a chunk of plating half-buried in the dirt, boots skidding across scorched soil. Heat rippled over her from the engine core, prickling along the back of her neck as she fired upward toward the ridge—two quick shots—forcing the scavengers to scatter, herding them exactly where she wanted them.

Taelan's saber flashed in her peripheral vision, a shield of green light turning incoming bolts into molten sparks. The reflected glow painted the smoke around him in spiraling green, making him look like some unshakable anchor in the middle of a firestorm.

"Keep pressure on them!" she shouted, shifting from cover as another volley sliced overhead. "They move right, they lose their angle!"

The ground trembled beneath their feet as the downed transport groaned again—an ugly, metallic sound that promised they were seconds away from a very bad time. Lyra clenched her teeth, ducking as a spray of shrapnel tore through the air where her head had been a moment earlier.

"Engine's close to blowing!" she yelled, breath sharp but controlled. "We need to clear this field in the next ten seconds or we're both going to become fireworks!"

She broke from cover again without waiting for a reply—trusting, utterly trusting, that he'd be exactly where he needed to be. Not because he was a Jedi, but because so far he'd moved with precision, discipline, and the kind of instinct she recognized instantly:

A survivor's instinct. One that matched her own.

And in the middle of this burning ruin, that was the best advantage either of them had.

Taelen Velara

 

[Taelen Velara]

Lyra Ventor
​

Taelan felt the shift the instant she shouted, the single-word command snapping through the haze like a signal only his body needed to hear. The green blade in his hands hummed with anticipation, its light cutting through the smoke in a steady arc as he pivoted left exactly on her cue. No faltering. No questioning. Just motion, precise and fluid.

The pressure of the fight pressed against his senses, but it didn't rattle him. The Force threaded through him with a cool, sharpening pulse, guiding his steps as he advanced through the scorched dirt. Every bolt that hissed toward them found the flat of his saber, scattering into sparks that died on the wind. His footing grounded him; his focus narrowed to the immediate path she'd opened.

She wanted pressure on the ridge. He gave it.

He angled the saber to catch a burst of incoming fire, shifting weight to maintain momentum. Heat from the burning wreck licked at his cloak, but he didn't look back, the engine's rising whine was more than enough reminder of how little time they had. His breath stayed controlled, each inhale measured against the rhythm of his strikes and deflections.

Lyra's voice cut through the crack of blasters again, urgent, sharp: ten seconds.

He felt the truth of it vibrating in his bones.

Taelan pushed farther into position, stepping into the line of fire without hesitation, the green glow painting his face in fleeting flashes. Fear didn't swell in him, it compressed into focus, into clarity. The ridge, the angles, her movement, everything aligned into a path they could take, a way out if they acted now.

The cleared the area, as quick as they could. However the blast still caught him, the heat of the explosion could be felt as he was thrown forward. Rolling to a stop as he moved to his fight. He was desperately looking for Lyra.

 

[Lyra Ventor]

The blast hit like a shockwave rolling straight up from the planet's core.

Lyra barely had time to register the rising whine of the engine behind the wreck before the explosion slammed into her back and threw her forward. The world spun in a dizzying blur—smoke, sky, dirt—all of it crashing together as she tumbled across the scorched ground. She skidded to a halt on her side, grit scraping along her cheek and jaw, the sting of it sharp enough to make her eyes water. For a moment, she just stayed there, wind knocked completely from her lungs, the ringing in her ears drowning out everything else.

When she finally pushed herself up onto her hands, her arms trembled. A smear of blood warmed the scrape running from her cheekbone toward her chin, not deep but angry-looking. She swiped at it with the back of her glove and forced out a breath that wavered before settling.

"Better scratched than dead," she muttered under her breath, because the alternative had been very, very close.

She took a moment to get her bearings. The smoke was thinning enough to see the clearing, the collapsed ridge, the burning wreck glowing like a dying ember. Her ribs ached. Her palms burned. Dirt clung to her clothes in places it definitely didn't belong. But she was alive.

And she wasn't alone.

Movement cut across the haze—steady, deliberate, unmistakable. Taelan. His silhouette emerged first, the familiar sweep of a cloak trailing behind him, and then the green of his lightsaber cut through the drifting smoke like a beacon. He was upright. Braced. Searching the battlefield with sharp intent. The way he moved told her everything she needed to know: he was still standing, still fighting, still himself.

Relief bloomed through her so swiftly she almost forgot to breathe.

She lifted her voice enough to carry. "Taelan—over here!"

He turned toward the sound. Even at a distance, she could read the shift in his posture—the way his stance eased when he located her, the slight lowering of tension in his shoulders. It struck her with quiet force, the realization that he had been looking for her in the same frantic aftermath she had been searching the smoke for him.

She pushed herself fully to her feet, brushing dirt from her jacket in a mostly futile effort. "I'm okay," she called as he approached, suddenly aware of the sting on her cheek and the grime in her hair but choosing not to care. "Just got tossed around a bit. Nothing serious."

When he reached her, she let herself take a steadier breath. She didn't touch him—not yet, not now—but she stood close enough to feel the heat radiating from the saber, close enough that the adrenaline finally began to drain from the tight coil in her chest.

She exhaled, softer this time, her voice dropping to something meant only for the space between them.
"I'm glad you're still on your feet."

It slipped out before she could overthink it, honest and quiet and entirely unguarded.

She didn't expect an answer. She didn't need one. The fact that he was here—alive, unbroken, solid in the middle of the wrecked clearing—was enough to settle something deep inside her she hadn't realized was wound so tight.

Her scraped cheek throbbed. Her ribs protested when she straightened. But that awareness in her chest, that heaviness-turning-warmth, lingered.

Careful. Slow. Steady.

This wasn't infatuation; it wasn't sudden. It was something else—something that felt like the first spark of trust formed in the middle of a battlefield. Something that could grow if either of them let it.

Lyra brushed dust from her sleeve, cleared her throat, and forced her voice back under control.
"All right," she said, steadier now. "Let's finish getting out of here before the rest of the ridge decides to explode."

But even as she turned toward the path ahead, her pulse stayed aware of him at her side—alive, moving, unshaken—and she knew the night had changed something between them, subtly and irrevocably.

A beginning she wasn't sure she wanted to name. Yet.

Taelen Velara