Ascending Legend
The Crucible felt different from the training decks she had known for so long—wider, brighter, grounded in a way that made the air itself feel heavier beneath her feet. Iandre stood at the edge of the sparring ring, letting the morning light wash across the open courtyard and the stonework that still felt new to her despite how many weeks she had now lived on Bastion. She had spent her recovery time honing her discipline in the clean, echoing halls of the orbital station above the planet; that place had been sterile, controlled, a haven where she quietly healed and rebuilt herself, piece by piece.
This, however—this open sky, this earth beneath her boots, this home she was learning through shared steps instead of solitude—was something entirely different.
And she had chosen it deliberately.
Her fingers rested lightly against the curve of her saber hilt as she drew a slow, steady breath, letting the crisp morning wind carry the scent of stone and cut grass. She was calm—centered—not because she expected an easy session, but because the reason behind it soothed her as deeply as the Force ever had.
She sensed him before she heard him.
Rellik's presence entered the courtyard like a warm pressure in the space around her, familiar and grounding, a quiet gravity that pulled her attention long before his footsteps reached the ring. When she turned toward him, sunlight caught on his silhouette and softened the edges of his usually sharp composure. The faint smile that touched her lips was instinctive, a gentle answer to the affection that constantly stirred in her when he was near.
"Good morning," she said, her voice low, the words carrying more warmth than volume.
Only then did she step fully into the center of the sparring circle, the space opening around her like a long-held breath released. Her stance was relaxed, but there was a quiet confidence in the line of her spine, in the measured way she moved—an echo of the years she had trained in silence, far from the eyes that now meant so much to her.
"I've spent most of my time practicing in the station's halls," she admitted, glancing briefly at the sky with a small, contemplative smile. "Closed rooms. Metal floors. No wind. No audience but myself."
Her gaze returned to him, softened by fondness, steadied by purpose.
"Living here with you…I thought it was time I learned to train under open air."
A beat passed, warm and unhurried.
"And time you saw what that training actually looks like."
She lifted a hand, inviting him forward with a subtle gesture—no showmanship, no theatrics, only the quiet certainty of someone offering a deeper part of herself to the person she loved. The wind curled around them, brushing across the courtyard as though waiting for the first step.
"You've shared your strength with me," she said softly. "Let me share mine with you."
Her body settled into its stance—centered, grounded, patient—her grey eyes never leaving his.
"Whenever you're ready."
Diarch Rellik
This, however—this open sky, this earth beneath her boots, this home she was learning through shared steps instead of solitude—was something entirely different.
And she had chosen it deliberately.
Her fingers rested lightly against the curve of her saber hilt as she drew a slow, steady breath, letting the crisp morning wind carry the scent of stone and cut grass. She was calm—centered—not because she expected an easy session, but because the reason behind it soothed her as deeply as the Force ever had.
She sensed him before she heard him.
Rellik's presence entered the courtyard like a warm pressure in the space around her, familiar and grounding, a quiet gravity that pulled her attention long before his footsteps reached the ring. When she turned toward him, sunlight caught on his silhouette and softened the edges of his usually sharp composure. The faint smile that touched her lips was instinctive, a gentle answer to the affection that constantly stirred in her when he was near.
"Good morning," she said, her voice low, the words carrying more warmth than volume.
Only then did she step fully into the center of the sparring circle, the space opening around her like a long-held breath released. Her stance was relaxed, but there was a quiet confidence in the line of her spine, in the measured way she moved—an echo of the years she had trained in silence, far from the eyes that now meant so much to her.
"I've spent most of my time practicing in the station's halls," she admitted, glancing briefly at the sky with a small, contemplative smile. "Closed rooms. Metal floors. No wind. No audience but myself."
Her gaze returned to him, softened by fondness, steadied by purpose.
"Living here with you…I thought it was time I learned to train under open air."
A beat passed, warm and unhurried.
"And time you saw what that training actually looks like."
She lifted a hand, inviting him forward with a subtle gesture—no showmanship, no theatrics, only the quiet certainty of someone offering a deeper part of herself to the person she loved. The wind curled around them, brushing across the courtyard as though waiting for the first step.
"You've shared your strength with me," she said softly. "Let me share mine with you."
Her body settled into its stance—centered, grounded, patient—her grey eyes never leaving his.
"Whenever you're ready."
Diarch Rellik