M O B I U S
THE SMELL OF WISDOM
It was supposed to be a training class.
That’s what they told him.
Show up. Learn something. Keep your robe straight and your mouth shut.
So Seth Denko walked the curved halls of the Order of Shiraya’s grand temple with the quiet reverence of someone who didn’t quite feel like he belonged, but was trying real hard to fake it. The building itself was carved from pale Nabooian stone — elegant, serene, kissed by the sun through wide skylights. It looked like a dream built by peace itself.
Which is why the moment he stepped through the tall doorway of the assigned training room, he blinked. Once. Then again. Just to make sure the Force wasn’t playing tricks on him.
Ovens.
Six of them. Maybe seven. Lined up like troops.
There were cookbooks at every station — The Healer’s Hearth, Stewing in the Light, Salt & Serenity.
Mini-fridges. Mixing bowls. Spoons. Measuring cups. A spice rack that looked more dangerous than most lightsabers he’d seen.
Seth stood in the doorway, utterly still. His jaw moved slightly, like he wanted to say something but didn’t quite know what syllable to start with. The sound of a soft clink — maybe a whisk hitting a bowl — echoed from the front of the room.
There, standing by a polished stone counter, was a woman in light Jedi robes. Brown hair, tied back. Face like it had seen too much joy and too much pain and come out wiser for both. Her presence hummed in the Force like warm broth.
Master Abraxas.
Seth cleared his throat as he approached, his boots tapping gently against the tiled floor. “Uh… sorry, Master, just wanna make sure I’m not lost or hallucinating. This is the training class for Padawans, right?”
He glanced again at the nearest oven.
“…I was told to expect practical lesson, so I had assumed combat, am I mistaken?”
That’s what they told him.
Show up. Learn something. Keep your robe straight and your mouth shut.
So Seth Denko walked the curved halls of the Order of Shiraya’s grand temple with the quiet reverence of someone who didn’t quite feel like he belonged, but was trying real hard to fake it. The building itself was carved from pale Nabooian stone — elegant, serene, kissed by the sun through wide skylights. It looked like a dream built by peace itself.
Which is why the moment he stepped through the tall doorway of the assigned training room, he blinked. Once. Then again. Just to make sure the Force wasn’t playing tricks on him.
Ovens.
Six of them. Maybe seven. Lined up like troops.
There were cookbooks at every station — The Healer’s Hearth, Stewing in the Light, Salt & Serenity.
Mini-fridges. Mixing bowls. Spoons. Measuring cups. A spice rack that looked more dangerous than most lightsabers he’d seen.
Seth stood in the doorway, utterly still. His jaw moved slightly, like he wanted to say something but didn’t quite know what syllable to start with. The sound of a soft clink — maybe a whisk hitting a bowl — echoed from the front of the room.
There, standing by a polished stone counter, was a woman in light Jedi robes. Brown hair, tied back. Face like it had seen too much joy and too much pain and come out wiser for both. Her presence hummed in the Force like warm broth.
Master Abraxas.
Seth cleared his throat as he approached, his boots tapping gently against the tiled floor. “Uh… sorry, Master, just wanna make sure I’m not lost or hallucinating. This is the training class for Padawans, right?”
He glanced again at the nearest oven.
“…I was told to expect practical lesson, so I had assumed combat, am I mistaken?”
