Ascending Legend
The training halls rarely stood empty, even during the quieter hours.
A handful of students occupied the far practice circles, their sabers flashing intermittently beneath the watchful attention of instructors. Elsewhere, older Jedi worked through familiar exercises with the patient repetition of craftsmen maintaining tools that had served them for years. The sounds drifted together into a familiar rhythm: the hum of shield generators, the muted scrape of boots across polished flooring, and the occasional crackle of training blades meeting one another before separating again. It was not unlike a hundred other training halls Iandre had known throughout her life. Some things, thankfully, survived the centuries.
At the center of one of the circles, a green blade moved through a deliberate sequence of forms while a training droid advanced with mechanical certainty. Its attacks were measured and predictable, designed less to challenge than to instruct, but that suited her purposes perfectly. She had not come here to test herself. The exercise was simpler than that. It was about movement, about allowing thought and motion to become one thing for a little while.
When the droid struck, Iandre stepped aside and guided the attack harmlessly past her shoulder with a motion drawn from Soresu before transitioning seamlessly into the broader arcs of Shii-Cho. The movement narrowed again almost immediately, becoming more precise and economical as the curved hilt, resting comfortably in her hand, settled naturally into the elegant lines of Makashi. When the droid recovered and attacked again, she met the strike with the stronger structure of Djem So before allowing the form to dissolve once more into something quieter.
The exercise resembled meditation far more than combat. No single discipline held her for long. One flowed into another and then another, each offering a different answer to the same question. The forms were not rivals competing for superiority. They were conversations spanning generations, philosophies expressed through movement rather than words.
Around her, the training hall continued its steady rhythm as people passed between practice circles and conversations rose and faded into the background. Somewhere beyond the arena, a group of apprentices laughed at something one of them had said. The sound caught her unexpectedly, not because there was anything remarkable about it, but because for one brief, foolish moment she found herself thinking of something she wanted to tell Rellik.
The realization arrived a heartbeat later. There was no one waiting to hear it.
The droid attacked again, and she responded automatically, years of training carrying her body through the movement while her thoughts wandered elsewhere. Grief had become like that. It rarely announced itself anymore. Instead, it arrived in fragments: an empty chair, a familiar phrase, the instinctive urge to turn toward someone before remembering they were gone.
Her blade described another smooth arc through the air.
She had survived Aisha's death. Survived the collapse of the Republic. Survived centuries suspended beyond the passage of ordinary time itself. Aisha's loss had become part of the foundation beneath her feet, painful still but understood. She had learned how to carry it.
Rellik's absence remained something entirely different.
It still felt wrong, not painful in the distant way old wounds sometimes became, but wrong in a manner she struggled to properly describe. Like reaching into the Force and finding silence where warmth should have been. Like a familiar melody missing a note so fundamental that the entire song felt altered by its absence.
The droid lunged.
Iandre stepped inside the attack and deactivated her lightsaber. For a fraction of a second, the machine overshot its target, and her free hand rose to settle lightly against its arm while a subtle application of the Force disrupted its balance just enough to send it stumbling harmlessly past her.
By the time it recovered, her saber had already returned to life. The green blade hummed softly as the droid reset itself, and Iandre settled back into her stance once more. For now, the movement was enough. For now, it kept the silence at bay.
Silas Thorne
A handful of students occupied the far practice circles, their sabers flashing intermittently beneath the watchful attention of instructors. Elsewhere, older Jedi worked through familiar exercises with the patient repetition of craftsmen maintaining tools that had served them for years. The sounds drifted together into a familiar rhythm: the hum of shield generators, the muted scrape of boots across polished flooring, and the occasional crackle of training blades meeting one another before separating again. It was not unlike a hundred other training halls Iandre had known throughout her life. Some things, thankfully, survived the centuries.
At the center of one of the circles, a green blade moved through a deliberate sequence of forms while a training droid advanced with mechanical certainty. Its attacks were measured and predictable, designed less to challenge than to instruct, but that suited her purposes perfectly. She had not come here to test herself. The exercise was simpler than that. It was about movement, about allowing thought and motion to become one thing for a little while.
When the droid struck, Iandre stepped aside and guided the attack harmlessly past her shoulder with a motion drawn from Soresu before transitioning seamlessly into the broader arcs of Shii-Cho. The movement narrowed again almost immediately, becoming more precise and economical as the curved hilt, resting comfortably in her hand, settled naturally into the elegant lines of Makashi. When the droid recovered and attacked again, she met the strike with the stronger structure of Djem So before allowing the form to dissolve once more into something quieter.
The exercise resembled meditation far more than combat. No single discipline held her for long. One flowed into another and then another, each offering a different answer to the same question. The forms were not rivals competing for superiority. They were conversations spanning generations, philosophies expressed through movement rather than words.
Around her, the training hall continued its steady rhythm as people passed between practice circles and conversations rose and faded into the background. Somewhere beyond the arena, a group of apprentices laughed at something one of them had said. The sound caught her unexpectedly, not because there was anything remarkable about it, but because for one brief, foolish moment she found herself thinking of something she wanted to tell Rellik.
The realization arrived a heartbeat later. There was no one waiting to hear it.
The droid attacked again, and she responded automatically, years of training carrying her body through the movement while her thoughts wandered elsewhere. Grief had become like that. It rarely announced itself anymore. Instead, it arrived in fragments: an empty chair, a familiar phrase, the instinctive urge to turn toward someone before remembering they were gone.
Her blade described another smooth arc through the air.
She had survived Aisha's death. Survived the collapse of the Republic. Survived centuries suspended beyond the passage of ordinary time itself. Aisha's loss had become part of the foundation beneath her feet, painful still but understood. She had learned how to carry it.
Rellik's absence remained something entirely different.
It still felt wrong, not painful in the distant way old wounds sometimes became, but wrong in a manner she struggled to properly describe. Like reaching into the Force and finding silence where warmth should have been. Like a familiar melody missing a note so fundamental that the entire song felt altered by its absence.
The droid lunged.
Iandre stepped inside the attack and deactivated her lightsaber. For a fraction of a second, the machine overshot its target, and her free hand rose to settle lightly against its arm while a subtle application of the Force disrupted its balance just enough to send it stumbling harmlessly past her.
By the time it recovered, her saber had already returned to life. The green blade hummed softly as the droid reset itself, and Iandre settled back into her stance once more. For now, the movement was enough. For now, it kept the silence at bay.
Silas Thorne
