Private No One Knows.... But a long time ago

[Sarkana deWinter]

The storm had not yet broken, but the sky was already heavy with its promise.
A cold wind swept through the mountain valley of Savarn, carrying whispers across the snowfields that ringed the Couldeen Orphanage. The old academy's lamps flickered like ghostly eyes beneath layers of frost, and the night itself seemed to hold its breath.


A lone figure moved through the dark.


Hood drawn low, the stranger's footsteps left shallow prints that filled almost instantly with snow. The bundle in their arms was small—too small—and wrapped in worn gray cloth that had once been white. The sound of the infant's breathing barely carried above the wind, soft and rhythmic, as though she were sleeping through the storm that would soon bury this part of Dorbim in ice.


At the edge of the compound, the figure paused. The outer walls of the Couldeen grounds shimmered faintly—Force-sensitive wards designed to alert the keepers of intruders. But tonight, they did not stir. The air seemed to bend for the stranger, as though the Force itself looked away.


The figure approached the main hall, its high spires rising from the snow like solemn guardians. At the foot of the steps, the stranger knelt. The wind cut sharply, scattering flakes over the bundle. A faint glow pulsed from within the cloth—brief and unnatural, like breath drawn from another world.


"Forgive her," the hooded one whispered, voice trembling, half prayer, half command. "She was not meant for this place… but no one else will take her."


They pressed their lips to the infant's brow, left a charm of silver thread beside her—woven in the pattern of a sigil long forgotten—and then they were gone.
When the door creaked open moments later, only the child remained.

---

Inside, warmth met the cold.


Lonette Couldeen startled at the sound. She had been in the entry hall, sealing the shutters before the storm. When she opened the door, the wind all but tore it from her hands. Snow spiraled into the light like ash from a dying fire. And there, at her feet, was the bundle.


"Oh… Force, no…" Lonette gasped softly and dropped to her knees. Her fingers brushed aside the frost. "A baby."


Her husband, Maxon Couldeen, appeared from the corridor moments later—tall, wrapped in a brown teaching robe still dusted with chalk from a late class. "Lonette? What's happened?"


"She's freezing," Lonette said. "Left here, in this weather…"


Maxon's eyes softened, but his tone remained measured, the way all instructors of the Orphanage spoke when facing the unknown. "Bring her inside."


They carried the child to the infirmary wing—a round chamber lined with low cots and humming heat panels. Lonette unwrapped the cloth slowly. The baby stirred, a faint whimper escaping her lips, then fell silent again.
Her skin was pale, almost luminous against the dark fabric. Her hair—black, fine, and damp—clung to her brow in wisps. And her eyes, when they fluttered open, were not the soft blue of most infants. They were… violet. Deep, unnatural, searching.


Lonette glanced up at her husband. "She's… awake."


Maxon leaned closer, cautious yet drawn in despite himself. He extended his hand over her, testing the air. The sensation that met him made him flinch—a rush of cold, like touching stone beneath running water. The Force moved through her, but not as it should have. It shimmered unevenly, as if confused by its own vessel.


"She's strong," he murmured. "Too strong for her age."


Lonette looked down again, pressing her palm to the child's chest. "Then she'll need guidance." Her voice trembled. "And care. She must stay here."


Maxon nodded, though the crease between his brows deepened. "We will raise her among the Initiates. The Force-sensitive children need a peer, perhaps… a mirror." He tried to smile, but the unease lingered. "She'll have a name, then. The records must be complete."


Lonette turned to the open window. Snow drifted in, cold light against the warmth of the room. For a long moment she said nothing, her expression far away. Then, softly:


"Sarkana."


Maxon repeated it, testing the sound. "Sarkana… ."

"Because she came with the snow," Lonette whispered. "And because no one knows who she was before the storm."

---

By morning, the storm had claimed the valley.


The Couldeen Orphanage stirred awake beneath the snowfall, its halls echoing with the murmurs of young voices.
In the western wing, the Initiates—children of three to six years—recited their meditation lessons in hushed tones under the watch of the Caretakers. Older Acolytes carried crystal basins for the morning rites, while the Adepts prepared for sparring instruction. The academy lived in rhythm: a harmony of discipline, study, and quiet devotion to the Force.


But in the infirmary, wrapped in a woolen blanket, lay the newest life to join them—a child whose arrival had disturbed the calm more deeply than anyone yet realized.
When Lonette checked on her that morning, Sarkana was already awake, staring at the ceiling with silent, unblinking eyes. The silver charm left by the stranger gleamed faintly beside her.


Lonette frowned. "No one knows where you came from, little one," she whispered, brushing a strand of black hair from the infant's cheek. "But the Force does. And I fear it will not forget."


Outside, the snow continued to fall—soft, endless, erasing every trace of the footprints that had carried her there.

 

[Sarkana deWinter]

There was no other academy quite like the Couldeen Orphanage on Dorbim.

From the outside, it resembled a monastery carved into the spine of a frozen valley — gray stone and pale metal woven together by centuries of craftsmanship. The main spire, called The Solarium, rose high above the snowfields, crowned by a prism chamber that caught the dim sunlight and refracted it into long ribbons of color across the interior halls. Those colors, faint and cold as breath on glass, were said to guide the younglings' emotions during meditation.

Every structure within the grounds had a name and purpose. The Hall of Breath was where children first learned to sense the Force through stillness — an echoing chamber lined with sound-absorbing panels that captured the smallest sigh. The Garden of Threads grew beneath a heat dome, where roots and flowers spiraled in deliberate geometric patterns, each designed to align with the flow of life-energy. Even the sleeping quarters, the Dormis Wards, were arranged according to rank — from Initiates to Adepts — each floor radiating like a petal from the central tower.

The Couldeens were no mere caretakers; they were visionaries who believed the Force could be guided like a language taught to the young.

Lonette Couldeen tended to the emotional nurturing of the children — gentle instruction, bedtime meditations, and lessons in empathy. Maxon oversaw the structure: divisions, progress charts, and the quiet discipline of mind before power. Their philosophy was simple yet rare in a galaxy torn by dogma:

"A child does not belong to the Force. The Force belongs to every child who learns its song."

To preserve that song, they built a hierarchy, respectful but firm:

• Initiates studied perception — learning to listen to the Force as a hum within the blood.
• Acolytes learned translation — shaping that hum into words, movement, and minor telekinesis.
• Adepts learned expression — how to embody the Force without fear, through combat drills, art, and healing.
• And those who surpassed even the Adepts — the Instructors — became archivists, mentors, or councilors to distant worlds.

Each dawn began the same way. A resonant chime echoed through the halls — seven tones for the seven virtues of balance: focus, patience, restraint, empathy, knowledge, humility, and purpose. Children gathered in concentric circles within the Solarium, small hands pressed together, eyes closed, breathing in rhythm as the snow light refracted over them like the inside of a dream.

It was a place of serenity and structure.

Yet even within such balance, the Force whispered in uneven ways.

Sometimes, when the wind blew from the north, the candles along the corridor would bend sideways, though no draft touched them.

Sometimes, a glass basin would hum as if vibrating from within.

And sometimes, during the quiet hours between dusk and dawn, the youngest Initiates claimed they could hear a faint lullaby through the stones of the foundation — a song sung not by any caretaker, but by something older, sleeping beneath the orphanage.

It was on one such night that Sarkana deWinter — still only a child in a crib — began to hum back.