First Reply Stillness in the Storm

[The Warden]

"Control."

Tag - OPEN



The room was silent.

Not the performative silence of a classroom waiting for its master. Nor the nervous hush of Padawans anticipating discipline. This silence was total, ritualistic, intentional—a silence that seeped into the skin and made a home beneath the bones.

The chamber had no windows. Just walls of smooth stone, engraved with the faded circular motifs of ancient Tythonian Jedi. Candles flickered in every corner—unmoving, perfect—encircling the room like solemn witnesses. Their flames burned neither low nor bright. Balanced. Tamed. They cast no shadows.

In the center of the chamber, seated upon a black meditation stone polished to onyx smoothness, was the Warden.

She did not move.

Her masked face was turned slightly downward, hands resting palm-down upon her knees. Her posture was flawless, symmetrical, as if her body had been measured by string and compass and locked in place by unseen ritual. Her armor-cloth robes pooled around her feet in disciplined folds, every crease set with ceremonial precision. Even the yellow glow of her saberpike—unignited and resting across her lap—seemed subdued in her presence.

For nearly an hour, she had been like this.

Waiting.

They would come.

There had been no formal invitation. No names called. No schedules posted. Merely a short message transcribed into the central archive:

"Silence is a sword. Control is its edge.
Come to the Lower Chamber at dusk.
The storm is not out there. It is within."

Some would come out of curiosity. Others for the challenge. A few because they feared what they might do if they didn't. And all of them would walk into this room and feel, at once, as though something inside them had gone quiet before the door even sealed shut behind them.

She did not look up when the first footsteps echoed from the hallway. She did not speak. She merely listened—not to sound, but to intent.

The Temple on Tython was old, but alive. She could feel its rhythm. Its depth. The way the ancient stones still remembered the Order as it once was: warriors cloaked in philosophy, defenders sharpened by grief. Here, meditation wasn't comfort—it was confrontation. That's why she chose this place. This room.

The Lower Chamber didn't offer peace. It offered clarity.

Peace… she thought, slowly, almost lazily, is a sedative. But clarity is a blade.

She began to trail in her thoughts, until...

A door slid open.

Footsteps—hesitant, respectful—crossed the threshold. She did not turn her head. Let them arrive in their own silence. Let them find their place in the ring of candles.

It was time to begin their lesson.

 

[Klar]

​

TYTHON​

Lower Chamber​

Klar had always been a square peg in a world of round holes, in a way. Her attempts to avoid being overspecialized had made her rudderless, her ambition to be free had left her without anchors. In her desire to impose her presence upon no person, she had left herself largely untethered and unconnected. A background character in the story of the world, an extra in the stories of the lives of people she considered friends.

Wanting to change things, to make her life better and more enjoyable, felt often that it was at odds with becoming a respectable Jedi. After all, what sort of Jedi pined for MORE connections, aspired to MORE regard? In attempting to pursue neither, she was simply left unfulfilled in both categories. Torn between the winds of longing and the stony bedrock of ambition.

It wasn't as though she had a Master she could ask for advice, either. Klar was on her own, left to draw her own conclusions or seek counsel from wiser minds who didn't know her from Bogan.

When Klar saw the missive, 'The storm is not out there, it is within.', she'd suspected instantly that it was meant for her. She'd bit back the reflexive contempt for herself for presuming to think that she mattered enough for that kind of trope. She'd considered asking a counselor or somebody for clarification. She'd gone around in circles for a minute.

Action had won out. Thought was fallible, action always produced results - for good or ill.

At dusk, Klar made her way quietly to the lower chamber. In the embers of a fading day, her footsteps were quiet, almost reverent, as though she could not bear the thought of being the one to break the hushed silence of a temple slipping towards slumber. In such a silence, even the stones seemed to quietly groan and the rustle of her robes felt intrusive.

She felt intrusive.

Klar stepped quietly through the door and across the hall. She turned her head, scanning the room, admiring the way the candles flickered, and the shadows danced across the walls. Taking a moment to reflect on the intricate reliefs, Klar considered that she could probably name half of the Tythonian Jedi honored here if she had to, list why they mattered and what they're done deserve it, and yet she felt she would never warm the same honors. Feared that wanting those honors made her less likely to attain them.

Drinking in the solemn atmosphere. The Coodru-Ji woman kept her hands carefully folded, one pair above the other, her posture that of a respectful supplicant. She attempted to not stare at the Temple Guard, who appeared to be so tranquil and still as to be a statue. Her heart never stopped pounding in her chest.

Positive that the intended recipient of the message would appear soon and dryly suggest that she should seek wisdom elsewhere and return to her quarters, Klar quietly approached the ring of candles. She considered the arrangement for a moment, glancing between the Temple Guard and the circle, before selecting a position not-quite opposite the Warden's.

Klar knelt and folded her hands on her lap, brow furrowed as she closed her eyes.

 

[The Warden]

"Control."

Tag - Klar



The silence endured.

It welcomed the arrival of Klar not as a breach, but as an addition. A ripple upon still water, not a stone breaking its surface. The Warden did not move as the young Coodru-Ji entered, her masked gaze remaining fixed toward the smoothed stone floor before her. Even when Klar took her place opposite her—kneeling in quiet reverence, multiple hands folded with careful humility—the Temple Guard did not shift her position by so much as a breath.

But she was aware. Completely.

Klar's presence was not just sensed in the Force. It was read—like a weight in the air, the pause before rain, the first note of a symphony yet unheard. There was a flavor to every soul, and Klar's was that of longing wrapped in restraint. Not the grasping kind, not lust or hunger or pride, but yearning—the yearning of one who wanted to matter. To be more. And yet was afraid to name the shape of that desire.

The Warden knew that feeling.

The stone beneath her knees felt colder now. That was how she measured the passage of time: not in words, not in motion, but in sensation, in subtle changes of temperature and rhythm, in the shifting tilt of silence around another person's breath.

Klar's presence was not intrusive. It was hesitant. Almost apologetic.

That, more than anything, is what moved The Warden to finally speak.

"Do you know their names?"

Her voice was soft, rendered through her vocoder in that featureless, genderless tone. But there was weight in it. A calm finality that made it feel as though the room itself had posed the question.

She did not raise her head. Not yet.

She waited—truly waited—for Klar to either speak or sit with the question. It did not matter to The Warden which response came. Both offered truth.

The silence returned, but now it was different. Not empty. Not passive. It had become pregnant with meaning.

Then, with slow, deliberate grace, The Warden raised her head—not to meet Klar's eyes, but to look above her. Toward the upper stone arch of the chamber, where the faintest outlines of ancient Jedi figures circled the walls in a forgotten mosaic. Some were crumbling. Others, near-invisible save for the way the candlelight bent subtly around their carved robes.

Then came the question. The real one.

"What would you do… to join them?"

The words were simple. But behind them lay weight.

Not what would you achieve. Not what would you learn. Not what do you want.

What would you do.

She did not press. Did not clarify. The question was not a test—it was a mirror. What Klar saw in it would say more than any answer.

The Warden lowered her gaze again.

 

[Klar]

​

TYTHON​

Lower Chamber​

Klar glanced up at the walls, her eyes tracing the carved reliefs. Some were preservations, historians working through the years to keep things in tact. Some were restorations, bits of stone held up by discrete wire and pegs. There'd been repairs, here and there, fixing damage done by warfare, natural disaster, strife. Some sections of the ornate artwork were untouched, however. Left to erode or marred by damage from a time that pre-dated the ability of anyone to recall who or what they'd been carved to honor. Klar had studied the records, had seen digital recreations of these walls with notes and linked histories. Biographies.

"...I know... most." She confessed quietly, sounding sheepish. There were probably not many Padawans in the temple who could claim that, but Klar was by far more mortified that she could not name them all. Speaking aloud, even to answer a question, felt like she'd disrespected the silence somehow. Lessened the gravity of these hallowed chambers by presuming to let her voice echo in them. But to not answer would be to disrespect the Warden, and so she had to do so.

The Codru-Ji followed that masked face's gaze upwards as best she could. Arches and shadows, heroes hidden just out of reach of the candles. In the corners of the room, in the places light was hard-pressed to reach, were carved those heroes of the order who called the dark places home. Jedi Shadows. Klar's mouth felt a bit dry at that thought. She swallowed a lump in her throat.

The Padawan's hands shifted nervously as she cleared her throat and cast her gaze downwards again - pondering her knees. Glaring at them, almost. Putting her thoughts in a row was frustrating sometimes, but doubly so when she was trying very hard to sound wise. The aloof gravity of a Jedi master did not come naturally to her, calm and patience evaded her even when she WASN'T stressed. "I fear that... wanting to join them prohibits me from actually doing so." Klar explained quietly, her thumbs anxiously pressed together into a clover. "Legends like them don't sit around collecting lists of names and wondering what it'd be like to be great - they'd be out there serving The Force." The blonde girl went on. "Further, my aspirations betray my unworthiness. My connection to my own ego and emotions, passionate when I should be serene." Klar confessed.

 

[The Warden]

"Control."

Tag - Klar



The silence breathed again.

Klar's words did not shatter it—they passed through it like wind through gauze. Her voice was small, almost ashamed of itself, yet unflinchingly honest. There was something sacred in that: the courage to speak not for performance, but for truth. And yet… the Warden remained still.

She did not interrupt.

She let Klar finish. Let the tide of confession roll out to its quiet conclusion, where it crashed not with drama, but with weariness—like a wave that had broken a thousand times before against the same unyielding shore.

And even then, The Warden waited.

Five breaths.

Six.

Seven.

As the candlelight fluttered around them, she regarded the girl across the chamber. She could feel it now, fully—the weight Klar carried within her. The gnawing, hungry root of it. A self-devouring longing to be more than she believed herself to be. And worse, the belief that this longing disqualified her from ever being worthy of it.

The Warden found it… appalling.

And unbearably human.

She rose, wordless.

Her movements were deliberate, soundless—the long folds of her robes whispering as she took slow steps around the edge of the chamber once more. Not circling Klar. Not looming. Simply shifting the axis of the room, changing the geometry of presence and attention.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet. But it carried.

"You hate yourself."

The statement was not cruel. It was not offered with accusation. It was not even a judgment.

It was an observation.

She stopped walking. Her head tilted slightly—just slightly—as if to study Klar from a new angle.

"You believe your longing makes you weak. That the desire for honor reveals you are unworthy of it. That to dream of greatness is to betray humility."

A breath passed.

"That is not wisdom."

Silence fell again. The kind of silence that pressed. Like gravity.

The Warden stepped to one of the old reliefs—one of the half-eroded ones Klar had glanced at earlier. She raised a gloved hand and ran her fingers just above the weathered outline of a Jedi knight whose name had been lost to time. Only the hilt of their lightsaber remained clearly carved. The face was gone.

"This one's name is forgotten. Their deeds are not."

She turned slightly toward Klar, still without looking directly at her.

"They disobeyed the Council. Abandoned the Temple. Spent ten years in exile to protect a world the Republic deemed strategically irrelevant."

She lowered her hand.

"When the Sith came, they were the first to fall. Their sacrifice bought two hours."

Another breath passed. The Warden returned to her seat at the center of the circle, robes folding once more with symmetrical elegance. She knelt.

Then she finally looked at Klar. Straight on.

"You believe the Jedi are made by rejection of self. But the truth is far worse."

A pause.

"The Jedi are made by sacrifice of self. Not rejection. Not denial. Not suppression. Sacrifice."

The air shifted with the weight of that word.

"You are meant to know what you are giving up. You are meant to feel it. To want it. And then, when the moment comes—you lay it down. Willingly. With understanding."

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.

"That is what makes a Jedi."

The silence that followed was longer now. Not awkward—ritualistic. It was as though the space between her words needed to be felt, endured, earned.

Finally, her vocoder broke it again, like wind across frozen stone.

"But you misunderstand the Light."

She looked toward the ceiling once more, as if seeing something there far beyond the physical carvings.

"Darkness is the galaxy's natural state. It is the default. The void between stars. The silence after death. The entropy that claims all things. It is the rule, not the exception."

Her gloved fingers tapped the stone beside her. Once. Measured.

"The Light is not born of nature. It is made. Forged. Held. Maintained."

A beat.

"Artificial."

Another.

"Necessary."

Her masked gaze returned to Klar, hard to read, yet somehow gentle in its weight.

"The Jedi do not exist to celebrate that Light. We exist to sustain it. By force. Against a galaxy that does not want it."

"To be Jedi… is to be an act of defiance. Of discipline. Of relentless, thankless labor. We build an unnatural light… and we hold it high until our arms break beneath its weight."

"And when they do—another takes it up."

"Such is the will of the Force."

 

[Klar]

​

TYTHON​

Lower Chamber​

It may have only been a half-dozen breaths, but it felt like a minor eternity to Klar.

"You hate yourself."

The Warden's statement was simply that - not a supposition, a guess, or a proposal. An observation. A malediction. A hammer to the side of the head. Klar's lips pursed together as she attempted to maintain control of her emotions, wrangling the urge to defy the masked figure before a sob escaped. Refusing to lose control was not the same as remaining in control. For the moment, Klar remained in control of herself.

The tale of a doomed hero, remembered now only by disgrace - vindicated by sacrifice. All that remained of him was a tale and the image of a weapon. Ten years and their entire career as a Jedi, and their life. A steep price to pay for two hours. Klar never doubted for a second that it was worth it. Worth it for the lives saved, for the delay in harm to allow for any sort of reinforcements, worth it simply for injuring the Sith even a little and making it harder for them to step on the next soul. Had she the opportunity to trade her life in such a way, Klay could see no way she could walk away. It was much harder to envision a reality in which the coin she spent bought anywhere near two hours.

And why should the coin buy that much? That nameless master had sacrificed so much. Exiled, but valiant. Beloved enough to be enshrined as a hero. Klar's own father hadn't wanted her, and she was still occasionally surprised that the Jedi Order hadn't shipped her off to the Agri-Corps. At her lowest points, even her own reflection made her skin crawl in a vague way she couldn't articulate. What did she have to sacrifice that could be worth it?

This, too, Klar reminded herself, was ego. It should not be her place to presume what the Force would make of her, but to accept the path as it was laid before her.

"But you misunderstand the Light."

Klar listened diligently, surreptitiously thumbing a bit of moisture away from the slope of her nose. To cultivate, to forge, to build. Endurance and persistence as acts of defiance, durability as a demonstration of conviction. These themes touched something in her, or at the very least, resonated with a young woman who'd never felt more competent as a Jedi then when going through her Form III drills. As much as she doubted herself, she didn't give up. As much as she hesitated, she would always act. The Galaxy had not managed to crush her will to get up in the morning, and being sold into slavery hadn't managed to make her stop seeing the best in people. Not being a very good Jedi hadn't made her give up on being one, only made her worry that others might give up on her.

And they hadn't. Not yet.

The Codru-Ji girl inhaled slowly, slightly ragged. She exhaled slowly and smoothly, straightening her back.

"Thank you for this lesson." Klar inotated respectfully, bowing her head.

 

[The Warden]

"Control."

Tag - Klar



The Warden did not answer immediately.

She watched.

Not with eyes alone, but with the whole of her attention — an attentiveness so complete that it almost felt invasive, though nothing in her bearing was cruel. She simply was. Present. Entirely. Unmoved, but not unfeeling.

The candles shivered once more in the still air, as if stirred by Klar's breath, or the slow shifting tide of her posture as she straightened, spoke, and bowed.

"Thank you for this lesson," the young woman said.

A beautiful thing, that. Gratitude in the midst of self-dissection. A reverent gesture from someone who still believed herself unworthy to make it. That she bowed her head not to beg for approval, but to offer sincerity — that mattered.

It always mattered.

The Warden remained still as stone. Yet within her, a thought stirred like sediment in water.

She remembered someone else, once, who bowed the same way.

A long silence followed Klar's words. The kind that felt deliberate — the kind that existed to unfold thought, to give room for self-awareness to stretch its limbs.

Only when that silence had fully ripened, only when it had rested in the center of the chamber like a second presence between them, did the Warden finally move.

It was a small motion. Barely a shift.

Her helmet tilted, a few degrees to the left. Not quite inquisitive. Not quite judgmental.

Merely a change in perspective.

Her voice came slowly.

"You endured."

A statement. Not praise. Not encouragement. But something closer to acknowledgment.

"Most have not."

She rose, one knee at a time, motion flowing through her like a wave retreating from shore. Her saberpike remained inert at her side. Her hands folded at her waist. A ceremonial stance. Or perhaps just hers.

She took one step forward. Then another.

Not toward Klar, but toward the ring of candlelight — the invisible boundary that separated the inner sanctum of silence from the outer world of noise. She walked its edge with the same gravity a priest might circle a sanctified altar.

"Many arrive at the threshold of Jedihood seeking clarity. A revelation. A purpose handed down from the stars."

She stopped.

"They expect us to be upholding a galactic truth far beyond wisdom, that decrees that the Dark is terrible and that the Force wishes for the Light."

Her masked gaze turned slowly toward Klar.

"It does not."

"The Force does not complete us. It breaks us. It scours away what is soft and untested. It forces the soul to choose, again and again, between desire and duty. Between comfort and service."

"It is not gentle. It is not kind."

The flames danced quietly along the edges of her robes as she turned her back to the circle, now facing the far wall — where the faintest silhouette of a twin-bladed saber was carved into ancient stone.

"The Order teaches peace. But the path to that peace is forged through attrition."

She gestured with a single hand — gloved, sharp in the candlelight.

"Attrition of fear. Of arrogance. Of vanity. And sometimes… of hope."

A pause.

"Hope is a dangerous thing."

Her hand lowered.

"We speak of sacrifice as if it is a single act. One great moment where we lay down our lives in glory."

She paused again.

"But most sacrifices are quieter. Slower. You give away your comfort. Then your name. Then your future. Piece by piece."

"Until there is nothing left of you but the light you carried."

The Warden returned to the center and stood directly in front of Klar now. Not towering over her. Not commanding.

Just present.

"You have a choice."

Another pause. Long. Deliberate.

"A choice in the future that will determine if your name is put upon this wall, or if the Light finally goes out."

The vocoder softened its output slightly — less rigid now, more like a voice remembered through a dream.

"The only lesson here… is the one you choose to learn."

Another silence opened, vast and deep.

Then, finally, she knelt again. Perfectly aligned. Mask facing forward. Candlelight reflected in mirrored arcs across the helmet's featureless face.

Her voice came one last time. And with it, the question.

It was not posed with demand. Not even expectation.

It was offered like an open hand.

"Recite the Jedi Code."

She did not explain.

She did not repeat.

She did not soften it, or cloak it in philosophy.

Because that, above all things, was the truth every Jedi had to confront eventually.

The Warden waited.

Still.

Silent.

 

[Klar]

​

TYTHON​

Lower Chamber​

For the first time, Klar wondered what was behind that mask. The Warden presented feminine, at least in shape, but the uniform and mask gave a quality that seemed to overrule that, an authority that transcended age and gender. Or, perhaps more in keeping with the lesson being given, scoured it away. Discarded all pieces of the person around the Jedi until only that crystallized and star-forged core remained.

Curiosity was less speculative. What sort of person put on a mask like that? What would she see if that mask and hood were removed? Did the Warden have hair? Did she style it? Did she put on makeup in the morning? Was she scarred by past battles? Young or ancient? Klar briefly considered a world in which it was her own face behind that mask. Not a real consideration, mind you. The Warden was taller than Klar, more grown into herself. She had half the arms, as well. But could Klar stand where she stood? Wear the mask and cape, strip away the layers of her life that did not serve the Light Side and stand eternal vigil as a symbol of the Jedi's devotion?

Klar didn't think so. Not wholly because she didn't think she was capable of it, though that was also true. But because the her at the end of that path was not a person Klar wanted to be. Her love of study, her joy in other people's growth, her satisfaction at helping preserve a lost and damaged thing for all time - emotions. Connections. Unbefitting the platonic ideal of a perfect Jedi, but she was less ready to part with these parts of her. Maybe she'd never be ready. Maybe when the moment came, she WOULD be ready. At the very least, knowing what road you didn't want to travel was almost as good as having a good map, sometimes.

Patience. Endurance. Sacrifice. Klar understood these. The Padawan closed her eyes. She didn't need to concentrate to recite the mantra, of course. She'd said it daily for years.

Klar turned one of her hands palm-up. "There is no emotion, there is peace." She intoned.

Another, opposite the first. "There is no ignorance, there is knowledge."

"There is no passion, there is serenity." Klar continued, one of her lower hands turning over.

And opposite that, her last hand. "There is no chaos, there is harmony."

The Codru-Ji brought her four hands together in a reverent gesture she'd seen an itenerant monk perform while she'd been in the service of a Hutt. "There is no death, There is only the Force."

 

[The Warden]

"Control."

Tag - Klar



The Warden did not interrupt the recitation.

She watched. Listened.

Not just to the words themselves — but to the spaces between them. The rhythm of Klar's breath. The steadiness, or lack thereof, in her voice. The way she turned her hands. The small flickers of muscle tension. The silent hesitations where the Code passed through not just memory, but judgment — self-judgment. It was not in error that truth revealed itself, but in doubt.

When it ended, the chamber did not rush to fill with approval.

There was no praise. No acknowledgment. Only the eternal flicker of the candles. The soundless presence of stone. And the stillness of the Warden.

She waited.

One breath.

Two.

A silence long enough to imply something had ended — and something else was about to begin.

When she spoke, her voice was low. Measured. Not cold, but unsoftened. There was weight in it.

"The Code is not a description of the galaxy."

A pause.

"It is a correction."

Another pause.

"Left alone, the stars fall into silence. The Force — left untended — devours."

Her hands did not move. Her saberpike remained dormant across her knees. Yet her voice resonated deeper now, as if it were not just her speaking, but generations behind her.

"Peace is not natural. It must be imposed."

"Knowledge does not emerge from ignorance. It must be pursued, preserved."

"Serenity is not born from passion. It is trained. Disciplined. Held."

"Harmony is not what remains when chaos ends. It is what is built when someone chooses to listen instead of scream."

"And death — death is not a passage. It is the end. What survives it is not the self. Only the work. The choice. The preservation of the Light."

A stillness overtook her then. Deeper even than before.

It wasn't emptiness.

It was density.

The feeling of a soul that had spent so long in silence, in commitment, in service, that it had become something different. Not less. But pared. Forged. Sharpened.

When she next spoke, her tone did not change — but something in it darkened.

"The Jedi Order you know... the New Order... does not require that of you."

She turned her head slightly, as if to look beyond the walls.

"They will not demand that you die to self. They will not ask you to extinguish your identity. They do not want masks. They do not build Watchtowers. They speak of balance and compassion. They speak of healing."

A pause. Not bitter. Just… true.

"They are what your average person would consider to be, good."

Another pause. Weightier.

"But they are not Jedi."

The words landed like stone. She did not flinch. She did not elaborate. It was not a condemnation. It was simply… an axiom.

"You could remain with them. Serve. Teach. Help others grow. Study, preserve. Seek wisdom. Even love."

"You would be respected."

"You would be remembered."

"And it would be enough."

The Warden looked at Klar now — not piercingly, but fully. She saw her. All of her. Her contradictions. Her fears. Her hope.

"You would be able to achieve everything you long for — except a place on that wall."

She gestured once, subtly, toward the surrounding stonework — the faded names, the forgotten heroes, the memory etched in silence.

"That wall is not for the luminous. It is not for the wise. It is not even for the brave."

"It is for those who made the final sacrifice."

Her mask turned downward for a moment — a brief, symbolic motion, like the closing of a gate.

"They gave up not their lives… but themselves."

A silence followed, so vast it seemed to steal the air.

"They donned the mask."

"Not to become more than they were — but to become less."

"Less visible. Less remembered. Less real."

"So that the Light would continue."

She rose again, one smooth motion, but did not approach Klar. Her hands remained folded. There was no grandeur in the gesture. Just inevitability.

"You will be offered that choice, Klar."

"Perhaps not today. Perhaps not for years. But one day, the Force will show you the path that leads here. To silence. To service. To the mask."

"And when it does… you must be honest."

She took one step forward, stopping at the edge of the candle-ring.

"Not to me. Not to the Council. Not even to the Force."

"To yourself."

Another pause.

"You must not be blinded by ambition. Or guilt. Or the hunger to prove that you were worthy."

Her voice dropped, softer now — intimate, not in tone, but in truth.

"There is no shame in walking another path. No dishonor in choosing joy. Or connection. Or meaning. Many do. Many should."

She gestured toward the far exit, not dismissively — but in acknowledgement.

"The Order needs them."

"But the wall..."

She turned again, one final time, to face it.

"The wall is reserved for the ones who chose otherwise."

"The ones who were offered the galaxy... and laid it down."

"Who became the silence between battles. The watchers at the gate. The names no one speaks aloud — but whose absence would let the Dark pass through."

"The true Jedi."

A solemn pause.

"It is because of them… that the galaxy still breathes."

Her voice quieted, but did not fade.

"You do not need to answer now."

She knelt once more — her position perfect, her presence absolute.

"Are you satisfied?"

 

[Klar]

​

TYTHON​

Lower Chamber​

"The Code is not a description of the galaxy."

A pause.

"It is a correction."

Correction. That the resting state of the Force trended towards Light was an idea so thuroughly entrenched in Klar's mind that she hadn't really considered it, and thus hadn't questioned it. Of COURSE things got better, calmer, safer over time. A thousand years ago they'd been huffing rhydonium and blowing up planets. These days they... still did that, but much less of it. Children grew up. Technology improved. Wounds healed, and grudges faded into the murky morass of time. To Klar, these things had felt as universal as gravity and time.

Contextualizing them as an unfathomable series of choices, sacrifices, and strife through the ages going back to... something that philosophers still argued about? It was a little chilling. It was exceptionally jarring. As an amateur historian, Klar studied the connections between people. How they used their envionrments, formed nation-states and forged weapons. The things they wrote, felt, and did. But for a moment it felt as though somebody had grabbed her hair and forced her head downwards, to see her seiza here in the quiet lower floors for what it was - an ant scrabbling across the palms of countless upstretched hands, each grasping at a more correct, more just future from beyond the grave.

She shuddered.

"The wall is reserved for the ones who chose otherwise."

"The ones who were offered the galaxy... and laid it down."

"Who became the silence between battles. The watchers at the gate. The names no one speaks aloud — but whose absence would let the Dark pass through."

"The true Jedi."

A deep breath. A centering. Her life may not be worth that two hours now, but... no one had asked her to pay that price. They might never - and Klar wasn't sure if that made her feel more relieved or anxious. The wall, the reliefs, the honors, they were an absract. Did Klar want her face carved on a wall where everyone had to look at it? No, not really. It was just a wall. Did she hope that she became a person who would be remembered with fondness and respect? Yes. She hoped that she might become the sort of person who saved lives, who protected the weak, who mattered to other people who might mark her passage through the Galaxy with fondness? Absolutely.

She wasn't that person yet. She wasn't that Jedi. Yet.

The young woman who opened her eyes was more resolved, more crystalized - but not completely. Less unsure than when she'd come in. Breathing a little less apologetically, her shoulders back a little more. Satisfied, Klar reflected, was not the correct word for it. Hungry might be more accurate. Excited? That also felt good. There was a future that may lead to this place, this mask. It might not. Someday she might return to this room and speak to The Warden again - as a peer, perhaps, or somebody worthy of her respect. If the Force willed it.

"I am wiser than when I entered." Klar replied gratefully, bowing her head.