Sword of Shiraya
Dust drifted through one of the vaulted chambers in the Naboo Sanctuary, catching the sunbeams like lazy spirits. The stone floor bore the familiar scuff marks of practice, years of discipline etched into its surface. Lorn stood at the edge of the mat, sleeves rolled to the elbow, his dark hair pulled back in a simple tie. He looked every bit the warrior-turned-instructor.
Before him, a dozen students moved in unison, sweat-slicked and focused. The rhythm of their movements was a language Lorn knew by heart: pivot, deflect, strike, withdraw. The forms were ancient, sacred, yet even sacred rituals could grow dull in repetition.
His gaze drifted to the edge of the room, where one figure broke the pattern. Not by defiance, but simply by absence. Ensy was lighter than the others, motionless, quiet. He wasn't disrespectful; he was just disconnected, as if the boy had wandered into the wrong galaxy entirely.
Lorn frowned. "Again," he called out, his voice crisp. The students snapped into motion, driven by his command. All but one. Ensy stood still, watching the others with wide, distracted eyes, like someone trying to memorize a dream while it faded.
When the lesson ended, students filed out, chattering and toweling off their foreheads. Lorn stood silent at the far end, waiting. As the last footsteps faded, he called out, "Ensy." His voice wasn't unkind, but it wasn't soft, either. "Stay a moment."
"You didn't move once during the final sequence," he observed, "not even to breathe, near as I could tell."
"I'm guessing there's a reason for that," Lorn said, not pressing, but watching intently. He turned slightly, motioning toward the archway that led to the gardens. "Walk with me. You don't have to explain everything, but if you're going to stand on my floor, I want to know what kind of soul I'm trusting to be there." A faint, unreadable smile touched his lips.
