Ascending Legend
The cold on Rhen Var was not merely environmental. It was oppressive, deliberate, and unrelenting—the kind that crept beneath layers and insulation alike, settling into muscle and marrow until it became difficult to remember what warmth had ever felt like. Snow fell in cutting sheets that scraped across exposed durasteel and broken transparisteel, burying the remnants of the research outpost beneath a slow, merciless white shroud. The wind howled through collapsed corridors like a wounded thing, carrying with it echoes of abandonment and the lingering weight of fear that had never truly left this place.
Iandre moved through the wreckage at her Master's side, her stride careful but unhesitating despite the uneven terrain and half-hidden hazards beneath the snow. She was not an initiate sent out to observe from a distance. She was a Padawan in her early twenties—experienced enough to recognize the difference between danger and aftermath, between violence and the quiet devastation it left behind. Her robes were layered beneath a heavy winter cloak, its hem stiff with ice, her lightsaber secured at her belt but untouched. This was not a place that demanded a weapon.
Ahead of her, Aisha advanced with composed purpose, her presence in the Force a steady, anchoring current amid the chaos of the storm. Where Rhen Var sought to leech warmth and resolve alike, Aisha remained unchanged—focused, deliberate, and entirely present. Iandre had learned long ago to measure herself against that steadiness, to recognize when the Force called for restraint, and when it asked her to act.
It was asking now.
She felt it before she gave it shape with words: a thin, wavering thread in the Force, faint and unsteady, nearly smothered by cold and exhaustion but undeniably there. Not a threat. Not a hunter. A survivor. Someone holding on not because they believed rescue would come, but because letting go felt too final.
Her pace slowed.
Aisha noticed immediately.
"You sense someone," her Master said, not as a question, but as an acknowledgement. Her voice carried through the wind with practiced calm.
"Yes," Iandre replied after a beat, extending her awareness more deliberately now. Her expression tightened—not with fear, but with concern. "They're alive. Barely. They're trying not to disappear."
Aisha altered course without hesitation. "Then we find them," she said.
They moved deeper into the ruins, navigating collapsed supports and half-buried consoles, until Iandre stopped beside a section of fallen plating nearly swallowed by snow. The sensation was strongest here, flickering weakly, like a flame starved of oxygen but refusing to go out.
She knelt without waiting for instruction, brushing snow aside with gloved hands already numbed by the cold. The Force guided her movements—not forcefully, but with quiet insistence—until her fingers brushed against fabric beneath the ice.
There.
The boy was curled in on himself beneath scraps of thermal lining and debris, his body rigid with cold, his breath shallow and uneven. Older than a child, younger than an adult—his features were drawn and pale, eyes fluttering weakly as light and sound intruded upon whatever fragile half-consciousness he still held onto.
Something tightened in Iandre's chest.
She had seen battlefield casualties. She had treated the wounded. But this was different. This was not the aftermath of a single violent moment, but the slow erosion of isolation—days, perhaps longer, spent alone with the cold and the certainty that no one was coming.
Carefully, she placed a hand against his shoulder and let the Force flow—not to heal, not yet, but to warm, to anchor, to make her presence known. To let him feel that someone had found him.
"You're not alone," she said quietly, her voice steady despite the wind. "You don't have to hold on by yourself anymore."
He did not answer. He didn't need to. The tension in the Force eased just enough for her to know he had heard her in the only way he could.
Aisha knelt beside her, gaze thoughtful rather than urgent, already assessing what could be done here, now, rather than what came next. "We'll keep him warm," she said gently. "Stabilize him. When the storm breaks, we'll decide the rest."
As they carefully freed him from the wreckage, Iandre felt the moment settle into her memory with unexpected weight. Not as a triumph, not as a lesson neatly concluded—but as something quieter, more enduring.
This was what the Force asked of her here. Not a battle. Not judgment. Presence. And for now, that was enough.
Trent
Iandre moved through the wreckage at her Master's side, her stride careful but unhesitating despite the uneven terrain and half-hidden hazards beneath the snow. She was not an initiate sent out to observe from a distance. She was a Padawan in her early twenties—experienced enough to recognize the difference between danger and aftermath, between violence and the quiet devastation it left behind. Her robes were layered beneath a heavy winter cloak, its hem stiff with ice, her lightsaber secured at her belt but untouched. This was not a place that demanded a weapon.
Ahead of her, Aisha advanced with composed purpose, her presence in the Force a steady, anchoring current amid the chaos of the storm. Where Rhen Var sought to leech warmth and resolve alike, Aisha remained unchanged—focused, deliberate, and entirely present. Iandre had learned long ago to measure herself against that steadiness, to recognize when the Force called for restraint, and when it asked her to act.
It was asking now.
She felt it before she gave it shape with words: a thin, wavering thread in the Force, faint and unsteady, nearly smothered by cold and exhaustion but undeniably there. Not a threat. Not a hunter. A survivor. Someone holding on not because they believed rescue would come, but because letting go felt too final.
Her pace slowed.
Aisha noticed immediately.
"You sense someone," her Master said, not as a question, but as an acknowledgement. Her voice carried through the wind with practiced calm.
"Yes," Iandre replied after a beat, extending her awareness more deliberately now. Her expression tightened—not with fear, but with concern. "They're alive. Barely. They're trying not to disappear."
Aisha altered course without hesitation. "Then we find them," she said.
They moved deeper into the ruins, navigating collapsed supports and half-buried consoles, until Iandre stopped beside a section of fallen plating nearly swallowed by snow. The sensation was strongest here, flickering weakly, like a flame starved of oxygen but refusing to go out.
She knelt without waiting for instruction, brushing snow aside with gloved hands already numbed by the cold. The Force guided her movements—not forcefully, but with quiet insistence—until her fingers brushed against fabric beneath the ice.
There.
The boy was curled in on himself beneath scraps of thermal lining and debris, his body rigid with cold, his breath shallow and uneven. Older than a child, younger than an adult—his features were drawn and pale, eyes fluttering weakly as light and sound intruded upon whatever fragile half-consciousness he still held onto.
Something tightened in Iandre's chest.
She had seen battlefield casualties. She had treated the wounded. But this was different. This was not the aftermath of a single violent moment, but the slow erosion of isolation—days, perhaps longer, spent alone with the cold and the certainty that no one was coming.
Carefully, she placed a hand against his shoulder and let the Force flow—not to heal, not yet, but to warm, to anchor, to make her presence known. To let him feel that someone had found him.
"You're not alone," she said quietly, her voice steady despite the wind. "You don't have to hold on by yourself anymore."
He did not answer. He didn't need to. The tension in the Force eased just enough for her to know he had heard her in the only way he could.
Aisha knelt beside her, gaze thoughtful rather than urgent, already assessing what could be done here, now, rather than what came next. "We'll keep him warm," she said gently. "Stabilize him. When the storm breaks, we'll decide the rest."
As they carefully freed him from the wreckage, Iandre felt the moment settle into her memory with unexpected weight. Not as a triumph, not as a lesson neatly concluded—but as something quieter, more enduring.
This was what the Force asked of her here. Not a battle. Not judgment. Presence. And for now, that was enough.
Trent
