Light
Snow had been falling since before dawn, soft, steady, patient, until the plains around the Porte homestead looked like they'd been erased and rewritten in white.
The training circle sat a short walk from the main house, a ring of packed earth and stone that refused to disappear beneath winter's insistence. Aiden Porte stood at its edge with his boots sunk into the drifted powder, breath ghosting in front of him in slow, even exhalations. The world felt muffled out here, as if the Force itself had pulled a woolen cloak over the land to quiet it.
He liked it that way.
The stones that marked the circle were half-buried, their tops frosted and smooth. Someone, him, earlier, had brushed them clean enough to be seen. It was a small act, but it mattered. Training was often built from small acts: repeating stances until muscles remembered, repeating calm until the mind stopped arguing, repeating kindness until it became instinct.
Aiden's gloved hand turned slowly, palm up, and he let the air settle into his skin-awareness, cold on the exposed seams of his glove, the heavier chill pooling near the ground, the sharper bite on the wind's edge. His senses widened, not searching aggressively, but listening in the way the Force preferred to be listened to. The homestead behind him was a warm presence, lamplight tucked in windows, the faint memory of last night's fire still clinging to the walls. Beyond that: the wide, open plains, the distant rise of trees wearing snow like silver robes, and the long quiet stretch of sky that promised more weather.
He shifted his stance, boots compressing the snow into a firmer platform. Centered. Ready. Not rigid.
There were weeks ahead, training exercises that would test endurance and discipline, drills that would push the body until it learned to move without thought, and Force work that would be slower, subtler, and far more unforgiving. The kind that didn't care how strong your arms were. The kind that demanded honesty.
Aiden glanced toward the path that led in from the tree line, the route visitors inevitably took because the land itself seemed to funnel them there. He didn't check the chrono. He didn't need to.
He could already feel the shape of another presence on the edge of the world faint, not yet close enough to name with certainty, but distinct in the way certain currents in the Force carried their own signatures. Anticipation flickered in him, controlled but real. Not nerves. Not impatience.
Purpose.
He lifted his chin slightly, snow collecting along the shoulders of his cloak, and let his awareness settle into patience. The circle waited with him, silent stones, packed earth, winter air that made every breath feel earned.
And then he simply stood there, Jedi Knight, guardian, teacher, among the snow-soft quiet of his home, ready to begin.
