Sword of Shiraya
The tray felt heavy, though not because of the food. Lorn navigated the temple corridors towards the Grandmasters office. He and Ala were both drowning in the Council's demands, yet they were drifting apart in the process. His own failures felt like a physical weight, matched only by the exhaustion he sensed radiating from her office. The Jedi were fractured, arguing over politics while the galaxy suffered, and Lorn didn't know how to bridge the gap between being her loyal guardian and the man who loved her enough to suggest a new plan of action.
He paused outside the heavy doors to center his breathing. His presence in the Force was a jagged mess of anxiety that he tried to smooth over before entering. It was a futile gesture, she knew him better than he knew himself. Lorn finally knocked and stepped inside. Ala was nearly buried behind flimsies and data pads, her dark curls the only part of her visible above the clutter.
"Have you eaten today?" He asked softly. He crossed the room and cleared a small space on the corner of her desk to set the tray down. He wanted to pull her away from the maps and reports, to ask her how she really was, but the lines of fatigue on her face stopped him. For now, he just rested a hand near hers, offering the only steady thing he had left to give.
